wie

back again and better now.

[shimmerforall]

All Nighter

Happy Secret Santa/Viktor birthday celebration to @literary-potat0

I hope you enjoy the little piece I wrote for you about our lovely soft little meow meow. I have a blast writing it and I hope it meets your expectations :) Thank you for @therealtendercrispstendercrisps for putting this together!

Pairing: Viktor x F!Reader

Word Count 1.5K

Warnings: I am not too sure but just to be safe, Sleep snuggles, one person is asleep and the other is awake. Both parties have respect for each other and no one is forced upon anyone.

Prompt: Unresolved romantic & sexual tension, Female reader falling asleep in the lab pulling an all nighter to help with his research, he tucks her in or convinces her to move to the couch, perhaps she sleepily pulls him down with her.

It was late, how late you really couldn’t tell anymore. At this point, time was a construct as you sat on your stool in the lab, scribbling down possible solutions to a problem you were trying to solve.  

Your body jolted for the nth time as you accidentally nodded off again.

“You really don’t have to be here, you should go home,” you heard your lab partner tell you.

“And let you get all the credit?” you yawned, “I can’t allow you to take all the credit once again. Your ego is already as large as this room.” 

He chuckled as he pushed his stool away from the desk and walked over to you gently resting his hand on your shoulder.

You tried to hide the warmth that spread throughout you at the sudden contact. It was just a simply, friendly gesture, you mentally slapped yourself. 

“Come on, you should go to sleep.”

You looked up at the man who stood beside you. His lean frame hovered over yours. You took a moment to glance at his messy brunet locks and the dark bags under his eyes. Even though he looked exhausted, he still had that spark of wonder in his eyes. That was the reason you were silly enough to take on this position when he asked, you had never seen someone so dedicated. 

Unfortunately, for your sake, hormones had a lovely way of getting in the way of your professional relationship. You couldn’t put an exact moment when your heart started lurching every time he smiled at you or how flushed you became just being within feet of him. It came naturally and organically and thus you didn’t have any special formula to shake it. 

You shook your head, leaning ever slightly towards him,  “Your ego is already as large as this room.” 

“I think in your delirious state you seem to be mistaking me for Jayce,” 

“Please, we all know who the brilliant one is here,” you smiled, “It’s cute how you try to hide that you don’t think so.”

An awkward pause encased the room as you both stiffened at your words.

“You think I am cute?”

Dear Janna! What did you just say?!

“No, I mean, yes but no! I am going to take a small nap on the couch” you pushed his hand away as you stood up and walked over to the worn plush couch that the three of you had dragged in one late night when your request for a cot was denied. 

With your back facing him, you squeezed your eyes shut, praying that sleep would take you away from this reality. 

***

Viktor had stood there awkwardly for a moment as he watched you move to the couch. He had not meant to tease you like that. It was very unprofessional of him and he mentally kicked himself for it. 

He had been doing that a lot lately when it came to you. You caught his attention the moment he met you in the hallway between sessions. You were introduced by the other professors as someone who liked to think outside the box, who was passionate in whatever it was that you were doing. 

After spending months together, he became drawn to you in a different manner. He felt guilty how he felt his heart jump in his throat every time you smiled at him. He couldn’t explain why it was happening all of a sudden, Jayce teased him endlessly as his pale skin would flush when you brought him a coffee or complimented him, even if it was for the most minute reason. 

Shaking his body of his current state, he sauntered back to his desk, trying to resume his work. 

Half an hour had passed and it was clear to the universe that his attempts had failed. He only wrote two lines of a new formula as he kept looking over his shoulder back at you on the couch. 

Your quiet snores, told him that you were still asleep. He really should wake you up and bring you home. It wasn’t healthy to sleep on something so flimsy. 

Realizing that he wasn’t going to get any work done, he walked over to you. In your sleep you had turned over, using your arm as a pillow, mouth open as your jacket that you were using as a blanket had fallen to the floor. 

