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keferon · 5 months ago

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“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________ Part 2->

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞

#maccadam #transformers #sigh #wanna find out what kind of genius tag I came up with for this story?#behold #tf mimics au #feel free to pat me on the shoulder or decapitate me or something #I spent the whole day googling fancy English words #and decided that I’m tired and just wannna be practical #Orion pax #Prowl #Shockwave #senator shockwave #Ratchet #this story will contain a lot of JazzProwl but I need to show what the fuck is going on inside Prowl’s head first #Prowl being a cruel fucker. <- definitely not preparing to drag him through the excessive amount of life changing angst #to make him grow as a person #no no what are you talking about #I’m sure his worldview would never turn over and bite him back lol

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dexteri0us · 7 months ago

Text

i think i'm 'bout to explode, i can taste the tension like a cloud of smoke in the air

pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: hints of fluff, smut - unprotected sex, slight spanking (hand and belt), oral (f receiving), fingering, spitting, slight choking, biting, dom!dexter, blood (i mean, obviously, he's a freak); sassy dexter

summary: requested: "...morning sex with dexter before he goes to work..."

w/c: around 5k

a/n: your wish is my command. thanks for requesting! :)

You and Dexter were perfect for each other – or close enough. You loved his bluntness, his dry sense of humor (which wasn’t always humor) and his demons, whatever they were. You had your suspicions, but you had yet to muster the nerve to ask him directly about them. It was so frustrating, because you prided yourself on opening controversial or inappropriate topics. You kept telling yourself that you were just afraid of losing the tension between the two of you once you’d call him out on his nocturnal disappearances.

Some nights, he’d come home at an ungodly hour, collapsing into the bed beside you like gravity finally caught up with him. Occasionally, you’d wake to his stubble brushing your cheek as he laid kisses along your face. More often than not, you were too tired to make something out of it, and usually, you also assumed he’d just gotten off on something else, because he would sigh and nuzzle into you like he was still riding en endorphin rush.

You rarely engaged in a sex in the middle of the night, unless he demanded it. Once, you told him he could do whatever he wanted with you. Yours and Dexter’s sex life had its own intricate taxonomy: I am objectifying you right in this moment and want your body sex or my hormones are acting up sex. The list was long, really, but at the very top was something went wrong sex. That was your favorite, but too bad for you, because it wasn’t very often that you got to experience it. Dexter is very careful and focused most of the time. He doesn’t make mistakes. The bright side of that: you’d never ever get tired of it. Those nights felt like Christmas. No. Better than Christmas.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual (you weren’t even asleep yet). He was so angry. So frustrated. And you wanted to help. You set aside the book you were reading (it was about a woman who fell in love with a sociopath. safe to say, it was an intriguing read) when he stormed into the room. You crawled to the foot of the bed, watching his sharp movements with wide eyes as he took off his army green shirt.

You’d always imagined yourself grinding on him while he wore his uniform. And that time was no different. But that night wasn’t about you. It was about him. Well, partly.

“Can I help?”

“No.” his tone was clipped as he continued to move frantically around the room.

You weren’t sure if you should push his buttons. Your heart beat out of your chest from the nerves. Part of you thought maybe you should back off; the other part – it thrived on the uncertainty, the thrill of not knowing how far you could push before he snapped.

“I could make you something to eat…”

Horse shit. You couldn’t cook to save your life, and he knew that. But he just scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk.

“How about a bath? I could light those lavender candles and throw in one of my bath bombs.”

“I said no.”

You were still kneeling on the bed, dressed in your checkered shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top. Trying to act as innocently as possible.

“Do you want–”

He finally charged toward you, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Finally. Bait taken.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, slowly rising to your knees. The top of your head barely reached his chin, forcing you to tilt your neck to meet his gaze.

You started placing kisses along his collarbone, trailing up over his shoulder and to his neck. Your hand rested on his chest, palm splayed over his heart.

“Any chance I can sub in for one of them tonight?” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin.

His brows furrowed and then shot up. “Them?”

You felt the sudden quickening of his pulse beneath your hand. You nibbled on your lower lip as you nodded.

“Who’s them?”

Instead of answering, you tanhled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a reassurance, a promise that you’d always be there. Okay, maybe you did it because you didn’t want him to leave you. You didn’t want to activate a chain reaction.

He leaned into you, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you. When your lips parted, your forehead rested against his.

“You tell me, Dexter. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I want you to be happy. Do whatever you need to me if that’s what it takes.”

Pathetic? Most definitely. But who cares? He secretly loved it when you got like this – whiny, needy, entirely his.

His hand cupped your right cheek, his thumb brushing a faint vertical line against your skin, the nail scratching just enough to leave a fleeting mark. But his gaze darkened again, pupils dilating, like he was replaying unhappy memories.

He kissed you then – hard and insistent. His hand circled your neck, his thumb pressing just underneath your ear, while the rest of his fingers gripped the other side, his pointer brushing against your earlobe. Your hand instinctively shot up, clutching his forearm as if steadying yourself for what was coming.

Long story short, he fucked you that night, like never before. And since then, you’d been relying on your own version of Thorndike’s Law of Effect: if you wanted to ignite that fire in him, to get destroyed by him, you had to be a brat. Acting like you had control was the fastest way to make him prove otherwise. Sometimes you suspected he loved control more than he loved you. You’d told him that once, and he’d said you were being dramatic. Again. Well, you could still weaponize it.

The problem was, Dexter was otherwise a calm and patient boyfriend. He tolerated your antics with an almost infuriating ease, whether it was leaving the windshield wipers on long after the rain stopped or overbuying carrots at the farmer’s market only for him to help you eat the whole bowl of carrot salad. He even helped you find reliable owners for the stray cats that always “followed” you home. He was so good to you, and that’s why you always had to wait for something to go wrong. That’s when he was at his weakest and that’s when you struck.

Today’s the day. It was Friday and you didn’t have any classes, so you hadn’t set an alarm. You usually managed to wake up before 8 am – not too early, not too late. But this time, it wasn’t the sunlight or your internal clock that stirred you awake. It was the sound of chewing. Muffled munching, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate.

You cracked your eyes open, squinting as the golden rays of the early Miami morning sun flooded the room. You groaned softly and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. 7:42. Acceptable.

Blinking the sleep away, you shifted your gaze to Dexter. He sat propped against the headboard on his side of the bed, a plate balanced on his lap, spearing pieces of egg and bacon with his fork before shoving them into his mouth.

What the fuck?

He never ate in bed. One time, when you’d brought a bowl of popcorn to share during a movie night, he’d almost thrown you out.

“I’m not a clean freak. You just can’t even drink out of a bottle without spilling it all over the place,” he’d said. Well, he wasn’t wrong, but you’d managed to convince him anyway.

Now, though? Now he was the one violating the sacred no-food-in-bed rule.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still groggy as you reached for him.

He paused, registering your movement, and turned to you. His fork hovered mid-air as his gaze softened, just enough for him to take your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, the grease from his lips lingered on your skin.

“Hey,” he said, offering a weak smile. His voice carried a strange edge too, almost shaky.

You watched him carefully, he turned back to his food and with a quick flick of the remote, he raised the volume on the TV you hadn’t even noticed was on.

The screen showed a reporter standing in front of a crime scene, her voice urgent as she rattled off details about a recent incident. They flashed an image of a man – the criminal – and then back to the reporter.

Your eyes darted from the TV to Dexter. His brow was drawn low, his stare almost predatory as he watched the broadcast. His jaw tightened and released, the muscles flexing as he chewed. Occasionally, his teeth ground together, producing a faint, grating sound.

He was in the mood. And it hit you.

He never ate in bed. He wanted you to provoke him. A slow smirk curled your lips.

“Careful, Dex. You might intimidate the reporter through the TV.”

His grip on the fork tightened and chewing came to an abrupt halt. He exhaled sharply through his nose, not amused.

“Not today.”

“Did someone leave a typo in their lab report or what?”

He stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth without so much as glancing at you.

“Drop it.”

“Oh no, did Masuka out-gross you again?”

The plate clattered onto the bedside table with a force that made you flinch. Before you could react, he was on you. In a flash, his hand gripped your cheeks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

That was easier than you thought.

“Funny? No. I think I’m just observant.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and unrelenting as he studied you. His grip on your cheeks tightened just enough to make your lips purse.

“Is that what you call running your mouth until you get yourself in trouble?”

You couldn’t help it. Even with his face inches from yours, his hand firm on your cheeks, you smirked. “Please, Dexter, you’re all bark and no bite.”

Now you were just being annoying. He was actually all bite and no bark. His jaw ticked anyway, a muscle jumping just beneath his skin. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips as his nose brushed against your cheek.

“You really want to test that theory?”

You tried to shrug, but his grip on you made the movement awkward.

The air between you was thick, electric. His eyes searched yours, and you finally saw that primal tweak of his.

Then, without a warning, he released your cheeks and grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of your head. His strength was effortless, his movement precise.

“If you don’t come at least four times until I have to leave for work, I’m not gonna let you come for four weeks at all.”

Shit. Four weeks is a long time. That’s a whole month!

“Now you’re setting ultimatums?”

“Your time is running out, you sure you want to talk back?”

And that was your cue to finally keep your mouth shut.

“Good girl.” He said, the words sending a jolt straight through you, and you became acutely aware of the wetness pooling in your sleep shorts.

“On your knees. Grab the headboard.”

You obeyed without hesitation, pressing your chest into the mattress as you shifted onto your knees, sticking your ass into the air. You felt the fabric of your shorts clinging to your slick pussy in a way that was both uncomfortable and relieving.

Dexter moved behind you, his hand brushing over your hips, the touch almost gentle before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. He tugged them down, watching the material stick to your pussy, making his cock twitch in his pants. You squirmed under his fingers as they brushed against the skin of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, you’re sopping wet. Am I even surprised?” He said, bringing his fingers to your cunt and skimming them along the center from your hole, down to your clit. As he grazed that little spot, you bucked your hips into his hand, only for him to retreat it and bring it down in a swift move, slapping your clit and sending a tingling into your stomach. You moaned, not expecting him to get rough so soon.

Then, he kneeled next to you. You were too afraid to turn your head, but you could see with your periphery vision the tent in his pants. He brought the middle finger and the ring finger of his left hand to your mouth, and you opened without hesitation, wrapping your lips around them as he slid them all the way in. For you, it was awkward from that position, the fingers hooked in the corner of your mouth, forcing it to tilt slightly.

Once he decided that they were wet enough, he removed them and the same arm reached under you, his forearm touching your stomach as his fingers, now slick with your saliva, reached your pussy. They slid between your folds with ease, the two fingers pinching your clit between, before rubbing circles into it.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter with each movement. You squirmed under him, needing more than he was giving you, and he knew that. But when you started moving too much, he slowed, barely grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Dex,” you whined, your hips moving, trying to chase the friction he was withholding. But his only answer came in a form of a slap to your ass. Your mouth opened in a silent cry, and your hand instinctively let go of the headboard and reached for your cheek in order to sooth the pain. But before you could touch your own skin, his free hand was wrapping around your wrist, holding it high and causing your muscles to strain.

“Don’t make me tie you up. You don’t have time for that.”

You nodded in silent obedience, and you gripped the headboard again, focused on not letting go. His hand was still teasing your clit while his other hand reached from behind and played with your hole, your slickness sticking to his fingers. For a moment, he was enjoying the feeling of it, of you on his fingers. Then he spread the wetness up and over your asshole. He only teased your back entrance, returning to your pussy and plunging his fingers inside, making your grip on the headboard tighten, as well as your walls around his fingers.

