This Is ExACTLY What I Was Looking For

young silco pls just give me one chance

early access + nsfw on patreon

omggggg this is amazing

chapter 3 of the spiderverse au fic is done and dusted so to celebrate i cooked up some spider-jayce and doc vik designs :]

read the fic here!

okay, I might be a little bit obsessed

Jayvik Frankenstein AU

good lORD I —

SEBASTIAN STAN ENDINGS, BEGINNINGS

The Serpent's Paramour CH 22 - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nora and Joshua showing up at Natty's house battered beyond belief, a life altering decision looms on the horizon. What do you do next? None of the options presented are good ones, but the one thing you know with absolute clarity is that you can't stay in Uganda any longer.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, graphic descriptions of blood/injury/torture, angst

New chapter is up on Ao3 as well

It felt like you were moving through quicksand over the course of the next hour. 

Natty had led Ominis and Devlin to another spare room on the opposite end of the second floor, the two men working together to cautiously transport Nora up the stairs. Paternal panic was emanating off of Devin in waves, so no one had said anything when he’d taken it upon himself to take charge of his daughter’s care. You and Sebastian had jumped into action to move Joshua onto the couch in the living room, the Ashwinder’s feet clamped firmly to your sides while Sebastian looped his arms under the man’s armpits. 

The second his back hit the cushions of the sofa, he groaned, eyes flashing with pain. “Gods. Your bedside manner… needs some improvement.”

Sebastian huffed dryly, shaking his head as he took to unbuttoning the redhead’s blood-stained vest and shirt. “I’m not exactly used to my underlings showing up half-dead in front of me like this. Where are you hurt?” 

“Don’t know,” the Ashwinder sighed. “Everywhere?”

“Unless you want to end up completely naked and make the lady blush, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” 

Joshua tried to laugh, but the sound came out in the form of a wet, rattling wheeze. “Chest is torn up… hip hurts, too. Right arm is shredded to bits.” 

Without further commentary, Sebastian motioned for your assistance. You held Joshua upright as the brunet carefully peeled away the top half of the ruined clothing, his movements measured and gentle in his attempts to not worsen the existing damage. Without the vest and the shirt in the way, you were given a clear, unobscured view of the wounds, and the sight of them made nausea churn in your gut. 

It was awful. Violent, deep lesions decorated the front of Joshua’s chest– many of them criss-crossing over one another to form intentional ‘X’ shapes over his heart and abdomen. Bruises, burns, and cuts covered every inch of his torso. His arm was sliced badly too, but it looked to be the work of a botched apparition attempt– splinched nearly to the bone. Had he been the one to get himself and Nora here? It was near suicide to apparate if the witch or wizard casting the spell wasn’t one hundred percent focused. 

That was hardly important right now, though. Beneath the dried blood, you could make out a strange pattern that looked weirdly similar to lightning. The jagged lines were a dark red color and stretched outward from the center of his chest, wrapping around his entire upper body and delving beneath his sides. You wagered that if you turned him over to look, you would find the same marks all over his back. 

“Merlin– what is that?” 

Sebastian looked at you out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched so hard that a muscle there spasmed. “Evidence of the Cruciatus Curse. Victor did this to you?” 

“He gave the order,” Joshua muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the gruesome pain you knew he had to be feeling. “Told the men when to start… and when to stop.” 

“And the cuts? The bruises?” 

You bristled when you heard his answer. “Henri– the fucking madman. Said it was more personal… using his hands.” 

You were unfortunately familiar with Henri’s methods. While you hadn’t experienced anything to this degree during your week long captivity in the Poacher’s castle, none of this was bringing back good memories. Sebastian looked at you again, his expression warring between concern and anger, but you weren’t the one that needed care right now. Steeling your nerves, you ignored his blatant worry and bolted into the kitchen, grabbing every available rag, towel, and napkin you could get your hands on. A bowl was swiftly filled with water– but Anne’s sudden appearance in front of you stopped you before you could return to the living room. 

She hugged a bottle of amber liquid to her chest, her gaunt face mirroring the panic you felt deep down. “I can help,” she said firmly. “I’ve been around doctors– I know what to do.” 

You were hardly of a mind to protest. With a curt nod, you and Anne made your way to the living room with your assortment of makeshift medical supplies. Sebastian’s face fell when he caught sight of his sister, and his body seemed to move on its own to block her view of the brutalized dark wizard on the couch. “You don’t need to see this, Anne–” 

“I’ve seen these exact sorts of things for the last five years,” she cut him off sternly. The younger twin barely spared her brother a glance as she got situated on her knees, helping herself to a rag before dipping it into the bowl of water. “I know how to help better than anyone. Go find Natty– ask her if she has any Wiggenweld potions. They won’t heal everything, but it can minimize the bleeding and fix that gods-awful rattling in his chest.” 

Sebastian’s hands curled defiantly, but he didn’t outright object to his sister’s instructions. Clearly he felt negatively about her exposing herself to the horror scene playing out in Natty’s house, and it was for that reason you found yourself saying, “I’ll go. I want to check on Nora, anyway.” 

A shadow of guilt flashed across Sebastian’s face at the mention of the female Ashwinder, but you were already walking out of the room by the time you considered consoling him. There would be time to check on his wellbeing after everyone had made sure neither Nora nor Joshua died. 

Things weren’t much better upstairs. Ominis, Devlin, and Natty were busy tending to Nora’s unconscious body with unwavering focus. The Auror ran his wand over her torso, the red tip pulsing quickly as he seemingly scanned her for internal damage. Natty had just finished unbuttoning her tattered blouse to reveal injuries identical to the ones that littered Joshua’s abdomen, but the bruising against her ribs couldn’t be fully concealed by the blood caked to her skin. It looked nasty– monstrous. Someone with a vendetta had definitely gone to work on her, and for the first time since knowing her, you found yourself fearing for Nora’s life. 