He knew if you could have seen how you looked, he would probably need to find another partner. Seeing as you were asleep though, he concluded to himself that you were simply adorable. Seeing yourself in a total state of relaxation had him wishing he could sleep as well as you were. 

Oftentimes he slept at odd hours, for little moments at a time as his brain worked overtime on every conceivable thing in his life. 

Reluctantly, he bent down to shake you awake. 

***

You felt yourself being pulled from the wonderful world of slumber by a gentle shake. 

You groaned in protest as you grabbed the arm that was shaking you. 

“Stop it,” you whined.

“I am sorry, my dear but I think we should both go home to sleep.”

You murmured incoherently as you pulled the arm you were holding onto towards you, “We can both sleep here,” you sighed contently, being blanketed in a new warmth. 

A thick blanket must’ve been tossed over you as you felt a new weight on you. 

“Mmm, thanks.” you said as you snuggled closer, taking a deep breath in before going back to sleep the last thought was that the blanket also smelt really nice. 

***

Viktor was, how to say, stuck. In an attempt to wake you, you somehow managed to pull him down to the couch with you. 

You had your arms wrapped around him and a leg thrown over one of his own, sound asleep. 

He was totally lost in what he should do. He didn’t want to wake you as it was evident you needed the rest but the situation was quite uncomfortable. 

Okay, that may have been a slight lie, it was the complete opposite. It was very, very comfortable. Despite the size of the couch,  you two were able to fit by having you lie partially on top of him.  

Your hair tickled his face as you brought your head to his chest. He felt you sink more onto him as he heard your contented sigh. 

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face as he took notice of how nice this all felt. You and him fitted perfectly together, it just all seemed right. 

Brushing some loose strands of hair stuck to your face, he memorized the softness of your skin and the scent of the shampoo that you used. (In a non-creepy way of course because we all know Viktor is a gentleman like that) 

Wrapping his lean arms around you, he decided to give himself this one special moment with you. He would never be able to put into words how he had become attached to you and would never admit to anyone that he had moments of where he thought about being close to you.

"Just five more minutes," he whispered to himself, resting his chin on your head. Your deep breaths lulling him to sleep

***

"Really, you two? On the couch?"

You groaned loudly as you were awoken by Jayce's deep voice.

"What are you talking about?" you murmured, trying to open your eyes.

"Honestly, Jayce, there are better ways to wake me," you finally opened your eyes as your heard Viktor, his voice vibrating in your ear. Why did he sound so close and how were you so warm?

You looked at your current state, looking up you stared directly at Viktor, a sheepish smile on his face, "Good morning?"

You let out a yelp as you jolted upright pushing yourself off of him.

"What happened?! I am so sorry, I don't know what happened! I should've just gone home."

You continued to apologize to him profusely, not realizing that you were still holding one of his hands.

"Yeah, yeah, save the act," Jayce chuckled, "You two are so obvious. Get a room next time, though. I am going to grab us some coffee."

Your heart was going to burst out of your chest as heat flushed your body.

"I should be the one apologizing, you grabbed me in your sleep...and I must've dozed off," Viktor explained, not able to look at you as a deep blush was painted on his cheeks.

"No! It is me, I usually hug a pillow or something when I sleep...I am sorry."

"There is no need to apologize," you shivered, feeling Viktor brush his thumb over your hand, "As unprofessional as I worry it may look...I haven't slept so well in a while."

You coughed, trying to get the panic out of your throat, "Admittedly...same," you smirked.

You were now both smiling at each other wondering who was going to speak first.

"So I-" you both said at the same time, breaking out into another awkward group laugh.

"You first," you insisted, inching a little closer to him.

"So I was wondering," Viktor took in a deep breath, before leaning over and cupping your cheek, "Your place or mine, next time?