Dexter’s fingers worked you expertly, curling upward to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. The movements of both his hands were in sync, the combination driving you to the edge as he upped the pace, relentless and unforgiving his fingers thrusting deeper, while also pinching your clit harder and occasionally grazing a nail over it, sending shivers down your spine.

The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps, Dex’s occasional grunts and most importantly, the squelching sounds of your drenched cunt. You were almost embarrassed by it, and Dexter made sure you felt that shame.

“Listen to yourself. So messy.”

Your response was a broken whine, your body trembling as his fingers curled just right to hit that devastatingly perfect spot again and again and again. His other hand maintained its tormenting rhythm on your clit, switching between sharp pinches and soft, tantalizing circles as your juices dripped from your hole to your clit.

Your knuckles became white from the hold you had on the headboard, your focus on not letting go and letting go at the same time. The pressure pulled you further under, and when he felt you clench around him, he pressed harder, his fingers moving with even more intensity.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” you whined, your body shaking with the overwhelming sensations.

“Don’t forget your manners, sweetheart.”

The pressure was unbearable now, your release so close you could taste it.

“Please, can I come?”

“Go ahead.” He growled, his fingers resuming his relentless pace, the wave of pleasure hitting you like a tidal force, crashing through every nerve in your body. You cried out, your body convulsing with the intensity of your climax. Your thighs trembled and your grip on the headboard faltered, but you were quick to remember to hold on, otherwise he wouldn’t let you ride it out.

Dexter worked you through the aftershocks, his fingers slowing but still keeping you riding that high until you were an overstimulated mess beneath him. When he withdrew his hand, you thought he’d give you a moment to gather up, but instead, in a quick motion, he was behind you, spreading your ass and burying his face between your cheeks.

Your body twitched as you felt him press his tongue flat on your puffy clit, shaking his head from side to side before catching it between his lips and sucking on it. The stimulation too much, you even tried to pull away even though you didn't really want to. It was to no use anyway, he followed you and his hands pushed against the small of your back, limiting your movements. He kept sucking on your bundle of nerves, his nose nudging your wet opening.

The thought of him being this messy alone made you so fucking horny and needy, as if you weren’t at the maximum capacity to feel those things.

Dexter pulled another whine out of you when he tugged on your clit with his lips, pulling back until he let go with a pop.

“You get so fucking sweet when you’re on your on your knees.” He said before returning his tongue to your pussy, running it flat up and down your lips, spreading your cunt and mixing his spit with your juices before he slurped it all up.

Your hand itched to let go of the headboard and cover your pussy to give your swollen clit a rest, but you were afraid of what he might do if you disobeyed again.

Besides, eating you out was his favorite thing in the world, and bad things would happen if you deprived him of his favorite activities.

One time, he’d made you ride him for so long until it was physically impossible for you to lift your ass. He’d proceeded to call you lazy, and had you dared, you would have slapped him.

Now, too much was at stake. He flicked his tongue against your clit repeatedly before finding your entrance and plunging it inside, the wet muscle massaging your walls. He loved your taste, he loved how you squirmed, he loved how slick and sticky you were. And you loved how animalistic he was about it, and how he didn’t care that you were overstimulated.

He dragged his tongue in and out of you, and then finally, it returned to your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot. And the slightly sharp sensation was all it took to send you over the edge again. Your pelvis twitched against him, his hands squeezing the flesh of your ass, dragging his nail against you aggressively and leaving red scratch marks behind.

You loved them more than bruises. You could get bruises anywhere, sometimes they appear, and you don’t even know how. That's a common knowledge. But chafed, irritated skin? You know exactly how it gets there. You remember it. It evokes memories.

He hummed against your hot, wet flesh, the vibrations only accelerating your orgasm. You mewled, almost screamed, but you didn’t want to seem overdramatic. Your cum spilled straight into his mouth and he drank it all down as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop. He caught it on his tongue, licking you through the orgasm. Your upper body felt so numb, while down there, it was like fireworks. And when you finally started coming down, he slowed down, laying kisses over your pussy lips and your butt and your thighs. You felt the wetness his mouth left behind, your slick slowly drying on your skin. It was almost comforting, feeling him be so soft. You felt like curling up to him, falling asleep in his embrace.

“Three to go. You think you can make it?” He asked, and you heard him move behind you, followed by the sound of his buckle as he removed his belt.

You looked at the clock. 8:02. You didn’t think you could, but even if you did, it was in his control. He was just manipulating you to think that it was yours. Or he was just mocking you. He knew you weren’t stupid.

“You think you can?”

The leather belt came down on your ass, to the same place he’d slapped before. You made a note about checking out that bruise later.

“You’re only giving me reasons to spank the shit out of you.” He said, dragging the belt across your ass, before touching the curved part to your pussy. Once it was gone, you waited for Dexter to hit you there too, but the blow never came.

“Let go of the headboard.”

Your brows furrowed, but your confusion quickly disappeared when he hooked the belt around your neck, yanking you upwards, your back against his chest and his clothed cock nestled between your ass cheeks.

You subtly ground against him, making him purr into your ear, which made you smirk. He gripped both ends of the belt in one hand, while his other arm snaked around your waist, his hand slipping under your tank top and squeezing your breast. The way he pinched and tugged on your nipple made you buck into him with more force, and he reciprocated, grinding against you, giving in to his own pleasure. Then his hand disappeared from your body and you heard the sound of him spitting into his palm, before he brought it to your pussy. As if you weren’t completely drenched. He knew you loved how disgusting the thought was. How lewd you felt when he did that.

For him, this was nothing compared to the things he did during his free time.

Then without a warning, he released one end of the belt, causing you to collapse face-first into the bed. He unbuttoned his khaki pants and pulled his cock out before grabbing your arm and turning you on your back.

You finally got a good look at him - strands of hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes dark framed by lashes that looked like he'd used an eyelash curler (something you envied him). You admired him. Not just for his look, though that part was obvious. He knew he had women turning their heads in his direction. But they didn’t know the brilliant mind beneath it all. He was so clever, so undeniably smart, and that was what truly excited you. That a neat man with a compartmentalized brain like his could get so messy when it came to sex. Like now, all sweaty, his cock leaking onto the sheets. Some of the precum probably landed on your cunt too. The thought alone sent another wave of pleasure building deep in your abdomen.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking into your pussy in one swift motion before crawling over you and capturing your lips in a kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. His hand slid to your neck, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse point, making you aware of how fast your heart was pounding. You moaned into his mouth as he applied a touch more pressure for a split second, giving him the chance to slide his tongue deeper into your mouth. You sucked on it, tasting the tanginess that he'd collected from your lower lips.

Without warning, with just a sublte shift of his hips, he was inside you. A low moan escaped him as he felt the tightness of your walls, and you let out a soft whimper at the stretch. He didn’t move at first. He kept kissing you and his hand slid down your body, squeezing your boob again, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Lowering his head, he wrapped his mouth around your sensitive peak, sucking gently on your tit. Your fingers tangled into his hair, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp, pulling him closer.

His teeth grazed your sensitive nub, sending a jolt through you, and in one fluid motion, his arm snaked beneath you, lifting and sitting up as he pulled you onto his lap. He started thrusting his hips into you, holding you in place, his cock gliding effortlessly along your slick walls.

Leaning forward, his lips found your other breast, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your nipple before his mouth opened wide, taking in as much of your soft flesh as he could. You arched against him, your back curving as your hads pressed his face closer, your head tipping back in ecstasy.

He kept on fucking you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made you dizzy. He drove his cock into you, quickening the pace, a sign that he was getting close. His arms around you tightened and then suddenly, you felt a sharp pain originating in your breast and going straight to your pussy, making you clench around. He was fucking you hard and deep, and when you looked down, you saw him still latched onto your tit, his upper lip covered in crimson.

You felt the sting from the way he was sucking on you, and when he finally removed his lips from your breast, you saw red drops dripping down your breast, the blood leaking from the bite marks where his upper teeth sank into your skin. You were mesmerized by it, and you wanted more. You pushed his face back against your sore nipple and Dexter surprisingly didn’t argue. He licked the blood off you and sucked again while ramming into you. Your body shuddered, and finally your third finish was brought on by a couple of additional thrusts of his hips. Then he laid you flat on the bed and chased his own release. You pulled him up by the chin, meeting his lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you hard and fast until he spilled inside of you.

Once you both came down, he was lying on top of you. You wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him affectionately, because you were so content that he was there with you.

But you were yanked out of your dreamland when he rose to his feet, making your brows furrow.

“That was only three,” your tone couldn't be more confused, as he headed to the bathroom.

“Yeah, but I need to shower and pick new clothes to wear. Can’t go to work with your cum all over my pants.” He came back to the bedroom with a smile on his face, as if he just hadn’t fucked the shit out of you. “Last one’s on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Make yourself cum before I leave. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before disappearing into the bathroom.

Asshole. He knew you’d lost the ability to make yourself cum shortly after you’d started sleeping together. But luckily, you had your stash of toys that might help you with your problem.

With the roll of your eyes, you rolled over and reached into your nightstand, but in that moment, he peeked from around the corner.

“Oh, and your hands only.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

His face dropped again.

“You want to tell me what’s fair and what isn’t?”

You slammed the drawer shut and fell on your back, your body bouncing on the soft bed.

“Good girl. And no cheating. I’ll keep the door open. If I so much as hear something else that isn’t your fucking scream, I swear you’ll have to work your ass off to make me let you come ever again. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You hadn’t done this in a long time. It almost felt unnatural. But despite that, your fingers dropped to your clit, and you began pushing yourself over another edge. Or at least you tried. But it was pointless. You tried to squeeze your wounded breast to get that rush going, but it didn’t have that effect this time. It only made you sweaty.

He managed to finish his shower before you made yourself orgasm, obviously. When he entered the bedroom with a towel around his waist, he looked at you with feigned pity.

“Aww… Don’t tell me my baby needs a manual to get herself off.”

“Dex, come on. You know I can’t make myself orgasm,” you tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t going to budge.

“I can’t do two things at once, I’m only one person,” he argued, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “This is for your own good. I gave you an opportunity to make it to four before I have to leave. It’s not my fault you’re not capable.”

You huffed, bringing your fingers to your pussy again, stuffing them inside yourself and trying to fuck yourself, but again, to no avail.

He even laughed at you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him already with his work bag slung over his shoulder, hands casually tucked in his pocket. You’d lost.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. So desperate. It’s like your world has been destroyed.”

“It kinda has.”

He came to your side of your bed where you were still lying with your hand between your legs. He leaned over you, brushing the hair that stuck to your forehead and placing a soft kiss there.

“Take that as a lesson. You shouldn’t take a bait if you can’t handle the hook.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left, leaving you wrecked and messy, the most agonizing four weeks of your life just now beginning.

a/n2: i'm thinking it's kinda more vanilla than i intended it to be, but oh well... thank you for reading!!

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sosa2imagines · 22 days ago

Text

Are you mine? Part 3

Warning- Little angst, fluff.

It was just past dawn.

The sky was blushing with faint streaks of peach and silver, the morning air sharp with cold.

You hadn’t meant to open the door, you just needed fresh air. A moment of stillness before the ache behind your ribs reminded you of everything you lost.

But the second you stepped outside barefoot, hoodie tugged tight around your frame, you froze.

They were both awake, sitting on the hood of the car like statues of regret.