Devlin was hunched over his daughter– brushing matted strands of hair out of her face as he murmured reassurances that you weren’t even sure she could hear. “You’re going to be alright, baby. You’ll be fine– I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

You had never seen the older man so terrified. Angry, bewildered, and shocked– yes. But the fear in his eyes shook you to your very core, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. 

“Natty,” you called to her softly. “Anne was asking for Wiggenweld for Joshua. Have you got any left?” 

The woman’s eyes stayed trained on Nora’s body as she wordlessly and wandlessly summoned up the same types of things you had fetched downstairs. She nodded at the same time she grabbed for a rag, dunking it in the water before wringing the excess back into the bowl. “Yes, they are under the shelf in the dining room.” 

There were… a lot of shelves in the dining room. Furrowing your brow, you muttered, “Um… which one?” 

“The one next to the decorative vases–” her hand stilled against Nora’s bloodied shoulder, pursing her lips as she reevaluated what she was saying. “Nevermind, I will get them.” 

You felt bad for removing your host from her self-imposed duties, but you genuinely had no idea which shelves she was referring to. Time was not on anyone’s side right now, so wasting it in search of healing potions didn’t seem wise. As Natty passed you, she handed you the red-tinged rag, holding your stare for a few extra seconds with sorrow glimmering in her dark eyes. “Are they… do they work with…”

“They used to work for Rookwood before Sebastian took over,” you whispered. “Now, though… I’m not so sure. I can’t make heads or tails of this.” 

“This is…” she trailed off, shaking her head to herself as she glanced back at the jagged scars decorating Nora’s skin. “I have never seen marks of a curse so severe. Even the ones I got from Harlow were not–” her voice caught in her throat, but before you could offer any form of comfort, Natty shook the thought from her mind. “That she is alive at all is a miracle.” 

“I know. So let’s try to keep it that way.” 

There was nothing else either one of you could say. Natty hurried out into the hallway to make her way downstairs, and you swiftly strode over to her original position near the head of the bed. Nora’s injuries were… extensive, to put it mildly. Cuts and bruises, gashes and lesions, and that abhorrent scar left over from the Crutiatus Curse. All of it was stark against her fair skin, sickening you to your core and making you think that anyone capable of doing such a thing to another human being deserved the most painful of deaths. 

Echoing your thoughts, Devlin spoke up in a low, threatening voice. “I want to kill him myself for this.” 

You almost asked who before thinking better of it. Henri or Rookwood– it didn’t matter. If they were working together like Joshua had said, then they were both equally guilty. “I know. We need to focus on Nora for now, though. One thing at a time…” 

From the other end of the bed, Ominis sighed and let his wand bearing arm fall to his side. “The bruising is inside of her, too. I can’t tell where– maybe her lungs– but I don’t think we’ll be able to give her the kind of care she needs here. She needs professional help.” 

Devlin grimaced, his eyes never once wavering from his daughter’s mercifully serene face. “St. Mungo’s?” 

“Ordinarily I would say yes, but in her current state…” Ominis frowned and shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend apparating with her back to London. I’ll ask Natty if there’s a hospital nearby we can bring her to.” 

Whatever words Devlin wanted to reply with got lodged in his throat. His brows pinched together, and he dipped his chin in understanding. Even though Ominis couldn’t see the motion, the palpable stillness within the room conveyed the older man’s feelings well enough. He would do whatever was best for his daughter– no questions asked. 

The Auror turned on his heel to exit the room, leaving you, the elder Ashwinder, and Nora alone in the bedroom. There wasn’t much you could say to quell Devlin’s worries, so you instead began methodically wiping away the blood that adorned his daughter’s chest. Her brassiere was the only thing Natty had left on her upper body, and you elected to leave it where it was and just clean around it the best you could. 

“How did Joshua know to come here?” You found yourself asking after a while. Devlin was slow to respond, and when he finally did, his words were strained. 

“Nora had been filling in for Sebastian and I while we were away. We were corresponding regularly after we ended up in France, and I sent word to her the day we came here. I didn’t tell her the specifics of where, but since your friend works for Uagadou, I assume she was able to find out the address…” he trailed off after that, his expression conveying well enough that he was grateful for his daughter’s sleuthing. Digging deeper for Natty’s personal information– however that might have come to pass– had probably saved her life. 

Minutes ticked by in silence. You were fully prepared for things to continue like that, but then Devlin’s hoarse, weathered voice reached your ears. “What do you want to do?” 

You stilled only briefly before dunking the rag in a bowl of water, wringing out the excess and resuming your efforts. “About what?” 

“This,” he jerked his chin towards Nora. “If Rookwood and Henri are at the manor, we can go after them. We can put an end to them before they get the chance to jump us at the ancient magic site. You and I both know that’s where they’ll end up, anyway– Victor already knows that’s Sebastian’s end goal.” 

It was a sensible question… but not an easy one for you to answer. “Shouldn’t you be asking Sebastian this? Why does my opinion matter?” 

“Its always mattered, kid. I’ll ask Sebastian too, make no mistake. But you’re the one Henri is after. I still don’t know what to think of your idea that Victor caused all of this just to kill you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been a part of this. So if it was up to you, what would you do?” 

You swiped away more blood as you chewed the inside of your cheek. He made a good point; bringing the fight to Rookwood did present an opportunity that was too tempting to pass up. It would remove the largest obstacle in Sebastian’s path to the relic, and it would all but guarantee that the plan to cure Anne could be executed without interruption. 

But it was almost too perfect. Too convenient. 