[greelin]

“don’t project YOUR issues onto that fictional man” i’m not even doing anything. he’s doing all that shit himself. sorry for spotting patterns. observing. understanding nuances. i guess

[cuckconnosieur]

Trisha Paytas gave birth right after the queen of England died... God, i know you like joking around but be fucking for real man. This is hilarious.

[spiralsketchbook]

[valtsv]

*gets to decide my own execution method and picks the most fucked up one for attention*

[valtsv]

me when i see a character shirtless: oh what a lovely polite young man :)

me when i see a character fully clothed without a scrap of skin showing from ankle to chin: lol. whore.

[x-amount-verbs]

A Helping Hand - Part 28

[start here] || Part 27 || Part 28 || Part 29

[Silco POV for 24, 25, 26, 27, if you missed them]

[awesome art of riding crop Silco from @steponmesilco icymi 👀]

[silco x f!reader] [2.6k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [rated M] [needle and blood mentions] [tween Jinx] [gun-related PTSD]

AO3 Link

“Okay, I know I’m probably going to regret this, but… what happened with you two?”

Sevika is propped up against the wall beside where you’re poised with one of Jinx’s paintball guns, while the kid herself is tinkering with the settings of the moving targets, and drawing up new ones on the plywood that used to be a barrier to the first floor of the warehouse.

“Me and Jinx?” You may be being purposefully obtuse. “Nothing. Why?”

Her flat look isn’t fooled. “The old man.”

“He’s not that old.”

Dark brows raise, and you realize too late that she may not have been quite so aware as you thought, but that little slip up certainly helped.

“He’s at least ten years older than you,” she points out. “So I think it’s fair to call him the old man.”

“Younger than my parents would be.”

Her look seems to say that you’re missing something. It screams at you to listen to something, and you can’t tell what hidden message she’s hearing.

“That’s your criteria?” she asks incredulously. “If he’s old enough to be your father?”

“Gods, no, I just— he isn’t, okay? He’s just—”

Wide eyes and a tilted chin warn you you’d better not be saying what she thinks you’re saying. You wince.

“Nevermind.”

Sevika shakes her head. “He’s like 60,” she deadpans.

“What?! Fuck, Sevika, he’s like 42!” You should not feel this defensive over your boss’s age. Sevika’s sidelong smirk seems to agree. “Don’t be a dick,” you grumble.

Her tone is wry. “Actually, he’s 39. Feels ancient, though.”

So much for not getting defensive— “He’s barely older than you!” you argue.

“He’s the most crotchety uptight under-40 I’ve ever seen.”

From the self-satisfied curve of her lips, even if she’s not looking at you, you suspect she may be purposefully bashing him just to get under your skin. Which shouldn’t work. Cause he isn’t anything important to you.

“I swear he keeps like 15 extra years in a pocket dimension,” she drawls.

You scoff a laugh before you can stop yourself. It’s pretty funny.

“Regardless, sure hope you get a handle on this weird crush you have-”

“Not a crush.” Wow, never thought you’d have to have a convo like this. “Definitely not a crush.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ hope so, cause that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“—Which is why it isn’t.”

“That’s why?”

What? Wait— “No, it’s— that’s not why, that’s not what I—”

Sevika’s sarcastic mmmhm at your gradual descent to flustered-ness has your ears burning.

“How old is your girlfriend?” you shoot back, going on the offensive.

Her lips press tight for a second, gaze averting. “Don’t have a girlfriend-”

“Your friend, then. The one at Babette’s?” You’ve picked up on a few things through gossip at the Drop.

Grey eyes stay resolutely turned away, but you can feel her sudden rigidity. Ha. Not so nice to be hounded on your insecurities, huh?

“She’s irrelevant.”

“What, like 19?”

“No.” The force with which she refutes your purposefully low guess is insistent. “No, she’s— I don’t know, 24. 25 maybe.”

You snort. “Yeah, and you’re one to talk age gaps.”

“Not the same, we don’t have a employer-”

“You better not be about to say you and your sex worker girlfriend never had a relationship where you paid her.”