Bucky was cradling a thermos between his hands. His eyes snapped up the moment he saw you, and the breath left his lungs. Steve stood immediately, wincing slightly from the healing claw marks across his ribs. His bruised face looked worse in the light, one eye still half-closed, his jaw scraped and tight.

All three of you stared at each other, no one moved.

You didn’t expect your voice to work when you finally spoke, but it did, “Why are you still here?”

Bucky swallowed hard, “Because you’re here...” Steve’s throat bobbed. “And we’re not leaving. Not unless you tell us to…”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of your hoodie, “I left,” you whispered. “You could’ve moved on. Let it go...Cassidy?”

Steve stepped forward, carefully, as if any wrong movement would break the spell. “We don’t want to move on.” Bucky took a single cautious step, still keeping distance. “We want you! To hell with Cassidy!!!”

You looked away, blinking fast. “You already had me. And you let me be forgotten...”

That made Bucky flinch visibly and Steve’s jaw clenched. They didn’t argue. They didn’t deny it.

Steve took a breath. “You’re right. We did. And we’ll never stop being sorry for it.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the pain behind the blue. At the dried blood in the corner of Bucky’s mouth. At the bruises they didn’t even try to hide.

And the coffee. The notes. The car.

Day after day.

“You stayed…” you whispered.

Steve nodded. “Because you’re worth staying for.”, Bucky’s voice was hoarse. “We don’t deserve a second chance. But we’re gonna keep showing up until we do.”

Silence stretched between you again, but this time, it didn’t ache. You didn’t move closer, didn’t smile and didn’t cry.

You just whispered, “Okay…” and turned around.

Left the door open behind you and Steve and Bucky followed.

Not into your heart.

Not yet.

But into the first moment of something real.

The days passed, not easily though, they dragged. Some heavier than others. Some so quiet it hurt.

You didn’t bounce back and you didn’t crawled back.

Bit by bit, there were days when the sight of them in your periphery made your chest tighten. When Steve’s soft voice felt like salt in a wound. When Bucky’s eyes so full of guilt and tenderness, made you want to scream.

But then there were moments.

Moments when Steve cooked breakfast and burned the eggs so badly even Logan snorted. Moments when Bucky, still aching from his healing wounds, grumbled through washing dishes and almost dropped a pan.

You didn’t laugh.

Slowly, steadily, piece by piece, you started to feel like yourself again.

Logan, ever the protective older brother, watched with cautious eyes as you laughed for the first time in weeks. As you smirked when Steve burned the eggs one morning, and as you rolled your eyes when Bucky tried to charm his way out of washing the dishes.

It was late when it happened.

The kind of late where the stars were loud and the woods had gone still.

You sat on the porch steps, a blanket around your shoulders, the mug in your hands gone cold. You hadn’t said a word in over an hour.

Bucky sat beside you, quiet, not touching. Steve leaned against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, watching the trees like they might give him answers.

“I need you to hear me…”

Both men turned immediately.

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady.

Bucky sat straighter. “We’re listening.”

You stared at the trees. “When Cassidy started showing up, I didn’t say anything at first. I told myself I was overthinking it. That I was being dramatic. That you wouldn’t do that to me.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed, while your fingers curled around the mug. “But then you started cancelling dates. Forgetting things. Laughing with her the way you used to laugh with me. And every time I came into the room, it felt like I was interrupting something.”

You turned to look at them now, your eyes tired, but burning. “You made me feel invisible.”

Steve opened his mouth, but you lifted a hand to stop him, “Let me finish.”

He nodded, jaw clenched.

Your voice shook, just a little. “I would go to sleep next to you and still feel like I was alone. I would hear you talking to her and wonder what I did wrong. I started walking around the compound like a ghost, trying not to be in the way…”

You blinked, tears threatening but not falling. “And the worst part?” you whispered. “You didn’t even notice I was breaking. Not once.”

Bucky dropped his head, his hands clenched between his knees.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to punish you. I left because I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was becoming smaller just to fit into the cracks you left me in.”

Silence. Painful and dense.

Steve finally spoke, his voice raw. “You have every right to hate us.”

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly. “That would be easier.”

Your eyes found Bucky’s. “But I’m not ready to forgive you. Not yet. And I don’t know when I will be.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “We understand,” he rasped.

Steve stepped closer, lowering himself onto the step below yours, so he had to look up to meet your gaze. “We’re not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “We’re just asking for time.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. “Time is all I can give you right now.”

And Steve, the man who once thought he was strong enough to carry the world, let out the most fragile breath of relief you’d ever heard.

After that night on the porch, things didn’t magically fall into place, but they shifted.

Steve and Bucky didn’t press. They didn’t talk about forgiveness. They just worked.

They helped Logan chop wood, hauled supplies from town, fixed the creaky porch step that had been splintering for months. Steve cleaned around, even the drainage like it was penance. Bucky learned how to cook Logan-style stew, thick, over-seasoned, and strangely comforting.

Logan didn’t say much, but the grunts grew less threatening. And once, you saw him nod at Steve as he passed him a toolbox, it meant more than a full conversation.

There were still bad days.

Days where your chest felt too tight, your patience too thin. When they smiled too easily or sat too close, you flinched.

One afternoon, after Steve made some offhand joke about movie night, the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “It won’t work.”

The porch went quiet.

Bucky was closest. He stood from where he’d been tightening a hinge on the screen door, his brows drawing together. “What?”

You backed away a step, blinking hard. “This. You and Steve. Trying to be better. It’s not going to fix anything…”

Bucky swallowed hard, but stepped toward you anyway, “I’m trying, Doll…”

“I know. And I see it. But that doesn’t change what you did.”

“I’m not asking it to.”

You crossed your arms, pain curling in your chest. “Then why are you still here?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he closed the space between you and wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through your hoodie.

“Because I love you,” Bucky whispered into your hair. “And I will never, let you believe you’re not worth fighting for again.”

Your hands stayed frozen for a moment, then slowly, they fisted in the back of his shirt.

You didn’t sob. Didn’t speak.

But you held him back, and that was enough.

That night, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep near them.

You were on the couch, curled into the corner with your head against a pillow, the fire crackling low. You didn’t mean to drift. But the warmth, the silence, the steady hum of their presence, not too close, but not far lulled you.

When your breathing evened out, Bucky looked over from the armchair and stilled. Steve, stretched out on the floor in front of the hearth, lifted his head to look at you.

They didn’t say a word, just watched.

And when your hand slipped down slightly from the blanket, fingers grazing open air, Steve gently reached up and placed your hand into his.

You didn’t pull away, didn’t stir.

And for them still bruised, broken, aching, that tiny gesture?

Felt like a beginning. You were on the porch, curled up in one of the old chairs, knees drawn to your chest beneath a blanket. The wind had turned colder, whispering through the trees like ghosts that wouldn’t let you sleep.

Your mind wouldn’t quiet.

Memories played on repeat, Steve’s laughter with Cassidy, Bucky’s distracted silences, the way you’d shrunk smaller and smaller without them noticing. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself.

And then you heard it, the porch boards creaking under familiar boots.

Logan.

He stepped out without a word and sat in the chair beside you, a fresh beer in his hand, a bottle of water in the other. He passed the water to you and you took it.

Silence stretched between you.

Then softly, he said, “They’re trying.”

You didn’t look at him. “I know.”

He took a long sip, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve seen people beg before. Seen people fake redemption to get what they want. That’s not what this is.”

You glanced over, “They’re still them. Still the ones who let me break...”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. But they’re also the ones bleeding to fix what they shattered. The ones splitting wood with broken ribs. The ones who haven’t taken a real bed in weeks just to be near you, just to prove they won’t abandon you again.”

You were quiet, but your grip on the bottle tightened.

Logan leaned back in his chair, sighing. “I’m not telling you to forgive them, bub. That’s not my call.”

He turned his head toward you. “But I am telling you to look at what they’ve done. What they’re doing. And ask yourself, is this worth something?”

He reached over and gently brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead. The gesture was so soft, so achingly warm it undid something in your chest. “You don’t owe them anything,” he whispered. “But don’t throw away something real just because it hurt once.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry.

You just leaned your head slightly toward his shoulder and whispered, “I’m so tired of hurting.”

He rested his hand gently on your back.

“I know, Bub,” he murmured. “But maybe it’s time to start healing.”

It was quiet the next morning.

Too quiet.

The kind of stillness that didn’t scream anymore, but waited.

You stepped out onto the porch as the sun broke over the trees, golden light spilling across the cabin steps. Your blanket was wrapped loosely around you, your hands tucked inside. They were already there.

Not on the car this time. But seated on the porch steps, facing the forest, their backs straight despite the exhaustion still carved into their bodies.

They heard your footsteps, but neither of them turned around.

Not until you whispered, “Hey.”

They both looked over, and the expression on their faces made your chest ache.

Hope. Fear. Love.

“I need to say something,” you said, stepping closer.

They stood slowly, carefully but kept their distance.

You stopped a few feet in front of them, the rising sun painting soft light across their bruises, their bandages, the worry lining their faces.

You took a breath, “I hated you…” you said, voice raw. “For what you did. For what you didn’t see. For making me feel like I was replaceable…but I never hated you because I love you…”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Steve’s gaze dropped to the porch floor.

“But I also saw you try,” you continued, a tremble in your voice. “Every day. Without pushing. Without demanding. Just… showing up.” You swallowed. “That meant more than you’ll ever know.” You stepped forward, just one step and looked between them. “I forgive you.”

Steve’s head snapped up, eyes wide, blinking back tears. Bucky’s lips parted, like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.

You nodded. “Not because it didn’t hurt. Not because it’s forgotten. But because I’m tired of carrying the weight alone. And because I still believe in us.”

They didn’t speak at first. Then Steve stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on yours. “We swear to you, Doll…what happened? It’ll never happen again. Ever.”

Bucky followed, voice thick with emotion. “No one, no one will ever take your place. You are it. Always have been.”

Steve took your hands, gently. “We were blind. But never again.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours, voice low. “You’re everything. We’ll spend forever proving it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, not from pain. But relief. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt steady.

Home.

And when they wrapped their arms around you, one from each side, you let them.

Because you knew this time? They’d never let you go.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale, his shoulders sagging in relief. Steve reached for your hand, hesitating for a split second before lacing his fingers with yours.

You let him.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt right. It wasn’t instant. You didn’t just fall back into place like nothing had happened.

No, this time, you started fresh.

As friends first.

You three rebuilt the foundation, step by step. Of course it required Steve and Bucky to take permission from Logan, who threaten that next time the consequences will be non-healable and Natasha who threaten to send them in a dark place.

Steve asked about your missions, truly listening. Bucky made sure to never let a day pass without checking in on you. You teased them again, sparred with them, laughed with them.

And one night, as you sat between them on the couch, watching some terrible action movie, Bucky casually draped his arm around your shoulders.

You didn’t push him away.

And Steve, on your other side, glanced down, a soft smile on his lips as you leaned into them both.

It wasn’t just the way things used to be.

It was better. Stronger.

Because this time, they knew what they had almost lost. And they would never take you for granted again.

The couch was too small, the floor too cold, so eventually the three of you ended up where you belonged, in the bed. Together.

Not because you needed sleep.

But because you needed them.

The light was low, the room warm, your breathing soft and even. It wasn't anything intimate, but more like being grateful and just feel each other.

You lay tangled between them, your back against Bucky’s chest, his metal arm draped protectively over your waist. His flesh hand held your thigh, anchoring you there like he never planned to let go again.