Nora and Joshua escaping was either the biggest stroke of luck the universe had ever dished out, or it was a calculated move on Rookwood’s part. He had to know they would make their way back to everyone if given the chance– that they would bring the news of his arrival straight to everyone here. Sebastian’s twin sister had been cursed by the very same man he had worked for, and Nora was Devlin’s daughter. Between the two of them having such personal motivations to seek Victor out, the likelihood of the manor being a trap was astronomical. 

Returning to where all of this had started was risky. It seemed foolish to charge head first through the front doors and risk being blindsided by what was more than likely an ambush. 

“I think Victor and Henri are pulling more strings than we realize,” you cautiously explained. “I think they planned all of this. Working together, going to the manor, Nora and Joshua escaping… if we go home, we’ll be bushwhacked.”

“Bush– what?” Devlin muttered, shaking his head in confusion. “You know what– nevermind. I get what you’re implying. So you would rather get the relic first, then?” 

“I don’t know. That could very well be a trap too since Victor knows its location. Maybe they can’t hide out inside since it’s sealed up with ancient magic, but he probably has eyes on it. I doubt he would leave it unguarded since he knows Sebastian will inevitably turn up there.” 

“Then what do you suggest? Because sitting around in Uganda isn’t exactly a solid plan in my mind. We’ve wasted enough time here as it is– and look what that got us.” He gestured to Nora, his voice harder and more impatient as he snapped at you. You tried not to take it personally, though. It was understandable that he felt stuck. “If we go to the manor expecting a trap, then that’s us staying one step ahead of Victor, right? We can still kill them.” 

It didn’t escape your notice that Devlin sounded uncertain. It was almost as though he was trying to convince himself more than you, and you fixed him with a knowing look that made him bristle. His eyes jumped away from yours to land back on Nora, and you sighed. “I don’t know, Devlin. To be completely honest, I think we’re screwed either way.” 

He didn’t say anything after that. There was nothing either one of you could offer up to make any of this better. Victor and Henri were conspiring with one another, Nora and Joshua had been tortured within an inch of their lives, and both plans before you were ripe with the potential to fail. 

It wasn’t just Devlin who felt stuck. Despite wracking your brain for answers or alternative possibilities, you were coming up empty handed every time. You really– wholly and truly– had no clue what to do. 

—

A vote had been cast in Natty’s living room. 

It could hardly be viewed as a democratic process. Ominis, Natty, and Anne weren’t participating, because they would be accompanying the wounded Ashwinders to the hospital once you left. Joshua and Nora weren’t giving their input for obvious reasons, so it had all boiled down to you, Devlin, and Sebastian. 

Were the three of you to return to the manor, or would you be traveling to the ancient magic site to claim the relic before squaring off with Victor and Henri? 

Devlin was still adamant about taking the fight to his former boss and the Frenchman. He wanted to inflict onto them what they had done to his daughter tenfold, and no amount of cautionary tales or warnings could sway him from that decision. Since you’d been forced to choose between the two options, you had voted in favor of obtaining the relic. Maybe having such an item in your possession would give you an edge against your enemies and grant everyone more time to come up with a plan of attack– one that was more cohesive than ‘show up and kill everyone’. 

Sebastian was the tie-breaker. You and Devlin had both tried to project your thoughts into his head in a bid to hear the answers you each respectively preferred, but you knew it was pointless. Neither one of you was a Leglimens, and Sebastian’s decision would ultimately be rooted in what he thought was best. 

Which is why you weren’t surprised in the slightest when he said, “I vote going back to the base. If we can take out Victor and Henri at the same time, it’ll make getting the relic to cure my sister that much easier.” 

The sinking feeling in your gut told you that nothing about this was going to be easy. 

Devlin’s shoulders sagged with relief, and Sebastian’s dark eyes swiveled towards you as a remorseful expression passed over his face. “I’m sorry, princess. The manor is familiar territory to fight in. Victor could bring the ancient magic site down on top of us if we go there with him still breathing.” 

The explanation was delivered in that ‘no-nonsense’ tone he reserved for his underlings. You were none too pleased with the sudden professionalism he displayed towards you– if it could even be called that. Pursing your lips, you nodded stiffly, then turned to peek at the silent trio you would be parting from shortly. 

Anne looked nervous. It was probably the most anxious you had ever seen her; her brows were furrowed, her hands were being wrung together incessantly, and she hadn’t stopped fidgeting since everyone had come together in the living room. To her left was Natty– a grave expression of her own shrouding her otherwise stern face. Was she upset that Sebastian’s drama had followed him to her home? Did she regret offering you sanctuary? It was hard to tell, but you knew apologies would be pointless. 

Ominis, on the other hand, looked to be the most put together of the three. His spine was ramrod straight, and his hands were clasped behind his back as his unseeing eyes darted around in front of him. Whatever he was thinking about was important enough that he hadn’t said anything to rebuff Sebastian’s comment about curing Anne. He had maintained an unwavering, serious demeanor ever since Nora had fallen into his arms hours earlier, and you couldn’t help but be grateful that he wasn’t coming with you. 

Despite his reservations about Sebastian, Devlin, and their work as a whole, you knew he would protect the people around him with everything in him. Nora would be in good hands here. You pitied the villains that dared to cross the seasoned Auror’s path. 

“It’s not too late for you to change your mind,” Sebastian said, drawing your attention away from your old friends. “You don’t have to go, princess. You can stay here– keep an eye on Nora and Joshua for us until we send word that Victor and Henri have been dealt with.” 

Yeah, not a chance. “I’m not letting you both gallivant into what is most certainly a trap without backup.” 

“The girl spends three days casting spells without a wand and thinks she qualifies as a one woman army,” Devlin muttered to himself with a smirk. “Pretty soon your head will be bigger than his.” 