You actually see a rosy cast to her cheeks. Good. About time she got flustered instead of you.

“Our relationship is— it’s not exactly…” It’s Sevika’s turn to flounder. “It’s complicated,” she growls, finally.

“Well. Same.”

“Which is much much worse for you than for me.”

She’s objectively correct. “Look, Silco and I don’t have anything like that. We never did.” It’s basically true, right? So he fingerbanged you bent over his desk after thoroughly spanking you with a crop. And a cane. And even his hand a couple times.

That’s… um. That’s… not the same as sex.

Fuck.

“Riiight. So he kicked people out of the Drop a couple days ago because…?”

“He what?”

She blinks surprise. “You seriously didn’t know? People were theorizing. You went up to his office drunk one night, a body got carried out, people thought he killed you then, but the next day you show up and he immediately clears the bar. I’ll be honest, there were bets you’d leave without the hand, if not the arm, and a decent number of people thinking you wouldn’t survive the week. Yet next day he calls me in to say you’re cleared to see Jinx again, which is definitely not what I expected to hear.”

It’s your turn to stare like an idiot. Silco was the one who gave the okay? Well, maybe you should’ve guessed it, but still. It doesn’t make sense, remembering how completely cold he’d been that afternoon.

“So I repeat: what happened between you two? He’s been quiet and it’s creepy. Half the time can’t get him to shut up.”

Nope. Stop it, heart, this isn’t good news, stop beating like there’s hope here. It’s nothing. He’s just… he’s pouting. Or he’s coming to his senses. Or, hopefully, he’s reinstating helpful boundaries, and this is his way of showing it.

Stop, stop the stupid skipping a beat, this means nothing. It means respect, at best, and that should be a bare minimum, not an exciting prospect.

No matter how much you chastise your heart, it’s still fluttering. Like a fucking dumbass.

“I— I just— talked to him. Brought up some frustrations.” That’s close enough. “I didn’t think he’d listen to me.”

“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. For all I know this is some elaborate plot; he’s a petty bitch when he wants to be.”

Oh, mood.

Your name is screeched across the length of the shooting gallery, effectively ending the conversation. “It’s working!” Jinx shouts, grinning and waving her spanner in the air as she slams a fist against the button that runs the motor for the moving targets.

It takes you too many tries to get your aim steady.

—

“You’re being weird.” Jinx kicks her feet against the empty barrel she sits on, licking her fingers with a kebab in the other (paint-stained) hand.

“Am I?” You’ve been settling into the routine surprisingly well, you thought. It’s nice having her back. Feet slotted with hers from your perch opposite, the casual proximity feeding that bottomless pit in you that craves closeness. “How so?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs, pulling a chunk of meat along the skewer until she can bite it off the end. “You an’ Sevika argued earlier and then your aim was shit— sorry. But it’s true.”

“Please consider that I’m operating with a fake hand,” you point out, holding out your prosthesis pointedly. “Remember that part? Big bloody accident, got maimed, replacement hand, all that?”

Jinx snorts. “Yeah but you did better before. I beat you every single round this time.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re just really good?” you ask, brows raised. “Like really good, Jinx, you would beat me in my prime.” At least, with paintballs. Thank gods she isn’t shooting live rounds yet— both for the risk to your reputation in the local standings, and for other reasons. Three times since you started working with her in the warehouse you’ve spotted her shooting rats with her paint gun. Nothing lethal as of yet, but it can be a little worrying.

“Yeah yeah,” Jinx rolls her eyes, though there’s a self-satisfied smile on her face. “But you’re usually tougher to beat. What did you an’ Sevika argue about?”

You snort. She’s not wrong. Not entirely, anyway. “We weren’t arguing, just talking.”

Jinx’s brows furrow, face falling into a small frown.

“Honest,” you promise. “Not the kind of arguing that matters, anyway. Still friends.”

She pulls a face. “Shouldn’t be.”