Steve lay on his stomach, face turned toward you, fingers tracing slow, tender patterns along your bare arm.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were home.

“Did you know,” Steve murmured, his voice laced with sleep, “that I couldn't function anymore...”

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

He hummed, brushing his thumb along your knuckles. “After you left… I couldn't breathe...I felt weak, you are our strength, our everything doll...”

Your throat tightened.

Behind you, Bucky’s lips pressed against the nape of your neck, warm and reverent. “I never stopped looking for you, Doll. Not really. Even when we knew where you were, I felt like we lost you...and this seperation period was worse than any nightmare and torture...me and Steve never want to live that ever again...”

Your fingers curled around Steve’s, squeezing gently, “I felt lost too...” you admitted softly. “But… not anymore.”

Steve kissed your shoulder, his touch lingering like a promise.

Bucky’s grip on you tightened, like he could physically hold you against any pain, any memory, any threat.

“We’re never letting you go again...” he whispered, voice low, fierce.

You turned slightly in Bucky’s arms, shifting to face Steve now, your hand rising to cup his cheek. He leaned into it, eyes half-lidded with love.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because we are right where we belong...”

Steve smiled, eyes shining as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

And as Bucky pulled you closer, one hand stroking your hip, the other curled protectively around your belly, he whispered soft, unintelligible things into your skin, words he couldn’t speak fully, but you felt every bit of them.

And you knew, this bond between you three?

It wasn’t just fixed.

It was unbreakable.

Part 2- ✅

Taglist- @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

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As you all can see, I tried to tag everyone but the tags don't work well, sorry 🥲❤️

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chericos · 27 days ago

Text

DRAWN TO YOU. || s. ishigami

Rebuilding the world takes time. So does love. But gravity doesn't ask for permission. The tides don't apologize You've always been drawn to him. And him, to you.

| fic masterlist. | song of the chapter.

i. curiosity | 11.8k words

Kids are mean.

You were six years old when you first encountered Senku Ishigami. It was your first day after being transferred to a school across the country, and you already hated everything— the unfamiliar classroom, the weird accents, even the lunch trays were different. Every little thing seemed to tick you off more and more. And it’s not like the rest of the kids made it any better. After your— extremely difficult to understand and rushed— introduction, the class already moved on from you; the shiny new student they might’ve wanted to befriend, to just another forgettable face.

So that's how you found yourself alone on the playground. You looked around at the other children, all huddled into their own little groups of friends, and you stared at them with envy.

You missed your friends.

You missed your family.

You missed your old house— where the wood floors would creak under your foot if you stepped on them wrong.

You missed the neighborhood cats you used to sneak food to at night. You missed the creek you’d visit every spring and summer, where you’d get muddy and soaked while hunting for pretty rocks and slugs.You missed your old life, the one you had before you had to pack everything up and move with your mom. But above all,

you missed your dad the most.

The thought of him hit you like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t even a whole memory— just a flash: his laugh while lifting you onto his shoulders at festivals; the way he’d whistle off-key while making breakfast; or those weekend trips deep into the woods, just the two of you.

You used to love those trips. He’d kneel in the dirt beside you, gently pushing aside leaves to reveal strange little flowers or odd-smelling roots. He knew them all by name— scientific and otherwise— and he’d always let you carry the worn leather field guide, its pages dog-eared, scribbled with notes, and stained with years worth of dirt and grime.

“This one’s good for sore throats,” he’d say, pressing a leaf into your palm. “And that one? Don’t eat it. Not unless you want to meet the gods early.” he’d chuckle.

You’d giggle with him, even if you didn’t fully understand the weight of what he meant.

Back then, it felt like magic— the way he could heal little cuts with leaves, soothe a fever with bitter tea, or calm your nightmares with a poultice and a quiet story. He was like a mini wizard, the kind who didn’t need spells— just plants, patience, steady hands, and a kind heart. He was someone you admired, someone you wanted to become.

You didn’t know it then, but those moments were planting something deep inside you. A curiosity. A quiet kind of wonder. The beginnings of a map that wouldn’t finish drawing itself until much, much later.

And now, sitting alone on the edge of a strange playground in a strange town, with dirt under your shoes and no one to talk to— you’d give anything to be back in those woods again, his voice calmly naming herbs like they were old friends.

You didn’t even notice that you had begun to cry, the tears falling into your lap before you could rein them back. You were pathetic weren’t you? Can’t even make it one day in this new place before you start falling apart, your mom would be disappointed in you. You blinked hard, bringing the dark colored sleeve of your sweater up to wipe away at your face. You shouldn't be crying. Definitely not here where the rest of the kids could see.

"Hey."

You turned your head quickly, already on edge, but it wasn't another group of kids ready to come and eat you alive. It was one boy. He was slightly taller than you, but honestly you blamed half of his height on his hair— spiky and pale green that stuck out like his roots were battling with gravity itself (and winning). He wasn’t smiling down at you, but he didn't look mean either.

“Wanna see something cool?” he asked, crouching beside you without waiting for permission. You glanced at him like he was insane. He dug into his backpack and pulled out what looked like a pencil case... but not really. It was metal. And humming like some sort of animal, cobbled together with wires and tape.

“…What’s that s’posed to be?” you asked, brows furrowed, wary but intrigued.

“Prototype,” he said. “Kind of a battery-powered brush bot. Not super stable yet, but I got it to move yesterday. Thought it might be fun to tweak it.”

He glanced over at you. “You any good with your hands?”

You hesitated a frown tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Not with machines, nah.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “What then?”

You dug your fingers into the sand. It was warm, gritty, grounding. “Plants,” you said quietly. “Back home, my papa’d take me out into the hills every weekend. Taught me how to tell one leaf from ‘nother, how to crush bark into powder or steep roots in tea.”

You paused, then added with a soft smile, “He always said everythin’s got its use—if ya just know how to look.”

Senku’s eyes lit up like you’d just said something genuinely impressive. “So you know medicinal stuff?”

You nodded, a little self-conscious. “Some, yeah. Still learnin’, though. But I can tell what’ll help ya and what’ll make ya real sorry ya touched it,” you said with a small laugh. “That count?”

He grinned— wide and crooked and full of mischief. “That 10 billion percent counts.”

The two of you sat there in the sandbox, trading thoughts— him rambling about conductivity and how lemon juice could be a weak electrolyte, and you chiming in with how your dad used to use citrus to clean wounds when you ran out of antiseptic.

It was weird. And nerdy. And messy.

But it didn’t hurt the way everything else did.

You went quiet for a second, eyes drifting down to your lap as you started picking at a loose thread on your sweater sleeve. “Kids’re mean,” you mumbled.

Senku blinked, thrown a little by the shift. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice softer than usual. “They can be.”

“They didn’t talk to me,” you murmured, kicking at the sand. “In class, they all just looked at me weird… then forgot I was even there. Ran off at recess like I didn’t even exist. That’s why ya found me sittin’ here all by m’self.”

For once, he didn’t have a quip or fact ready. He just… listened.

“But you’re not mean,” you added, glancing sideways at him, voice smaller now.

Senku shrugged like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of compliment. “I’m just curious.”

You smiled faintly. “Still. Makes ya different.”

Then, after a moment’s pause, you added with a teasing grin, “You are weird, though.”

He shot you a mildly offended look, brows arching. “Seriously?”

“Not in a mean way!” you said quickly, waving both hands defensively. “Ya just… real smart. Talk about stuff most kids don’t care about. But it’s kinda nice. Most folks don’t listen when I ramble ’bout plants or whateva.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful now. “Weird’s subjective,” he muttered. “The world only calls things weird until they become useful.”

You blinked at him, then slowly grinned — that big, proud kinda grin that scrunches your nose. “Well, I’m weird too.”

“Wow,” he replied, completely deadpan, eyes back on the brush-bot. “Hadn’t noticed.”

You snorted, elbowing him lightly. “Hey! Ya don’t gotta agree so fast!”

A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Just making an observation. Science-based.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile lingered anyway. “We can be weird together.”

That got his attention.

His hands paused, the little stick he was using to nudge a wire into place hovering midair. For a second, he didn’t respond. Just sat there beside you, the weight of your words swirling in his mind while the silence lingered in the air between you like the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun.

“Weird together, huh?” he muttered under his breath, voice low and unreadable.

You nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Like a team or somethin’. You do your robot stuff, an’ I’ll mix up weird leaf tea. We’ll be unstoppable.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raising slightly. “That… sounds absurd.”

“Exactly!” you chirped, beaming. “Absurd an’ awesome.”

Senku stared at you for a moment, then shook his head with the kind of exasperated fondness that only made sense in the weird little bubble the two of you had created. He didn’t say anything else— just went back to fiddling with the bot in his lap, poking at the wires with more focus this time.

But his hands had slowed, the usually sharp motions softened into something more relaxed. Measured.

His mind, constantly moving at lightspeed, didn’t dwell on feelings too long. But still— somewhere in the labyrinth of circuits and formulas, something warm flickered quietly. It settled in the part of his brain he rarely noticed, like the click of a gear slipping perfectly into place.

He supposed... he liked the sound of that.

Weird together.

It had a nice ring to it.

When you got home, the first thing you did — after kicking off your shoes and washing your hands like Mama always reminded you — was race into the kitchen, words tumbling out of your mouth like you couldn't get them fast enough.

You left out the part where you cried.

“I met this boy at recess, Mama!” you said, practically bouncing on your toes. “He had this big ol’ hair stickin’ up like seaweed, an’ he showed me this weird robot thing! Said it ran on batteries, but it looked like a bug!”

She hummed softly while stirring the pot on the stove.

“He wasn’t mean neither,” you went on, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “Didn’ laugh or nothin’ when I talked ‘bout plants. Said I was smart for knowin’ stuff Papa taught me…”

She nodded gently, listening with one ear as she added more seasoning.

The smell hit you just then — rich and deep and familiar. Your dad’s favorite stew. Which meant it was yours too, by association. You blinked, throat tightening. It was too much.

“Smells like home,” you whispered, voice quieter now. “Miss it, Mama. Miss… everythin’ I miss papa.”

Your mother turned the heat down low and came over, wiping her hands on a towel before crouching beside you.

“I know, baby,” she said softly, brushing your hair from your face. “I miss him too.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. Her hand stayed on the side of your head, warm and steady. Like an anchor.

“But Papa’d be real proud, y’know?” she added. “You talkin’ ‘bout your plants like that. Teachin’ someone somethin’ new.”

“Senku already knew a lot,” you mumbled, gaze fixed on the floor. “He talks all fast an’ big like you gotta keep up or get left behind. But he listened.”

She smiled. “Sounds like a good friend.”

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool. “He’s weird.”

She laughed—just once, soft. The kind of laugh that reminded you of warm afternoons playing out in the backyard, sun on your cheeks, the scent of cut grass and citrus in the air. The kind of laugh your dad used to say made everything feel less heavy— sweeter, better.

She ruffled your hair gently, like she used to when you were smaller. “Well then,” she said, her smile curling with a hint of mischief, “sounds like he might be your perfect match.”

You huffed a small laugh, leaning into her touch just a little. “Yeah. He said we could be weird together!”

“That so?” She questioned while she wiped her hands off with a kitsch towel and began setting the table.

You nodded, a little more certain this time. “Like a team or somethin’. He does his science stuff, and I talk about my plants. Told him some trees can be medicine and poison, dependin’ on how ya use ‘em. He didn’t even flinch.” You paused, trying to hide the small grin that crept up. “He said I was smart for knowin' that. Like, really smart. Never thought anyone’d call me smart for somethin' like that.”