Sebastian scowled when his second in command gestured loosely towards him, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the snide comment. “While I appreciate your willingness to help, this isn’t going to be anything like what we’ve done these last few months. Living with Ashwinders, burning down dragon fighting rings, squaring off with Dementors– that was child’s play compared to this.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic. I already know–” 

“Do you?” Sebastian interjected roughly, his features contorting until his face looked like it had when you’d first set eyes on him all those months ago. It was the glower of a dark wizard. The cold, unyielding way he stared at you might have scared you back then, but now? Now it just pissed you off. “This will be murder. A plain, calculated execution. Yeah, Victor and Henri are awful people, and they probably deserve worse than a quick death. But while killing is easy, it’s the guilt that comes afterwards that can be difficult to cope with. Are you prepared for that?” 

“I’ve killed people before, Sebastian.” Your voice was flat as you threw the reminder in his face, which seemed to snap him out of his domineering persona. “You know as well as I do that I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. Besides… I already told you back in Colmar, didn’t I?” 

The brunet looked puzzled, but judging by the minute narrowing of Devlin’s eyes, he remembered the solemn vow you had made within the abandoned inn. Sebastian shook his head, “Told me what?” 

“That I would be the one to kill Henri for what he did to me. The two of you can draw sticks over who gets to swing at Victor first, but Henri? He’s mine.” 

Of all the things for Sebastian to do in the wake of such a bold statement, laughing was well at the bottom of the list. Ominis muttered something– probably a comment having to do with the startling amount of casual killers he found himself surrounded by– but you hardly paid him any mind. Anne and Natty remained silent as they mirrored each other and sent twin looks of wariness at one another. They had to be so far out of their element in the midst of the conversation that you almost felt bad. But then Sebastian was wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye, sighing around a smile as he practically beamed at you. 

“Alright, princess. Far be it from me to stand in your way. With all of those new tricks up your sleeve, Henri won’t know what hit him.” 

Saying goodbye was never easy. Part of the reason you had left Hogwarts after graduation without a word to anyone was because you were terrible when it came to farewells. People would cry, hug, snivel, and promise to write even though it was inevitable that with the passage of time, they would eventually forget. Relationships came and went, friendships ran their course before naturally coming to a close. You had learned a long time ago not to cling to the bonds you forged with others in a bid to make life easier later down the line. 

But be that as it may, standing in the rain-soaked courtyard outside of Natty’s house wrapped tight in her bone-crushing embrace made you realize that the connections you had repaired here were crucial. They had healed something within you. They had fixed a jaded, cracked part of your soul that had only worsened in the years you’d spent alone. 

“Thank you for everything, Natty.” Your watery voice was muffled against her shoulder, but she still heard you. “Take care of everyone for me, okay? We’ll be back soon.” 

“It was my pleasure, my friend. I am only sorry it must end so soon… three days was not nearly enough time.” She pulled away and slid her palms up to your neck, gently resting her hands there so she could stare imploringly down at you. “Promise me you will be safe? I expect to see you back here soon. No more keeping to yourself– there are plenty of other holidays we can spend together.” 

Her dark eyes twinkled with emotion beneath the moonlight, and your reassuring smile seemed to help her relax. “I promise, Natty.” 

Anne was a blubbering, inconsolable wreck. The force of her hug had nearly choke-slammed you to the ground, but you’d caught yourself and returned the gesture with equal strength. She’d extended the same treatment to Devlin, and then eventually to her brother. In-between sobs, she had managed to croak out, “Please stay safe. Don’t do anything careless– I swear if you die, I’ll find some way to kill you myself.” 

Sebastian laughed breathlessly, his massive arms enveloping Anne so completely that she was almost entirely hidden from view. It was a heart wrenching sight, and the fact that Sebastian’s eyes were red-rimmed when he cracked them open to look at you from over Anne’s shoulder didn’t help matters. None of this was easy for anyone. 

Ominis was– unsurprisingly– more poised with his goodbyes. He shook Devlin’s hand firmly, promising the older gentleman that he would see to it that Nora was well taken care of. Despite the fact that both men had gotten off to a rocky start upon meeting one another, Devlin seemed to take solace in the promise. He nodded appreciatively and said, “You’re one of the good ones, Gaunt. Try not to die anytime soon.” 

“I could say the same to you.” 

Ominis gave you a firm but mindful hug, patting you on the back for good measure before making you swear that you wouldn’t do anything reckless. “I mean it,” he chided, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “If things at that manor are as bad as I think they are, you leave. Get out and run as far from there as you can.” 

You wanted to jest– to make a comment pertaining to your affinity for getting into trouble despite your best efforts. But the Auror looked genuinely fearful as he fixed his milky blue eyes in your direction. Maybe Ominis wouldn’t outright say it, but you knew he was worried. He was holding it together the best he could for everyone’s sake, so you reconsidered your reply. “I will.”

After that, you, Devlin, and Sebastian congregated in the middle of the courtyard, the wet dirt squelching beneath your feet in the wake of the rain having finally stopped. Devlin put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and before you could do the same, the dark wizard clasped your hand in his wandless one, giving it a telling squeeze for good measure. When you glanced up at him, his expression was remarkably soft– completely at odds with how you knew he must be feeling internally. 

“Are you ready?” 

No. 

“Yes.” 

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as though he knew better than to believe you, but otherwise said nothing. The three of you took one last look at the trio standing before the front door, hoping against all odds that it wouldn’t be the last time any of you saw them. A crack sounded all around you, a weightlessness coming over you shortly thereafter, and the way your stomach lurched had absolutely nothing to do with the feeling of apparating. 