Bemused, you raise a brow at the kid, but take another long swig of water before speaking (no food eight hours before meeting with Singed, meaning post-training lunch was your last chance, two hours ago). “Shouldn’t be friends with Sevika?” After making an effort to thaw her chilly exterior? “Why not?”

“She hates me.” Jinx’s lips twist, color high on her cheeks. Angry? Embarrassed, maybe? Or ashamed. Some combo of all three, perhaps. “Hates being stuck with me. Hates me for— just hates me,” she mutters bitterly.

“I find that hard to-”

“It’s cause her arm,” the kid interrupts, before her mouth snaps shut. Her kicking has stopped.

You try to add up the clues you’ve gotten, but they aren’t quite making sense. Scooting forward, you knock your knees against hers, trying to offer some kind of proof that you’re staying close. And maybe partly cause her sudden mood change worries you. Any time she seems upset you’re worried. There’s a bond there, between the two of you, some kind of recognition that resonates feelings, reflects them back, and her anxiety makes you anxious. Just like her joy makes you joyful.

“Hey,” you nudge her foot, pointedly. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. But you’re still my friend, okay? I’m not picking her over you.” You barely refrain from pointing out that you can have multiple friends. Something tells you Jinx doesn’t want to hear that, not in this moment.

The worry in her brief too-open gaze sends a pang through your chest. “I’m your best friend, though, right?” she asks.

Shit. It feels about accurate to that age, at least. Always needing to know you mattered to someone, that you had social standing. Not an insecurity you’d expect from Jinx, but maybe she just never felt threatened before. You were her captive friend.

Maybe you shouldn’t validate that kind of thinking, but— “Uh huh.” Her visible relief encourages you; you hold out a crooked finger. “Best friends.”

Jinx grins as she hooks her finger with yours. “Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah,” you repeat, like an oath. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I think you insulted my aim.” You hop off your perch, smacking the bottom of her foot with your canteen. “Finish eating so I can beat you fair and square.”

“Psh, yeah right.”

—

The euphoria of having Jinx so close - the sheer joy you get from having her cling and climb and wrap arms around you - is tempered every other night by your painfully detached meetings with the Doctor.

A day of shooting with Jinx, followed by an evening nap, and then being drained of blood and told your progress is uninspiring but acceptable. Glowing praise, truly.

A day spent dragging Jinx along to training and letting her thoroughly pummel you just as often as you sent her gleefully screeching form soaring into plushly padded crash mats. A long shower, watching the faint shadow of marks from your day with Silco fading, and early bedtime.

A day of Jinx excitedly showing off her prototype for the Poppet gun, an evening spent icing your sore limbs, and a night of blood loss and five total sentences of communication, one of which was ‘stay still.’

A day letting Jinx pick out a buffet of food options on Silco’s dime. (In other words: a mistake.)

A day spent indulging in combing and braiding Jinx’s hair as she read out her history homework, an evening spent sitting in bed slowly braiding your own hair to match - trying not to think about the glove on your hand, and utterly failing - only to have that effort completely ignored by the Doctor in favor of once again taking blood and barely speaking.

You pass out after that one— or at least white out for a few minutes before waking, spluttering, to a face full of cold water.

“Why are you unconscious? Bloodwork shows nothing out of the ordinary.”

“How the fuck should I know,” you growl, wringing out your braided hair. “Maybe it’s all that fucking bloodwork you’re so keen on.” After every unproductive meeting, wobbling home dizzy, grimacing against the roll of the ground as you walked.

Singed frowns. “How else am I to know you’re correctly maintaining your prosthesis and metabolizing the hydraulic bleed?”

“I don’t know— however you did it the last two weeks?” Your voice is biting, lips pressed thin as you turn away, attempting to regain control of your temper. At this point, you’d rather just go back to Silco.

—The thought hurts more than you expect. A twisting pain in your chest, talons dug into your esophagus and tugging.

The Doctor still has that same frown. “I’ll determine an alternative.”