Your mom gave you a look—one of those quiet, proud ones that filled the space between words. “You’re gonna do good things with all that knowledge in your head, sweetheart.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Y’think so?”

“I know so.”

And even though your throat still ached and your chest felt a little too full, something in her voice settled the storm inside you. Just a little.

Later that night, after dinner and dishes and brushing your teeth, you curled up in bed with your old stuffed seal under one arm and the blanket tucked under your chin. The moonlight filtered through the window, painting soft shadows across the ceiling.

Your mama had kissed your forehead and told you to dream something sweet.

But your thoughts wandered back to the sandbox. To wild green hair and wires and your own voice saying, weird together.

You whispered it once into the dark, just to feel how it sounded in the quiet.

It still made you smile.

And for the first time since the move, you didn’t feel quite so alone.

“I think ever’thing’s gon’ be okay now, Papa,” you whispered. “Think I found somethin’ good.”

And just like that, your eyelids fluttered shut— drifting into sleep full of starlight, trees, and whirring machines and a strange little boy with seaweed hair who didn’t think you were too much.

Just enough.

— — — — — — — —

You wouldn’t leave him alone.

Ever since that fateful day at the sandbox, you had been a permanent fixture at Senku’s side—much to his loud and very vocal displeasure. Not because he didn’t like you (he did, though he’d rather chew batteries than admit it), but because you were noisy.

You were always complaining.

“Why’s it makin’ that smell, Senku? That ain’t normal.”

“If ya blow somethin’ up again, I’m tellin’ ya now, I ain’t cleanin’ it.”

“You gotta eat, y’know! You can’t survive on soda and caffeine gum forever, you maniac.”

You were relentless. A constant stream of chatter, commentary, humming, questions about the plants you found outside school, theories about if moss could maybe conduct electricity if it tried hard enough—and complaints. So many complaints.

And yet… you were there. Always. Even when the wires sparked. Even when the experiments fizzled. Even when he barked at you to go away because he was on the verge of something huge, and your presence was apparently “throwing off the magnetic field.” (whatever that meant)

You still showed up the next morning. Hair done up nice, probably after a full-on battle with your mom that morning. A frilly little dress that was practically begging for mud stains. You never cared.

“It shows the proof of our experiments!” you said once, proudly displaying the dirt on your knees like it was a medal. You never seemed to care about the odd looks you’d get from the other girls in your class when you’d come back from recess with leaves in your hair and your clothes a complete mess.

Sometimes, you brought in weird leaves or roots or half-squished flowers to test. Or a broken pencil sharpener you begged him to “turn into a laser.” Senku swore up and down that he couldn’t do it— yet somehow, a few days later, you’d find that same sharpener back on your desk, outfitted with tiny wires and a sticky note written in the world’s most dramatic handwriting:

"Do NOT use in class."

Or you’d bring in a bug you found under the slide that you swore glowed in the dark. (It didn’t.)

Senku rolled his eyes. A lot. He muttered. He groaned. He said “what now” at least three times a day. But he never told you to stop coming.

And maybe that was the strangest part of it all.

Because slowly, between the beakers and bickering, you carved out a little space in the lab and in his life. And much to his horror…

It felt kinda nice.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, of course. He had a reputation to maintain. Cold, logical, scientific detachment, all that (although no one else seemed to notice besides him). But the truth was— he’d gotten used to your voice always bouncing off the class walls. To your weird theories and weirder tea blends that you swore could revive a dead person. To the way you always found wonder in the smallest things— a funny-shaped rock, a heart-shaped leaf— like they mattered more than anyone else ever noticed. (they slowly started to matter to him too)

So when middle school started, Senku wasn’t expecting much to change. Same town, same “science club”— which just consisted of you, himself, and 4 other antisocial, nerdy kids from elementary, same people. You’d still be at his side, poking at things you weren’t supposed to and asking questions you already knew the answers to. Business as usual.

Until you weren’t.

Until he walked into homeroom and your desk— the one that always used to be next to his— was empty. Well, not empty, but was occupied by someone he didn’t care enough to give the time of day due to the small fact that they weren’t you.

By second period, he had memorized your new classroom number. By lunch, he'd run several failed simulations in his head, trying to figure out why the school would separate the two of you when your combined test scores had basically carried the district average.

And to make matters worse, that’s when Taiju showed up.

Big. Loud. Alarmingly enthusiastic. The kind of guy who'd break a microscope slide just trying to look at it. Senku hadn’t even learned his name before the guy was plopping down next to him, acting like they had been best friends since the womb.

Taiju grinned, holding up a diagram he'd hastily drawn. "Yo! That thing you said about dominant and recessive traits—check this out!" He pointed to a messy chart, clearly proud of it. "I think my genotype's got, like, all the best traits, right? Gotta be genetically superior, y'know?"

Senku blinked. "That's not how that works."

Taiju just grinned wider. "Cool! You’ll teach me, right?"

Senku sighed. Loudly. And made a mental note to start eating lunch on the roof. But before he could escape, there you were—jogging across the courtyard with your lunch in hand and wind in your hair like no time had passed at all.

“Miss me?” you asked, dropping your lunch bag beside him and flopping onto the bench, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Doesn’t seem like it. You’ve already replaced me, huh?”

Senku glanced over at you, not missing the teasing tone, before giving a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t mind him,” he muttered, gesturing to Taiju, who was still proudly holding up his overripe orange. “He just sat here for some reason.”

Taiju blinked, looking between the two of you like he was missing. Faced turned into confusion like he just saw a question on an exam that he didn’t know the answer to. “Huh? Nah, I didn’t replace anyone! I was just... sitting here. For, uh, science,” he said grinning sheepishly.

You rolled your eyes, popping the lid off your bento. “Sure, sure. Well, don’t worry, I’m still here.” You leaned over and passed Senku a pickled plum, clearly acting like nothing had changed. “No shared classes this year. Kinda sucks, though.”

Kind of? It was a catastrophic miscalculation, is what it was.

Still, you were here now, settling between him and Taiju like you were re-staking your claim. You casually mentioned your morning—“The comp sci room smells like 5-in-one body wash and emotional breakdowns”—before passing him a pickled plum without asking, brushing a leaf out of his hair mid-sentence. You didn’t even need to say much. It was as if nothing had changed.

And somehow… that made it okay.

(Though he did send Taiju death glares every time the guy got a little too comfortable.)

The three of you fell into an odd rhythm after that. A triangle of chaos. Science club became your base of operations, your shared lab table once again strewn with wires, crushed leaves, and half-empty cans of coffee.

Then, one afternoon, you didn’t show up to the club room.

“Where’s Leaf Girl?” Taiju asked, halfway through melting a spoon by accident.

“She has a name, you know,” Senku muttered without even looking up from his work. “And she joined another club.”

“…She what?”

“Something about crafts, extra credit, and ‘don’t worry, I’m still yours on Wednesdays.’”

(Senku remembered it all too well. The way you said it so breezily, like it didn’t completely throw off the internal equilibrium he hadn’t realized he was clinging to. Like one designated day of the week was enough to balance the equation—like it made up for your absence in all the other variables. You smiled when you said it, like it was a promise. But to him, it had sounded a little too much like a compromise. One he hadn’t agreed to, but accepted anyway. Because you were always going to do what you wanted. And he—he was always going to let you.)

That night, over the phone, was the first time Senku heard the name Yuzuriha.

The next day, you were back at the lab, fiddling with solder like it was embroidery thread. “She’s got good hands,” you said offhandedly, as you worked. “Helped me fix a bracelet in, like, five seconds flat.”

“She seemed nice,” Taiju added, his cheeks pink for some reason.

Senku hummed, calculating. Adjusting.

New variable added to the formula.

You reached into your bag, pulled out a bracelet, and handed one to Senku. “Check it out,” you said, clearly excited. “Me and Yuzuriha are basically besties now. We made each other these. Aren’t they cool?”

Senku looked at the bracelet for a moment. The charms were a little too cutesy for his tastes, and the thread was a touch too colorful for his usual preference. But you were beaming, practically glowing with excitement, like you couldn't contain it.

And for a moment, Senku felt a strange twinge in his chest. A weird, inexplicable feeling he couldn’t quite place. Besties. You’d just met Yuzuriha, and already you were practically inseparable, wearing matching bracelets like it was some kind of permanent mark of your shared bond.

He shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling. It was just a bracelet, right? Just a silly little thing, a temporary distraction. He forced himself to breathe and mentally scolded himself for getting worked up over something so trivial.

Just a bracelet, he repeated in his head. But it didn’t stop the strange feeling from lingering.

It clung to him especially hard the day Yuzuriha showed up to the science club—breezing in beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was all bright eyes and soft energy, giving Senku a polite smile before turning to Taiju with a familiar, “There you are!” like she’d just spotted a friend across the cafeteria. (Which, apparently, she had—they shared a class already, something you’d casually mentioned in passing.)

She floated over to the lab table, completely unfazed by the wires, solder burns, and general chaos. “So this is the infamous lab setup,” she said, nudging a stack of resistors aside to sit for a moment. Her eyes flicked to the soldering iron in your hand, and she smiled—just a little too knowingly. “Did you bring the other one, or is that strictly a ‘Wednesday project’?”

You snorted, clearly trying not to laugh. “Shh,” you whispered, elbowing her lightly. “We don’t talk about that in front of the boys.”

“Right, right,” she said, grinning like it was your shared secret.

Senku blinked. What other one?

She asked a few curious questions, complimented Taiju’s “focus” even as he nearly short-circuited a breadboard, and stuck a cat sticker on the back of his hand for “trying his best.” And Senku just sat there, watching it all unfold like he was observing a perfectly controlled experiment slowly go off the rails.

Then—just like that—she was leaving.

“Ah, my art club’s starting, I gotta run,” Yuzuriha said, dipping into an apologetic little bow as she gathered her things. “But you’re in good hands! She’s basically a genius, you know.”

You laughed at that—bashful, like it caught you off guard—like you hadn’t ditched Senku three times that week with “Sorry, helping Yuzu with the display board,” and “She just needed a second pair of hands.” You waved her off, but your eyes followed her all the way to the door, soft and fond.

Senku didn’t say anything. Not then.

But something in him pulled taut. Like a wire stretched too thin. Like a variable had shifted without warning and no one had bothered to rerun the equation.

Because it hadn’t gone unnoticed. The late arrivals. The quick exits. The half-answered texts and “I’ll be there in five” that turned into not at all. You were still his partner on paper. Still took your place beside him at the lab table when you actually showed.

But lately, it felt like you were just… visiting.

And if that stupid bracelet on your wrist sparkled a little too much under the fluorescents—well. That was fine. It didn’t mean anything.

Just string. Just friends.

He didn’t need a bracelet to prove anything.

Right?

You were late again that Wednesday. Just by a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer when Senku was left sitting there, scribbling aimlessly on his paper. The chair beside him sat empty, the space between them feeling a little wider with each second that passed. When you finally showed up, you didn’t immediately say anything. You just dropped your bag beside him and slid into your seat like everything was normal. You cracked open a can of soda, popping the tab with a soft click, but didn’t even offer him one this time.

“I got caught up with Yuzu,” you said casually, like it explained everything. “She needed help picking out some art supplies. You know how she is.”