You were going home. For better or worse, when you opened your eyes next, you would find yourself back where all of this had begun.

tattoo this on me

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

════════════════════

"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close. 

perhaps some will disagree, but i think the world got worse when we changed the colour of the night

All in My Head | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi, friends! This was a request from @breakablebarnes, who described this ic idea as "dark and meta", so obviously I'm here for it.

Send me your comments, requests, and / or suggestions! 🥰

Tag list: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes@glxwingrxse @psychoticmason @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy @lonewolf471 💘

"Your eyes are glowing and I'm holding your hand You ask if I'll run with you up to the edge Hands on my waist and fingers running through hair Well, I know that it's all in my head...

If the stars ain't showing, the whiskey ain't burning Well, I'm still gonna be your girl When we both stop growing and they dig us deep Yeah, I'm still gonna be your girl..."

The light of the sunset had your apartment glowing gold. Bucky's body leaned up against yours, letting you play with his hair while the two of you watched the classic Gene Kelly musical, Singin' in the Rain. As Gene Kelley swept Debbie Reynolds into his arms near the end of You Were Meant for Me, Bucky nuzzled in closer to you. "How have I not taken you dancing yet, sweets?" he asked as he turned to face you. An unexpected chuckle fell from your lips at his question, making him cock his head to the side with confusion.

"Buck, I don't have any idea where- people don't really go dancing anymore. If you go dancing these days, it's at like, a rave or a nightclub" you told him, "I'm sure that's not the kind of dancing you're looking for." A disappointed frown twisted his lips downward and he sighed out a huff. Then, without a word, he was up off of the couch.

He turned off the tv and pushed the coffee table out of the way with no effort at all, creating a makeshift dance floor right in the middle of your living room. He flew across the room to his record player and pulled out his favorite Frank Sinatra record, letting the sweet sound of your favorite Sinatra song, Be Careful, it's My Heart slowly fade in through the crackling and popping of the record.

"May I have this dance, gorgeous?" Bucky asked as he offered you his shiny vibranium hand. A warm sensation took over your cheeks as you accepted his proposal, letting him pull you up off the couch and into his arms. His hand found your waist and yours wrapped around his neck as the two of you began to move with the music. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me to dance before..." you murmured against his chest, making Bucky stop moving completely.

"Oh, doll. That's criminal," Bucky said, clearly disturbed by your confession, "if you were my girl back in the day...I would've taken you dancing every Friday night- would've bribed the band to play a slow one for us". He pulled you tighter against his body and hummed in approval at his favorite sensation: your body pressed against his. "I'm glad I found you now, though..." he continued, "there's no way I ever could've left for the war if you were my girl. Probably would've ended up a draft dodger". The thought of Bucky leaving for the war, being gone from you for so long and in such a dangerous situation, made you press yourself even closer to him. You let your eyes close as you rested your head against his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat and letting it remind you that he was right there with you.

"I would've waited for you, Buck," you murmured against his chest, "I would've written you letters and counted down the days until I got to see you again". Your promise hit Bucky strangely, reminding him that he never would've even gotten the chance to come home to you. He quickly swatted the thought from his mind, instead quietly singing along with the music:

"Remember it's my heart. The heart with which so willingly I part. It's yours to take to keep or break, But please, before you start, Be careful, it's my heart."

He crooned along with Sinatra until the song ended, being replaced with more crackling and popping sounds.

When the warmth of Bucky's body began to fade from your touch, you allowed your eyes to slowly flicker open.

Before you sat your living room-dark, empty, cold. The coffee table sat in its correct position- not shoved out of the way to make room for a dance floor- and there was no record player in the corner. The only light in the room came from the screen of the laptop that sat balanced on your thighs. Your hands remained frozen, poised over the keyboard and ready to type. The flickering of the cursor on your screen drew your attention as you read the last sentence of your fic over again:

"He crooned along with Sinatra until the song ended, being replaced with more crackling and popping sounds".

A sudden ache took root in your chest, filling you with a sense of loss, a sense of loneliness. It had felt so real- you could’ve sworn you were really there with Bucky, slow dancing in your living room. The emptiness you felt at his absence clawed at your heart and ripped it to shreds, leaving you hollow. Not only was this man not in your arms, he wasn’t even real. Something resembling grief took hold of you, as you yearned for the touch of a person you’d never meet. You mourned his smile, his gentle touch, his oceanic eyes, the way he held you close-

Only one thing could take the awful sensation away, and so you let your eyes close once again, diving back into the world in which you were Bucky's girl- the world that was all in your head.

You Were The First

Ominis Gaunt x f!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: Ominis Gaunt has never known affection. He has never known how it felt to love---to be loved. She came and changed all of it.

Or, Ominis gets love because by god does he deserve it.

Warnings: Mentions/Implications of child abuse

God, I loved writing this. Thank you so much for the request, anon!

When Ominis Gaunt fell in love, he fell slowly. 

It was all the little things she did—the little things that made up who she was. Her kindness. Her patience. Her touch. 

Before meeting her, touch meant nothing but pain. It was kicking and screaming as his mother dragged him along by his arm, harsh shoves from uncaring hands toppling to the ground, a cruel hand curled over his own, taking any control he might have and forcing a curse out of him. 

He’d been avoiding it ever since. Even Sebastian and Anne knew his aversion, careful not to grab him or brush against him. 

But somehow, she made his walls come tumbling down. 

-

Perhaps he started to fall that first time she saved him a seat at breakfast. 

It was one of the first breakfasts of their sixth year—the Great Hall was bustling, students running back and forth to catch up with friends and share adventures from over the summer. That was exactly what Sebastian was doing; he could hear his friend’s loud laugh as he spoke to someone at the Hufflepuff table. He’d expected her to be doing the same, her popularity as the Hero of Hogwarts was unmatched. Surely everyone would want to know what she’d been up to. 