“Can’t you just take my word for it?” It’s so tiring to be doubted so much, you never realized before. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

His loose gesture is dismissive. “Find yourself food. Our next meeting I’ll have an alternate method.”

—

Things don’t go entirely to plan.

The food part does, at least. On the way home, stopping in at a market halfway between the Doctor’s lab and your lodging house, stuffing yourself on a couple top-notch hand pies and taking a couple more for the road.

But leaving the market you feel the tug on your waist that signals interference (just one of the reasons you only keep part of your coin on your belt), and grab for the wrist automatically with your prosthesis.

Maybe if you could feel what you were doing you would’ve been able to get it right. As it is, you instead feel the scrape of the blade across your arm by the vibrations on your stump beneath.

It all happens so fast.

Feeling the thief snatching for your money, grabbing for their hand, a quarter turned as you feel the blade, and halfway turned as your good hand moves to your pistol.

Finding a gun in your face is unexpected.

Your brain freezes.

Instinct, entirely instinct, takes over as you disconnect.

The next thing you know the shot is ringing in your ears, blood spattering your boots. You stare, unseeing, at the man staggered to the floor, blood leaking from the bullet hole in his shoe, one hand clutching his knee for stability, the other still on the gun.

Another shot hits his shoulder and the scream cuts through.

You stop yourself from aiming for the head. He’ll need to be questioned, have to know who hired him, who thought it was smart to bring a gun into—

A blink, and you’re back in reality, gun cocked at the kid whose hands have raised in panicked surrender.

Some distant part of you feels sick. Heart racing, dizzy, but floating unmoored from your surroundings. It feels like you’re on uneven ground, hovering, or bobbing in the Pilt.

When you have no words to say, the kid turns tail and runs.

You’re not proud of it. You aren’t. It’s habit, or fear, or some confusion between memory and reality. That gun was in your face and you can’t get it out of your head—

You shoot him.

Immediate regret turns your stomach. Your hand buzzes from the recoil, staring unblinking at the kid— fuck, he’s got to be no older than Efin, a teenager, just some kid trying to make a fast buck lifting purses in a crowded market. And now he’s on the ground, wailing, sobbing and clutching his leg, the bloody mess of a wound to his ankle. If he has a lookout, they aren’t rushing to his aid.

His gun is forgotten, and as glassy eyes drift to it, an icy chill seeps into your bones. A fake. It’s so obviously a fake. Of course it is; a kid like him couldn’t get his hands on a real gun, even on the infinitesimal chance he could afford one. A paintball gun painted to look like the real thing, meant to scare people into complying, not to kill them.

Your brain is dead, low static, feeling the feelings but unable to think in words.

There’s noise around you, but you can’t process it, can’t make meaning from the sounds.

You turn on your heel and walk away, already feeling the tremors start.

—

[Ooof. Sorry for the wait guys >< Life, as it often does, has been getting in the way and my brain has been stalling out like crazy lately. I’m not quite done with 31, but I figure I can make y’all stop waiting before I hit the two week mark. Might be another wait, if I can’t get my brain to crank into gear, but at least I have a couple more chapters in reserve for just this sort of thing 😅 At the very least I’ll end up posting around the 15-16th because I’m going out of town and I always like to have that pick-me-up whenever I’m done being stuck driving or flying or on a train or whatever it is. Hopefully brain works before then, but at the latest we’ve got that to look forward to!

Anxiety and depression have been kicking my ass lately, so I can’t promise replies to every single comment right away, but I do always love to see comments and tags and reactions regardless 🥹 Standard plugs apply; reblog if you liked it, check it on ao3, check the revPOVs both here and ao3 if you missed them (I don’t think detachment is up on ao3 yet, but that will probably go up next week). If you want to be tagged in future posts, comment on this linked post to get added to the tag list.