Senku didn’t reply. His pen continued to scratch across the page—nothing important, just random equations and doodles. Anything to avoid the awkward silence that seemed to stretch between you. But he knew you weren’t fooled.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even pause. “I’m not mad,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Just... busy.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Busy, huh?” Leaning closer, you rested your chin in your hand, eyes fixed on him. “Sure you’re not mad because I’ve been ditching you for art club?” The teasing tone in your voice was light, but there was a softness to it, like you knew exactly how it had been eating at him.

Senku went still. His pen stopped moving, but he didn’t say anything. Not now. Not with the weight of it all suddenly hanging in the air between you. He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t the art club— or even Yuzuriha— that bothered him. It was the way you’d been drifting just far enough that he couldn’t quite reach you anymore.

But you didn’t need him to say it. You already knew.

“You don’t have to act all grumpy about it,” you said gently, your voice warm in a way that made the tension in his chest tighten. “You know you’re still my partner, right? I’m just… I’m still here. Even if I’m all over the place with the art stuff.” Your voice softened, almost imperceptibly, as if you were sharing something vulnerable for the first time. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down on him in a way he hadn’t expected. There was something about it—something in the way you said it—that felt like both an apology and a promise. He glanced up at you, surprised to find a small, shy smile on your face. Your eyes were soft, but there was still something in them that reminded him of the person who always kept him grounded.

“I still got your back, Senku. You know that, right?”

For a long moment, Senku didn’t say anything. He just sat there, watching you with that look on his face that always made it hard for you to tell what he was thinking. You were still here. You still cared. Even if the world outside the science club kept pulling you in different directions, you kept coming back.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. “I know.”

There was a pause, heavy with everything unsaid between you two. Then you broke the tension with your usual teasing grin, the one that never failed to lighten the mood.

“Still my lab partner?”

Senku felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but he kept his expression mostly neutral. “For now.”

You laughed softly, the sound like a little breath of relief. The tension from earlier finally seemed to melt away. “Good. You’d better be ready for when I finally beat you in the next experiment.”

He snorted, the last of the tension slipping out of him. “Not gonna happen. You can’t even tell the difference between sodium and potassium chloride.”

“That’s just what I want you to think, genius,” you shot back, the fire in your voice a familiar spark that made Senku’s chest warm in a way he hadn’t expected. But it was a fire he recognized—one that told him things were okay. That you were okay.

And even if the bracelet on your wrist still sparkled a little too much under the lab’s fluorescent lights, maybe it didn’t matter as much as it had before. Maybe it wasn’t about that at all.

Just a string, right?

Just… friends.

The next day, you showed up to the science club room with a small bag in your hand. You didn’t say anything at first. You just slid into your seat—the one next to Senku—and pulled out two keychains—matching ones, each with a tiny scientific equation printed on them.

Senku raised an eyebrow, half-expecting another one of your weird, random gadgets. But no. This time, it was different. You placed the keychains on the lab table, right in front of him, your face all casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

He eyed the keychain you’d put in front of him. Of course, it was that equation. The one that everyone knew, that had somehow become synonymous with science itself. E = mc².

"...You really went with that one, huh?" Senku asked, his tone flat but with a trace of surprise. "You know it's not exactly a secret, right?"

You chuckled, your voice softening as you met his eyes. “Yeah, I know. But it’s classic. Can’t go wrong with Einstein.” You nudged his keychain closer to him, and for a brief moment, you glanced down at the one you held in your hand. It wasn’t as famous, but it was still a perfect fit—a clean, precise representation of another fundamental concept, one Senku would appreciate.

"I got the same one for me," you said, voice casual but your eyes glinting with something that felt a little softer than usual. "Just... figured it'd be nice to match, you know?"

Senku stared at the keychain in front of him, a strange feeling settling in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was warmth or something else, but it was there, undeniable. He didn’t need to ask why you’d done it. He already knew. You were always like this—subtle, thoughtful in ways he didn’t always catch until they were right in front of him.

“You’re way too sentimental,” he muttered, though his fingers brushed against the keychain in a way that felt surprisingly light, a little less guarded than usual.

“Maybe,” you said, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "But what can I say? I thought it’d be funny if we both had one." You attached your keychain to the strap of your bag, then looked over at him with a soft glint in your eyes. "It’s like... a little reminder. Of us, yeah?"

Senku froze for a split second, then slowly processed your words. A reminder. Of you two.

He didn’t know why it hit him the way it did. Maybe it was the way you said it, so casually, as if it was no big deal. Maybe it was because it wasn’t about the keychains at all, but what they symbolized. A connection. An acknowledgment that despite everything—despite the shifting tides between art club and science club, despite the distractions—you still saw him. And more importantly, you still cared.

And then, as if to soften the weight of the moment, you added with a smile, “Also, ‘cause I know Einstein’s your favorite, so by association, he’s mine too.”

Senku blinked, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected sentiment. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, he reached for the keychain, fingers grazing the smooth surface, feeling its weight. He was still trying to hold onto his usual cool, but there was something about this, about the gesture, that made him feel... lighter.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he said, voice low but not quite as dismissive as before. “I’ll keep it on my bag. For science.”

You nodded, a quiet satisfaction in your expression as you got back to work, your hands moving quickly and deftly across the lab equipment. The sound of it—the clinks and clatters—felt oddly comforting, like everything was falling back into place.

Senku didn’t clip the keychain to his bag immediately. Instead, he let it sit there for a few moments, like it was a secret he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge yet. But when he finally did, when he clipped it to the strap of his bag, it didn’t feel like a decision he had to make. It felt like a choice he wanted to make.

It was just a keychain, after all. Just a string.

Just friends.

But maybe—just maybe—it meant a little more than that. At least to him.

Over your years at junior high, things had changed. The experiments became more challenging, you joined more clubs, your bond with Senku strengthened, and the science club felt more like a second home. But as time passed, you started to notice a shift—slowly, imperceptibly at first.

And then, Mika showed up.

At first, it seemed harmless. She transferred from some fancy academy, and the buzz around her arrival felt like just another passing thing. She had the looks, the presence—everything that screamed "I belong here." And naturally, with the crowd of “new student must befriend” gawking at her feet, she set her eyes on her next feast. Her eyes, always sparkling with that arrogance, quickly found Senku. And since she saw you always hanging around him, she tried with all her might to make your days living hell. Even going as far to join the science club, even though her grades and tests were beyond abysmal, and she seemed to have no real interest in science at all.

Somehow, despite everything, Senku hadn’t pushed her away. In fact, it almost seemed like he welcomed her, even though his reasons were more scientific than social.

It wasn’t like she belonged in the science club, not really. But she’d decided to join, and Senku—being Senku—couldn’t say no. “Why the hell not?” he had said, leaning back in his chair. “More test subjects, more data. It’s useful.”

And that was it. She’d started coming around more often, getting involved with experiments, helping him out with supplies. Of course, Senku did use her, but that didn’t stop her from sticking around, always looking for an excuse to hover near him, watching him with those soft, fluttering eyes.

You didn’t mind at first. You really didn’t. It was just the science club, and you were friends, right? Friends who worked together. But as time went on, you started noticing things that you hadn’t before. Little touches. The way Mika would stand just a bit too close to Senku as they worked, the way she’d giggle a little too loud when Senku made a sarcastic remark, as if she were enthralled by his genius.

It wasn’t like Senku was oblivious— he just… didn’t notice.

Mika would pass him supplies, her hand brushing against his in a way that lingered just a second too long, and Senku would nod, hardly noticing the shift in her behavior. But you did. You felt it every time she leaned in a little too close to him, every time she laughed at something Senku said—like she was trying to make him laugh, like she was trying to make him notice her.

And it was starting to grate on you.

It wasn't jealousy, you told yourself. It wasn’t. You and Senku were just friends. Friends who worked together. Friends who sat next to each other in the lab, who bantered back and forth. That’s all it was. You didn’t need to feel this... weird about it.

But then, everything shifted.

You were on your way to the science club, thinking you’d be able to brush off the discomfort from the day, when suddenly, Mika appeared. She was standing in the doorway of an empty classroom, her arms crossed, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Going to the science club again?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Funny how you never get tired of hanging around Senku. Don’t you think it’s a little... pathetic?”

Her words caught you off guard, but you refused to let them shake you. You met her gaze, refusing to back down. “Excuse me?”

Mika tilted her head, her smirk growing. “I just don’t get it. You’re so... obsessed with him. Is that really what your life’s become? Following him around like a puppy? Or maybe you just don’t know how to let go.”

A knot tightened in your stomach, but you weren’t going to let her get to you. “You’re literally going to the science club too,” you shot back, voice cool but sharp. “Maybe you should look in the mirror before you start throwing around accusations. It’s not like you’ve got any better reason to be there.”

Mika’s eyes flickered with surprise, but she quickly masked it with another smug smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I actually help with the experiments. Unlike you, who’s just there for the ride.”

“I literally do more work than you…” you muttered under your breath. You clenched your fists, but you kept your cool, even as the sting of her words dug deep. “At least I’m not trying to use him for some lame excuse to hang around,” you retorted, your voice dripping with disbelief. “You're not fooling anyone.”

Mika’s smile faltered just for a second before she regained her composure. “Touchy, aren’t we?” she taunted. “Don’t worry. It’s just cute how much you care about him. Too bad he doesn’t see you the same way.”

The words hit harder than you expected, but before you could respond, she turned on her heel, her smirk never fading. You stood there for a few moments, stunned, trying to push the words from your mind. But the weight of her words followed you all the way to the science club, where things only seemed to get worse.

When you arrived, Senku was already there, buried in his notes as usual, his focus unwavering. But Mika was there too, hovering over him. She was standing a little too close, her hand brushing against his as she passed him something. It felt deliberate, like she was putting on a show. You could feel the tension in the air—the way she was leaning in, giggling a little too loudly at Senku’s jokes, as if she were trying to get his attention, trying to make him see her. It made your stomach churn.

Senku looked up for a moment, noticing the change in your behavior. “What’s up? You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, not taking his eyes off his notes.

You forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “I’m fine,” you muttered, looking away.

Mika, sensing your discomfort, seized the moment to step in closer. She leaned against the workbench next to Senku, her shoulder brushing against his. “You know, Senku, I could really help you with your next big experiment,” she said, her voice sugary sweet. “I’ve got plenty of free time now.”

You felt the tension in your chest tighten, every little thing about her touch setting you off. Her proximity to him, the way she seemed to practically be begging for his attention—it was unbearable.

"I’m gonna go," you blurted, surprising even yourself with the abruptness. Without another word, you grabbed your bag and made your way toward the door, unable to stand another moment of watching her fawn over him.

Senku barely registered your departure, his attention already back on his notes. “Wait, you’re leaving?” he asked, but you didn’t answer him. You just left, the door swinging shut behind you.

The cool air of the hallway felt like a relief, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as you walked aimlessly. You needed a distraction, something to get your mind off the complicated mess of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn't even realize how you ended up at the art club until you saw Yuzuhira in the corner of the room, stitching up a new piece for her collection. She looked up when you entered, giving you a warm smile, but the expression on your face must have been telling because she immediately set her pencil down and tilted her head.

“You okay?” she asked softly, her voice a little cautious.

You plopped down on the couch across from her, your frustration spilling out before you could stop it. “I’m fine.” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just ugh…I’m just a little irked”

Yuzuhira raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but gentle in her approach. “about what?”