He’d just settled on the idea of grabbing an apple off the table and leaning against the wall well out of harm’s way when a voice called out to him. Her voice. 

“Ominis! Ominis, right here, I’ve saved a seat for you!” 

His mouth fell open—just slightly. “You… you saved a seat…?” 

“Yes, now get over here before Sebastian barrels past and steals it, I wouldn’t put it past him,” she said, smile obvious in her voice. 

And so he obliged. 

He settled down on the bench, all thoughts of retreating to some far corner vanishing as she began to rattle on about her summer. In turn, he answered all her questions about his own time, best he could with the way his head was spinning. Of everyone in the school, she had saved a spot for him. She allowed him to take all her time, steal away every morsel of her attention. There was a lightness that came with that thought. A warm feeling he couldn’t quite name—not yet. 

But now that he’d felt it, he knew he’d starve for it. 

-

The next step into his descent was the first time she placed her hand on his arm. 

Herbology was always a bit chaotic—not nearly as much as Potions, no thanks to a certain Gryffindor—but chaotic nonetheless. Professor Garlick had laid out all the necessary tools and supplies on each table, and after her brief explanation on how to prune and shape the plants in front of them, she set them loose. 

Sebastian stood to Ominis’s right, grabbing some small cutters and starting on his plant quickly. 

“Sebastian, you’re making a mess of it already. She said to start from the top and go down, didn’t you hear a word she just said?” a voice said from his left. 

Ominis chuckled. “Since when has Sebastian ever been one to listen to anything?” He reached forward, grabbing his own cutters. He heard his friend grumble under his breath. “Don’t pout, you know I’m right.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not offended by it,” Sebastian said. 

“You’re offended by everything, Seb,” she said. 

“What is this? Attack Sebastian Sallow Day?” 

“No, but I’d be an avid celebrator if there was such a thing.” 

As Sebastian continued mumbling complaints, he felt it—her hand, just barely resting on his arm. “Sorry,” she said softly, leaning forward and across the table. “I’m just grabbing the fertilizer.” And then her touch was gone. 

It was nothing. Just a simple indication that she was there, making sure a blind man didn’t accidentally stab her with a sharp object. And yet it felt… different, somehow. His skin was tingling as he tried to resume his work with the plant. It was only later he realized that, unlike so many times others had made a similar motion, he hadn’t flinched or pulled away. 

In spite of himself, he sort of wished she would do it again. 

-

He came to a realization the first time she explained a Quidditch match to him. 

The realization was thus—she was even more kind than anyone he’d ever met. It was her very first match, and she had been elated to attend after Professor Black had announced the continuation of the sport at the beginning of the year. Normally, Ominis wouldn’t care too much about it. He rarely went to matches in previous years, only being dragged along by Sebastian when Slytherin was up in the running to take the cup. Crowds weren’t his thing. And trying to understand anything that was going on based solely off the oohing and ahhing of a crowd gave him a headache. But this year, Sebastian was making his debut as Slytherin’s Keeper, and that paired with her excitement to see the match was enough to draw him out to the stands. 

They sat next to each other, nestled into the crowd of Slytherins eagerly anticipating the game. He could only imagine how high up they were—there had been plenty of stairs to indicate it was nothing insignificant. The breeze that high up was cooler, and Ominis was grateful for it, allowing himself to focus on it instead of the people pressing in all around him. 

But when the match started, his focus shifted entirely to the soft voice next to him. 

In the past, he had always found the commentary on the match entirely unhelpful, and even more uninteresting. He could never get a picture of what was going on—the announcer would always press opinions on players and use the names of the different plays, which was ridiculous because Ominis had no clue what any of the plays meant. 

She, on the other hand, explained it all wonderfully. 

She wasn’t perfect—not even close, stumbling over words and gasping at times when an action surprised her. But for the first time, Ominis could follow. He found himself cheering, breath catching as he heard the whoosh of a broom overhead. The tone and expression in her voice was so lively, so dedicated, he wanted to take part in it. 

“Weasley’s flying fast toward the goals,” she commented. “Blimey, he should be Seeker with that speed. Imelda’s flown into his path, he’s going to crash—No, he dodged her, straight over her head—he’s throwing the Quaffle, come on Seb—YES!” 

He let out a cry of celebration as his friend beside him whooped and hollered, cheering loudly for Sebastian. It wasn’t long until they won the match, and the crowd of Slytherins roared like a raging sea. He followed her out of the stands and into the common room, where a party was already commencing. Sebastian managed to break away from his adoring fans. The Hero of Hogwarts leapt up and nearly pushed him over in a wild embrace. Sebastian laughed. 

“You were wonderful out there!” she said, pulling away. 

Ominis could hear the grin in his friend’s voice. “I couldn’t let your first match be a disappointment, now could I?” His feet shifted, turning to Ominis. “And really, Ominis, thank you for coming. I know Quidditch isn’t your favorite.”

“If I’m honest, I rather enjoyed myself,” he said. He nodded his head toward her beside him. “This one has a knack for explaining the game. She told me enough that I can sincerely say, well played.” 

“Then seems like you’ll have to go to all of the matches together,” Sebastian said. 

Ominis frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t want to impose on—”

“No, I like that idea,” she said. His heart beat a bit faster. “I want you to be able to enjoy it just as much as the rest of us, Ominis.” 

He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the night. When Sebastian asked about it, he blamed it on having too much Butterbeer.

-

When he let her lead him by his arm that very first time, he knew he trusted her. 

He’d known for a while—but now, through his actions, he had admitted it to her. To himself. 

Winter had set in. The two of them left the Three Broomsticks, bundled up and ready for the cold. He reached for his wand, pausing when he heard her speak up beside him. 