Thanks everyone so much for sticking around. I love the love you all give me, love the support from this super loving bunch of fanatics in this mad corner of the internet. ❤️ -verbs]

Tag list: @hawk4president @mello-jello29 @jennrosefx @dad-dumpster @ellhd-imagination @zuckerwattencupcake @meep-moop-mystic @sherwood-forests @ariaud @witxhy-lexx @mazikomo @leave-me-alone-doctor @antoine-tte @wisteria-songs @imalovernotahater @eriseffigy @leorioaki @artificialwords @hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter @ironandglass @ughhhh177 @faraige @ilikemymendarkandfictional @jennithejester @insult-2-injury @iz-zy5 @rinadragomir @queenofspades6 @cuddlejeongin @differentladynerd @alternativeforensicscientist @leo-the-undead @silcoitus @stepsonsilco @commotionpotion @averagecrastinator @eurydicethesage @mialobo @wierdestmoppet @bumble-bee-17

[swampcastle]

The Kingmaker

prints and more available in my shop

[steponmesilco]

Thank you SO MUCH to @x-amount-verbs for letting me draw your sexy sadist <3 This took me a ridiculously long time but I enoyed every second of it.

Please go read A Helping Hand by Verbs if you havent already! It's SOOOO GOOD!!!!

If you like, you can support me on kofi ✨HERE✨

Detailed shots added under the cut for anyone that wants to see ^^

[cuckconnosieur]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[lesbomancy]

Vi's expression is my expression

Art by @ribbedtank

[shencomix]

[radiofreederry]

lol some Miami firefighter got suspended for texting this

[grumpyoutlaw]

Good boy!<3

@uwuboowoo sorry for taking such a long time to finish this idea that you gave me a few months back! <3 but here it finally is and thank you so much for this delicious idea! <3 

Used “Sonnie’s edge” au Viktor instead of MH, but I guess it kinda counts as the same! ^^ 

[purpurniymstitel]

BRO

SEDUCTIVE????????

[shahs1221]

“You’re trembling,”

“I’m cold.” 

More Rochester Silco from our @constant-fragmentation’s fic, ’Bend But Not Break’. Decided to do two versions where you see both sides of them because Silco’s eye is super fun to draw.

[cuckconnosieur]

rochester silco mhmhmmhmmmhmmhmh

[a-gal-with-taste]

Baked and Battered (4/4)

Summary: It’s the classic story: Boy meets girl, Sumpsnipe meets Promenade-brat, baker meets rebel. And then it becomes so, so much more than that, for both of them.

(Inspired by @sweatandwoe​ & Secret Ingredient, a must-read)

Warnings: SFW. Baker!Reader, romance, revolutionary-shenanigans, young love, time-skip, bit of world-building, hurt/comfort, humor, angst, reunion, happy-ending

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“Do you want a basket for that?" 

Owlish, this time, two pairs of gleaming eyes whirl-around to meet you. Both brighter than the one from years, upon years ago… or maybe your memory is just getting old. You, certainly, have not grown any younger in the passing years, but you hope those memories from your childhood you hold dear, don’t turn gray and murky just yet. 

Memories are all that’s left. 

"If you ask nicely, I might even be tempted to give you something fresh,” You bargained, biting the inside of your cheek to hide a grin, while the pink-haired girl scowled. Honestly, it was like the child could sniff-out humor. 

“Askin’ nice doesn’t get you anywhere, lady,” Violet said,  crammed-mouth full of buttered biscuits. Savory, not sweet for her, you remembered fondly. “Usually, all asking leads you to, is owing somebody." 

"And we already spent our allowance,” chirped Violet’s sister. Powder, hilariously, seemed to be utterly transfixed by the powdered-sugar coated honey-buns you had fixed up in the front-display, but didn’t dare to touch them, and only took mournful nibbles of the biscuit her sister split with her. You imagined it had something to do with her report on her monthly coin-allowance. “Claggor and Mylo wouldn’t split theirs for us to get a bite. Jerks." 

"Well, would you have split yours?" 

"No." 

Well, points for honesty. 

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