“You remember that new girl? Mika,” you spat, your anger bubbling to the surface.Yuzuriha nodded, her hands slowing down just a bit so you knew she was listening. “She’s... it’s like she’s trying to replace me, like Senku is just going to drop me for her.” Your words came out in a rush. “I’ve been by his side this whole time, and now she just waltzes in like she owns the place. And the worst part? She knows it’s getting to me.”

Yuzuhira’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “She’s really getting to you, huh?” she asked, her voice gentle, but firm with understanding.

“Yeah.” You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. “She’s always hovering around him, always leaning in like she’s trying to make a move. I can’t stand it. I don’t even know what’s worse—her annoying neediness or the fact that Senku doesn't even see it. It's like... like I don’t even matter anymore.”

The words spilled out like they had been building for days, and once they were out, you couldn’t seem to stop. “And every time I’m there, I can just feel her pushing me out, trying to prove she’s more than I am. Like I’m some kind of... joke, and she’s the real ‘assistant’ to him. It’s like I don’t even exist.”

Yuzuhira stayed quiet for a moment, letting you vent. When you were done, she nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I get it. It must be rough. But you know how Senku is—he’s not great at noticing that kind of thing, right? He gets caught up in his experiments. And Mika… she knows how to play the game. She’s not dumb. She knows exactly how to push your buttons, and she’s using it against you.”

You sighed, leaning back into the couch, frustration simmering just under the surface. “I hate that she’s doing this. I hate how she makes me feel like I’m not important to Senku anymore.” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I hate that I even care. It’s not that big of a deal…”

Yuzuhira’s eyes softened, her gaze a little more knowing than before. But she didn’t say anything about your slip. Instead, she gave you a reassuring smile and spoke gently. “Look, it’s not about what Mika thinks or does. It's about what you mean to Senku. And if anyone’s in your corner, it’s him. He might not see it yet, but he values you. Don’t let her get into your head like this.”

You let out a slow breath, letting her words sink in. It was hard not to let Mika’s constant interference mess with your head, but Yuzuhira's calm presence grounded you. Maybe you were letting this get too far under your skin—but maybe it was okay to feel something too.

You weren’t going to let Mika win—if you could even call it that. Not like this.

“Thanks, Yuzu,” you muttered, managing a small smile as you sat up straighter. “I needed to hear that.”

Yuzuhira winked and picked up her pencil again, casually returning to her sketch like she hadn’t just helped glue your entire heart back together. “Anytime. Now, take a deep breath and let it go. You’ve got a lot more important things going for you than Mika’s drama.”

You nodded, grateful for her calm steadiness. Maybe you couldn’t change everything right away, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let it break you.

For the next two weeks, you held your ground.

You didn’t rise to Mika’s little jabs, didn’t flinch when she casually brushed up against Senku’s side or let out one of her syrupy-sweet giggles at something he hadn’t even said. You trained yourself to ignore the way she fluttered her lashes like it was some kind of anime bit—every little move designed to get under your skin.

And, honestly? It worked. For a while.

You focused on the work. The experiments. The things you and Senku actually built together. You clung to that partnership, even if it felt more distant lately. And the more you acted like Mika didn’t exist, the more it seemed like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Her little “accidental” touches got bolder, more desperate. But you didn’t give her the satisfaction of reacting.

You were in control again.

At least… that’s what you told yourself.

But the thing about ignoring something that’s festering is that it never really goes away. It just waits. It waits for the perfect moment to break the surface. And Mika? She was good at waiting.

And even better at knowing exactly where to strike.

So when Mika, for the fifth time that week, casually brushed a lock of hair out of Senku's face while handing him a vial, your patience snapped.

She was too touchy, and Senku? He wasn’t even noticing.

You were testing a new compound—nothing fancy, just a mix of acids and bases—and Mika had offered to "help" again. She stood by Senku's side as usual, leaning over his shoulder, her finger brushing the back of his hand. Senku barely acknowledged it as he calculated the next step.

"Can you hold the flask steady?" Senku asked without looking at her.

“Of course,” Mika replied, her voice too sweet. “I’ve got it, Senku.”

You were barely listening, your gaze fixed on the way Mika was watching him with that adoring look in her eyes. It was like she was waiting for Senku to notice her, to acknowledge her efforts. Your fingers tightened around the beaker in your hands.

And then it happened.

Mika laughed—soft, breathy, like she’d said something important. She leaned in even closer to Senku, her shoulder brushing his. He barely flinched, just continued adjusting his notes.

That’s when you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know,” you said, your voice louder than you intended, “if you’re done with your ‘experiment,’ I can help too. I’m not completely useless, you know.”

Mika raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into that smug smile that made you want to scream. "Oh? I didn’t realize you wanted to join in. I thought you were more... into plants and twigs."

Your jaw clenched. “I know more than just plants,” you snapped. “But it’s kind of hard to get a word in with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of personal space.”

The silence in the room thickened.

Senku, still focused on his notes, shot a glance at you. “What’s up? You’re acting kinda... weird today.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, feeling your face heat up. “It’s just—she keeps hovering over you like she’s your personal assistant. And I’m kind of sick of it.”

Mika’s expression shifted, her amusement turning into something sharper. “Jealous much?”

“Of you?” you looked her up and down “Please, don't flatter yourself,” you replied quickly, a little too quickly. “I’m just tired of being ignored.”

Senku, as always, was oblivious. “Ignore you? You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, the frustration growing. “I am here. I’m still your partner, Senku. But it feels like I don’t even exist half the time anymore. You’re too busy with your new... test subject to notice.”

“Test subject?” Mika echoed, blinking like the words had knocked the wind out of her. Her carefully crafted smile cracked—just a hairline fracture, gone before anyone could call it real.

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t tell me you actually thought he cared,” you said, your tone sharp and bitter in a way that surprised even you. “He’s just using you. That’s kinda his thing, isn’t it?” You rolled your eyes like it didn’t burn to say it out loud, like the words hadn’t been sitting at the back of your throat for weeks, festering.

For a second, no one moved. The lab, usually buzzing with noise and clinking glass, went dead silent. The weight of what you said hung in the air like a chemical cloud—stinging, heavy, inescapable.

Senku finally looked up from his notes, his brow furrowed, expression unreadable. His brain was working, you could see it—the cogs turning behind his eyes—but you didn’t give him time to formulate some smart-ass response. You were already grabbing your bag, heart pounding too fast, hands too hot.

“I’m sick of this” you muttered, voice tight. The words came out fast, messy, like you were trying to outrun everything you hadn’t said until now. And then you were gone—just like that—leaving nothing but the echo of your steps and the brittle crackle of tension behind you.

You didn’t hear anyone follow. Didn’t hear Senku say anything. Just Mika’s breathy little “Senku…” trailing after you, like she was already picking up the pieces you left behind.

Let her.

She could have her little moment in the lab, all fluttery eyelashes and fake concern. You were done. And if Senku couldn’t see what was happening—if he couldn’t see you—then maybe you shouldn’t try to force it.

Senku didn’t speak. Not right away.

He stood in the same spot, staring at the space you had just left, fingers still curled loosely around a pen he’d forgotten he was holding. Mika was saying something again—sweet and high-pitched and meaningless—but for once, he wasn’t hearing her.

Because the only thing he could hear was your voice ringing in his ears. That bitter edge. The hurt underneath it.

For the first time since you started working beside him, the chair next to his felt like a hole. A missing piece. And the silence that followed you out the door felt a lot louder than anything Mika could say.

You were sitting under the old cherry tree behind the school—the same one that always caught the afternoon light just right. Your knees were pulled to your chest, sketchbook balanced in your lap, pencil tucked between your fingers. But you weren’t drawing. Hadn’t been for a while. Just staring down at the blank page, waiting for something—anything—to pull you out of your own head.

The wind stirred gently around you, carrying the faint smell of sakura and something sharper, synthetic—probably a trace of the lab, still clinging to your clothes. You sighed and pressed your forehead to your knees.

Then you heard footsteps. Light on the gravel. Measured.

You didn’t need to look up.

Senku.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his lab coat, head tilted like he was observing something too delicate to poke at just yet. He didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t expect him to.

“I didn’t tell her to be there, y’know.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance up. Just kept your eyes on the sketchbook that hadn’t seen a line in over twenty minutes.

“She’s… persistent,” he continued after a moment. “Like a parasite. Clings to anything that holds her interest.”

“Real flatterin’ way to talk about someone,” you muttered, arms tightening around your legs.

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

That made you look up. Slowly. Eyes narrowed, voice cool. “I didn’t say you were.”

Senku scratched at the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Tch… You’re actin’ like I swapped you out for some knockoff assistant. You think I’d pick someone like her over you?”

You said nothing, but the look on your face said everything. And he saw it.

He glanced toward the school, jaw clenching slightly. “She’s loud. Disruptive. And honestly? I barely remember her name half the time.”

“Senku—”

“I didn’t ask her to help,” he interrupted, sharper now. “She just keeps showing up and hoverin’. You think I want that?”

You tilted your head, giving him a long look. “You sure don’t not want it.”

That seemed to hit. He turned to face you fully, expression drawn tight in frustration. “I’ve got acid fumes burnin’ my nose hairs and six different reactions tryin’ to go thermonuclear. If I don’t say anything, it's not because I don’t see it— it’s because I’m tryin’ not to blow the place up.”

A huff escaped you. Half bitter, half amused. “Still could’ve said somethin’. I felt like a ghost in there.”

Senku hesitated. Then, quietly, he moved to sit beside you—not close enough to touch, just enough to share space.

“You’re not a ghost,” he said after a moment. “You’re the reason half my experiments don’t explode up in my face. I’ve got four notebooks that would be literal fire hazards without your notes.”

You blinked, glancing sideways. “That your version of sweet talkin’?”

He smirked a little. “I’m not built for compliments.”

You exhaled through your nose, resting your chin on your knee. “Still felt like I didn’t matter. Like I was just… in the way.”

His voice dropped, quieter now. “You weren’t. You aren’t. I wouldn’t even know how to replace you.”

That made something behind your ribs clench a little. You looked away again, fast, blinking against the heat prickling behind your eyes.

“Ya don’t gotta say stuff just ‘cause I’m upset.”

“I don’t do sympathy,” he replied. “You’re not wrong to be pissed. I should’ve said something sooner.”

You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. “Yeah… well. Just don’t let her try to hold your damn hand again like you’re too busy to notice. I might actually lose it next time.”

Senku huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “Tch. Wasn’t exactly inviting it.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It settled between you like something earned. Something understood. You finally lowered your legs and put pencil to paper, sketching out the first line with a hand that didn’t shake anymore.

“I’m still mad at you, though,” you murmured without looking up.

“Fair,” he said with a half-shrug. “Just… don’t try to poison me with apple seeds again.”

That pulled a snort out of you before you could stop it. “That was one time. And it was for science.”

Senku grinned. “Yeah. My near-death experience. Real educational.”

Maybe everything between you would be fine.

Not exactly perfect, but you can work on that.

Mika dropped out of the science club a week later.

You didn’t ask any questions when you noticed she wasn’t glued to Senku’s side on Monday. And you definitely didn’t care to ask when Senku casually mentioned her name had been taken off the attendance registry.

She was useless there anyway.

Never did much beyond hovering around Senku, pretending her presence was helpful while actually just getting in the way. She didn’t participate in any real experiments, didn’t log any solo work—which, last you checked, was kind of the bare minimum for club hours.

You assumed, after realizing that sticking to Senku’s side wasn’t getting her what she wanted, she just moved on. Found some other distraction. Some new person to orbit.

You didn’t care. Not really.

Because this time, when you looked across the lab bench, Senku was looking back.