“Your hand is going to freeze holding it out like that all the way to the castle. I can lead you, if you’d like.” 

He pondered it for a moment—only a moment—and then he gave in. 

“If you think it’ll keep me from getting frostbite.” 

He sucked in a breath as her arm looped around his. How had she done it so gently? After a second, when he’d begun to breathe properly, he nodded. “Off we go, then.” 

It was strange, how he had surrendered so easily. When he had first gotten his wand, the world finally felt livable. He no longer had to shuffle around, arms outstretched, waiting for his brothers to jump out at him. He could fend for himself. Prove his independence. There was no longer a need to rely on anyone. 

Why did he rely so effortlessly on her? 

The truth came to him with a sudden thought as she took him through the streets, navigating expertly through the throng of students returning to the castle. He trusted her. She had always looked out for him. Cared when he felt no one else did. She made efforts to be around him, to involve him, even when he tried to push away. Ominis Gaunt did not trust easily. But she had proved herself worthy of that sentiment in every turn. 

The slight tug of her arm in his jolted him back to that moment. “We’re at the stairs,” she said quietly. “There’s six of them.” 

He’d trust her with his life. 

They seemed to walk closer and closer together as the castle drew nearer. It was the cold, he told himself. Just the instinctual craving for warmth drawing their sides together. Simple as that. 

But they still walked arm in arm through the halls of Hogwarts, leaving the excuse of the chill and snow far behind them. 

-

The first time she held his hand, he finally felt alive. 

Their sixth years had come to a close and the Hogwarts Express was waiting to take them home. They’d spend the last few months in what he considered bliss. They stopped looking for excuses to take each other's arms at some point—just letting it happen. Strolls on the castle ground. Between classes. Anywhere and everywhere they went together. Sebastian teased them a bit at the action, but Ominis claimed it was just easier than using his wand. He didn’t have to concentrate on a spell while walking about. It was true—but really, it hadn’t been inconvenient the five years before that, had it?

But now his dear friend gave a low sigh beside him. “This crowd is awful,” she said, glowering at the students around them. “I don’t know how we’re going to make it on the train in time.” 

“I’m sure we’ll be—” 

He stopped mid sentence, feeling her fingers interlock with his. 

“I think I see a path, come on now.” 

She nearly tipped him over as she pulled him along. He managed to remember how to walk just in time to catch himself, allowing her to lead him through the hustle and bustle around them. How did this feel so entirely different than being led by her arm? How could he only focus on how soft the skin of her knuckles felt under his thumb? How could he feel like he was dreaming, but never felt more aware in the same moment?

They stopped in front of the train, doors open before them. She didn’t let go. Neither did he. But the train let out a whistle, and the sound brought him back in an instant. Their hands dropped, and the loss of the intimate feeling of her fingers between his knocked the air out him like the perfect Depulso. 

“We made it,” she said softly. 

“Barely.” 

She laughed. He might as well have been a fish for how much he was struggling to breathe. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, voice softening. 

“I wish I could say the same,” he said, smirking. He felt her hit his arm, stifling a laugh.

“You’re awful.”

“You’re the one who laughed.” 

“Goodbye, Ominis,” she said, still chuckling. After a moment, she spoke again, a little quieter. “I’ll write you.”

His stomach flipped. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Then she was gone, taking part of him with her.

-

He knew he was in love the moment he got her first letter. 

What was it some fool had once said? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? What a load of dung. 

Absence made the heart ache so much it nearly killed him. And it had only been a day. 

He knew it was from her the moment the lingering scent of her perfume hit him. He smiled. She kept her word—he had never doubted she would. He was just relieved she had done so so soon. 

Quickly, he pulled out his wand and transfigured the words on the parchment, running his fingers over them. He paused where she had written his name. Every letter filled him with warmth as he poured over the short letter. 

Dear Ominis,

I realize we only saw each other yesterday, but I wanted to assure you it wasn’t an empty promise when I said I would write you. 

I really don’t have too much to share—my mother was more than pleased to see me, of course. Wailed when I came home as if I’d come back from the dead. She’s still not used to me being away for so long. I’ve just begun unpacking, and honestly, it just makes me wish I was back at Hogwarts with you and Sebastian. 

How are you? I do hope you’re alright. I worry about you going home, you know. I can’t help it. I’ll be inviting both you and Sebastian to my home as soon as I’m settled in—please do survive until then. 

Yours,

He closed his eyes as he felt her name beneath his fingertips. She was worried about him. She’d be inviting him. The warmth and elation he felt was so unlike the cold halls that surrounded him. He could survive—he’d do it for her. 

How she could make him feel happiness—hope—in a house so tainted with pain was beyond him. He never would he have thought he could have a moment of something good there, a memory worth keeping after he abandoned the place. 

Finally, he had a name for that warmth, the one that overtook him every time she crossed his thoughts. Love. Deep, profound, and lasting. It was more than he could have imagined, overwhelming and pure. How could he have lived to this point without it? 

He read the letter once more before pulling out his quill and beginning to write. 

-

The first time he thought she might feel the same coincided with the first time she laid her head on his shoulder. 

She had kept yet another of her promises. It was only a couple of weeks before he was off to her house, finally free from the suffocating marble halls of the manor. His escape lasted only for ten days, but it gave him what he needed to keep going. 

Though being with her was definitely what fueled him the most. 

Laughing with her and Sebastian made the stress of being around his parents melt off of him much faster than he would have imagined. Their ten days had been full of exploring the woods around her house, of playing Gobstones, of laying in fields and telling old stories. 

Ten days of her hand brushing his as they sat together. Ten days of catching his breath when she spoke. Ten days of falling harder than he ever thought possible.

Because now that he knew what it was he was feeling, it was there in everything she did. He was drowning in it, and he’d stay under with a smile on his face. 

Sebastian bid them farewell on that final evening. Ominis would be gone back home in the morning—he tried desperately to push that thought away, focusing instead on spending every moment with her he could. They’d wandered to the overgrown park not far from her home, coming to rest on a bench hidden away in the trees. Crickets sang around them, and Ominis basked in the cool summer night by her side. 

“Are you going to be ok when you go back?” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. 

He gave a small smile, one he hoped was reassuring. “I’ve lived this long. Two more months will be nothing.”

She sighed. “It won’t be a full two months. I’ll make sure of it. If you can’t come here again, we’ll go to Sebastian’s.”

“You worry about me too much.” 

“I think I worry just enough,” she stated simply. 

Her words made his chest time. How could he ever begin to explain what they meant to him? She cared for him. It was enough to shatter him if he let it. He couldn’t say what he wanted to—not yet. He’d find a way, someday. But he told her what he could by reaching for her hand, locking their fingers together. And when she leaned into his side, head coming to rest on his shoulder, maybe, maybe, that was her way of saying she understood. 

His stiff body slowly relaxed against hers, and he thought about nothing but the slow draws of her breath, the way her hair tickled against his jaw, the love he felt for the angel of the girl sitting pressed against him. 

-

The first time she held him he fell apart. 

Their little trio had stayed up late in celebration of their last school year, playing Exploding Snap well into the night. The Undercroft echoed their joyous sounds as the hours passed by, until Sebastian pulled himself away, saying he wanted to pay a visit to the Restricted Section for old time’s sake. It wasn’t long until she and Ominis were saying their goodnights to each other. 

It had been a perfect last first day, exactly what he’d needed after spending so much time at the manor. He’d left for what he was determined to be the last time. There was no better way to celebrate. 

He could think of no better way of ending it than saying goodnight to the girl he loved. 

“Goodnight,” he said softly, a small smile on his lips. 

“God, I missed you,” she breathed. “Goodnight, Ominis.” 

But before he could open the door, her arms wrapped around his chest. 

The result was immediate. His heart raced, and his throat grew tight. He couldn’t breath—how could he, with her holding him so tightly? Her head was against his chest, and for a split second he was afraid she might pull away when she heard the pound of it. It was that moment of fear that brought his arms around her, holding her to him like he had nothing left. 

It felt like dying when she pulled away from him. She sucked in a breath. “Ominis, are you alright?”

“What… what do you—”

“You’re crying.”

She was right. He felt the tears, now, traitorously running down his face. He quickly brought up the sleeve of his robe to wipe them away. 

“Is it something I did? I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He took a shuddering breath. “I just… You’re the first person who’s ever…” 

Ever what? There were a million ways he could finish that sentence, and all would be true. The first who had ever held me. The first who has ever cared so deeply. The first to touch him with nothing but kindness. She was the first person to break down his walls, to give him life, to let him love and be loved. 

Somehow, she seemed to understand his silence. She took him into her arms once more, and he let himself come crashing down. Sobs worked their way through—both sadness and joy mingled together in an utter mess of emotion. How could he have gone his whole life without this? Without feeling safe, without outstretched arms to run to? But he had found it. A person he could call his home, who would hold him when he fell apart. He was grateful. So grateful. 

They never went back up to their dorms that night.

-

He was determined today would be the first time he kissed her. 

Since that night in the Undercroft, every touch between them felt natural. Part of their beings. He came to her effortlessly, letting his arms pull her to him. His hand felt foreign when it wasn’t in hers. But yet, he had yet to confess the depths of his feelings for her. 

He knew exactly why—she was patient. They’d started this whole thing nearly two years ago now. She’d always gone at his pace, waiting for him to be ready for each new step. They didn’t need to say the words. It was obvious to both of them. But Merlin, he wanted to. 

She needed to know just how much she meant to him. The joy she brought into his life without even trying. It had been a long time coming, but now, he was ready.

He’d taken her out to Hogsmeade. It was the perfect spring day—cool breeze carrying the scent of Butterbeer clear out of the Three Broomsticks. The sun was just beginning to set, and they were on course to return to the castle when he stopped her. 

“Could I take you somewhere?” he said softly. 

“Of course,” she said, a little perplexed. He smiled, taking out his wand to guide the both of them, other hand still in hers. He led them down a path, then turned sharply into the woods. The trail he followed was light barely there, mostly grown over by foliage. But he heard the sound of the creek and knew he was close. 

The trees gave way into a small opening, the melody of water trickling just beyond it. He smiled. 

“It’s lovely,” she said. 

“Good. I hoped it would be.” His wand returned to his pocket, and he took both her hands, facing her. 

It was her turn for her breath to catch. It was only fair after all the times he’d done so because of her. Did he look as lovesick as he felt? 

“You are everything to me, do you know that?” he said softly. His hand reached up, following the curve of her neck up to her jaw, where it came to rest. “Everything.”

“Ominis…” 

The way she breathed his name sent shivers through him. And her breath on his lips—Merlin, how had he waited so long?

“I love you.” 

He didn’t give her a chance to respond—he’d let her say it soon enough. But he needed to prove himself to her, show her just what he meant when he said everything. His lips came crashing down against hers, and at that moment he decided every second not spent kissing her was a second wasted. Like everything about her, she was gentle. She was warm. She was soft. Like everything about her, he couldn’t get enough. He thought he’d give her a chaste kiss, but he was only a man, and a starving one at that. 

He only pulled away when his lungs felt like they would burst, and his chest heaved under her resting hand. 

“I love you,” she said, voice hoarse. “God, I love you.” 

He decided that night would be the second time he kissed her, too. 

After that he lost count.

No but the POWER in that scream vocal what the FUCK