— — — — — — — — —

You still remember the first time you ever went to Senku’s house.

You were seven. He was eight. And from the moment he invited you over—and your mom said yes—, you spent the entire morning bouncing around like a storm made of nerves and hair clips. You couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop pacing the hallway, mumbling worst-case scenarios under your breath like some tiny academic preparing for a thesis defense. What if his house was super fancy and you looked like a total dork? What if his dad thought you were weird? What if—heaven forbid—your bangs were crooked?

Your mom had called you into the bathroom with a teasing smile, already brushing out your hair with practiced hands. “You’ve been spinnin’ round so much, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” she said, guiding you onto the stool. You barely heard her. You were too busy inspecting your reflection with all the dramatic weight of someone about to meet royalty (at least in your eyes).

You asked her—insisted, actually—to make your hair look “the prettiest it’s ever been,” and halfway through the process, you almost burst into tears because one of the bobby pins looked slightly off. She patiently adjusted it, smoothed your hair, and promised that everything would be perfect. You told her it wasn’t for anyone special. Just, you know, for science. Science in the shape of an eight-year-old know-it-all with gravity-defying green hair and the most annoyingly perfect answers in class. Definitely not a crush. Just admiration. Academic interest at best.

When it came time to pick your outfit, your mom suggested jeans—you might be running around, after all—but you practically threw a tantrum over it. How could she expect you to go to Senku Ishigami’s house in anything less than your favorite skirt and blouse? Tear-stricken and pouty, you pleaded with all the emotional strength your seven-year-old self could muster, and, in the end, she caved. She always did.

You left the house with your hair pinned to perfection, your skirt freshly ironed, and a bag packed with snacks and handmade flashcards on astronomy and botany, just in case. Before hopping into the car, your mom bent down and asked if you were excited, and you clutched your bag to your chest, whispering, “Do you think he’ll like it?”

She smiled and said simply, “Sweetheart, I think he already does.”

The car ride to Senku’s house felt like the longest journey of your life. You sat in the backseat, gripping your snack bag tightly, your legs bouncing nervously. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the possible things that could go wrong. What if his house was too fancy? What if his dad thought you were weird? What if you accidentally spilled your juice on something?

“What if he’s allergic to peanut butter?” you asked suddenly, your voice tight with panic.

Your mom, the epitome of patience, kept her eyes on the road. “You’ve known him for over a year. I think you’d know.”

“But what if he didn’t want to tell me? What if he’s too polite to say anything and dies quietly?”

She laughed softly. “If Senku ever did anything quietly, I’ll eat your I’ll eat that weird syrup you made outta licorice root and burnt orange peels.”

You grinned despite yourself. “Hey, that was medicinal.”

When you finally pulled up outside his house, your heart skipped. It looked surprisingly normal—to normal. You half-expected plasma panels or robot arms greeting you at the front door, and felt slightly betrayed by the lack of dramatic flair. But just as the thought passed, the door opened and there was Senku, holding it open with one hand while waving you in with the other, already mid-ramble.

“It finally dried, by the way. The mitochondria model. The glue took forever because someone—” he gave you a pointed look, “—used the slow-drying kind.”

You scrambled out of the car, barely remembering to call a thank you to your mom as you kicked your shoes off in the entryway. She called after you, “Play nice! And don’t electrocute anything important!”

You waved vaguely over your shoulder, but Senku was already tugging you inside, halfway through explaining how he'd recalculated the solar panel wattage to better power his “not-even-that-dangerous” circuit board. You only caught about half of it, too focused on the way his house didn’t smell like your own. It wasn’t the usual mix of laundry detergent and herbs—instead, it smelled like antiseptics, printer ink, and something sharp and citrusy, like someone had been cleaning circuit boards with orange peels.

The living room looked like a regular living room, if regular living rooms had microscopes on the coffee table and an anatomy model sharing space with the TV remote. You stared at it with wide eyes until Senku waved a hand in front of your face.

“You’re gonna short-circuit if you keep staring like that.”

“I’m just looking,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It’s cool.”

Senku grinned. “Told you.”

Before you could ask what half the gadgets on the shelves actually did, another voice called from the hallway. “Senku? Is that your friend?”

A tall man stepped into view, smiling warmly beneath a bit of stubble and what you would later recognize as perpetual exhaustion softened by kindness. His lab coat was half-buttoned, his tie askew, like he'd just come back from something important and forgot to change. He looked a little like a grown-up version of Senku if someone swapped out the smug genius energy for soft-dad warmth.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly shy, clutching your bag a little tighter.

Byakuya crouched a bit to your level, his expression kind and easy. “Nice to meet you. That’s quite the supply kit you’ve got there.”

You glanced down, realizing your tote was bursting at the seams—flashcards, notebooks, folded diagrams poking out at the edges. “I didn’t know what we’d be working on,” you said quickly. “So I brought some notes. And samples. And—um—gloves. Just in case.”

Byakuya let out a warm laugh, not mocking but genuinely delighted. “That might make you the most prepared guest we’ve ever had.”

Your eyes darted nervously to Senku, who was now aggressively adjusting the velcro on his slipper like it was the most important task in the world.

“I also made a chart on plant propagation,” you added, voice softening.

Byakuya raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Well, I can see why Senku talks about you so much.”

You blinked. “He—he does?”

Senku let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Okay, no one needs to start writing a biography. C’mon already. I’ve got chlorophyll samples turning green and exactly two hours to show them off.”

You let yourself be pulled along, sandals slapping awkwardly against the floor, nerves still fluttering somewhere in your chest. But as the hallway filled with his voice again—talking fast and excited and a little smug—you felt it settle into something easier.

Senku led you down the hallway like he was guiding someone through a top-secret laboratory. “Don’t touch anything on the right side of the desk,” he warned. “That’s the unstable compound section.”

You nodded solemnly like that meant anything to your seven-year-old brain.

His room wasn’t what you expected. It didn’t look like a scientist’s lair, exactly—there were stacks of books, yes, and a microscope perched on a tiny desk, but also a chaotic pile of LEGOs in one corner and a model volcano on the shelf that looked like it had erupted one too many times. The whole place smelled faintly of vinegar and rubber cement.

“Okay,” he said, letting go of your wrist. “You can sit there. But don’t knock over the beaker. I calibrated it.”

You blinked at the suspiciously lumpy beanbag chair and dropped into it carefully, adjusting your skirt like it was part of a lab coat. “I brought my own stuff,” you said, reaching into your bag. “Wanna see my flashcards on leaf types? I laminated them.”

Senku raised an eyebrow. “Laminated?” He sounded impressed. “Nice.”

You tried to pretend it was no big deal, but you were definitely glowing with pride.

The next hour passed in a blur of enthusiastic debates about which plants were most efficient for oxygen production, wildly inaccurate microscope observations (“This one looks like a frog but, like, evil”), and a very serious trade-off where you let him borrow your chart on root systems and he let you poke the bubbling goo in a test tube—“But just once,” he warned, “and with gloves.”

At some point, Byakuya poked his head in to check on you both. “Everything okay in here?”

“We’re fine,” Senku said, waving him off without looking up from where he was sketching something vaguely mushroom-shaped in his notebook.

“Yeah!” you added brightly. “Only one near-explosion.”

Byakuya’s eyebrows lifted, but he just chuckled and disappeared again.

When lunchtime rolled around, Senku’s dad called from the kitchen, “Food’s ready! I made tempura!”

Senku stood up immediately. “Finally.”

You stayed frozen in place. “Wait. Do I… take my shoes off again? Or do I say something first? Or—”

Senku rolled his eyes. “You just eat. It’s not a ceremony.”

But when you hesitated, he paused at the doorway, turned back, and offered his hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mon. I’ll show you where everything is.”

You stared at his hand for a beat, then took it with all the shy ceremony of a kid who felt like she’d just been handed the moon.

Lunch was loud and warm and a little messy, with you trying not to get tempura crumbs on your blouse and Senku explaining the science of frying oil to you mid-bite. Afterward, you both ended up on the living room floor, heads bent over your laminated flashcards again, giggling over your own made-up quiz show rules.

By the time lunch was cleared and your flashcards were exhausted, Senku had a new plan—because of course he did.

“We’re building a telescope,” he announced, already dragging out a cardboard box filled with what looked like paper towel rolls, bits of wire, and two scratched-up magnifying lenses.

Your eyes lit up. “Like, a real one?”

“A mostly real one,” he corrected, nudging over a ruler and a roll of duct tape. “We’ll have to adjust the focal length using trial and error since someone didn’t bring their refractive index chart.”

You grinned, sitting cross-legged beside him on the living room floor. “I did too. It’s in my side pocket. Next to the iodine strips.”

Senku paused, then grinned. “Knew there was a reason I let you in my lab.”

The next hour was chaos in the best possible way. You held the body of the telescope steady while he muttered measurements, barking out instructions and adjusting lenses with the intensity of a NASA engineer. You argued over angular positioning, almost glued your fingers to the table, and knocked over a juice box in the process—but when you finally stepped out onto the porch to test your “masterpiece,” the two of you were glowing with pride.

“I’m gonna go to space someday,” Senku said, eyes turned skyward, voice quieter now. “Just like how my dad is.”

You looked up from aligning the telescope and blinked. “Really?”

He nodded. “Gonna build a rocket. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I’ll get to the moon.”

You didn’t laugh. Not even a little. Because you knew—knew he wasn’t just saying it to sound cool, or because it was a kid thing to say. He meant it. This wasn’t a dream he’d outgrow. It was a mission. And he was going to chase it with every ounce of brilliance and stubbornness in his bones.

And you? You wanted to help him get there.

So you just said, “Can I come?”

He looked at you like the question barely needed asking. Like your place beside him had already been calculated into the launch trajectory.

“Obviously,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta be in charge of on-board medicine. And making sure I don’t do anything reckless.”

You beamed so hard your cheeks hurt.

Later, long after the light had shifted and the living room was quieter, Senku’s dad peeked in to check on you. He found the telescope abandoned at the edge of the rug, half-complete, still warm with purpose. The two of you had crashed without realizing it, curled up in a quiet lump among open notebooks and marker-stained pillows. Your head had drifted to Senku’s shoulder, one of your arms thrown over his chest like you were mid-reach and just forgot to let go. He’d leaned unconsciously toward your warmth, and one of his hands was still loosely clutching a screwdriver.

Byakuya stood in the doorway for a moment, smiling to himself. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, gently laid a blanket over both of you, and turned off the light. And for a second, he let himself imagine a future where two kids who once built cardboard telescopes and tin foil rocket ships actually touched the stars.

an: hi... my last post was a month ago, and honestly, that doesn't even count cause it took me like 10 minutes to write. this is the work that has took over my waking thoughts and I'm so glad to be somewhat happy enough with the first chapter to finally post. I first watched Dr Stone back in Feb and I have been OBSESSED ever since so... thank you @lo1itado11 for the rec (everything I watch is because of her). ALSO I forgot just how awful it is to format on ao3, it genuinely took me 3 hours to get it right. never again (it will happen every time I post)

anyway, this is getting long. next chapter will hopefully be out this or next week. we'll see...

#🍥writing.#x reader #senku x reader #senku ishigami x reader #ishigami senku x reader #senku x y/n #drst x reader #dcst senku #dr stone x reader #dr stone #dr. stone #drst #ishigami senku #senku ishigami #💌 confessions.#wip turned fic #yes this is the thing that's been keeping me awake at night #I am obsessed with this man

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