"A world in which there is no "shape", "truth", and "reason".
A world in which I am not needed."
I couldn't remember exactly what he said in this moment but it was sthm along these lines.
When i first saw this scene I thought it was really interesting. We get it near the start of the anime where this mysterious and very unknown medicine peddler guy is out slaying mononoke for whatever duty bound reason. This scene comes up and he is faced with what he truly fears most in the world, even though he knows its only an illusion. "A world where there is no "shape "truth" and "reason". Which is seemingly all this guy seems to know, so practically his entire existence and identity from what we know. I was really curious as to what he was gonna fear and tbh this wasn't what i was expecting. but shed some light on his character a bit.
I might be reading into this way more then it could've been intended too but it kinda seems like despite his cynical nature and kinda "tired-of-it" attitude he doesn't know anything more then this life. maybe that cause he's not human (?) seen some where people saying he (along with the rest of the medicine sellers in the universe) are Kitsune (which would makes sense with the intentional fox-featured designs)
Regardless, maybe it was because he knew it was only an illusion but some ways it looks like he just embraces it. Theory - despite it being all he knows he is also so tired of it all and in some ways wishes it to end.
Idk i like theorizing about this guys psychology, we don't get a lot about him and he's so aloof, i love how little the anime lets us see from his perspective.
Hi! Loved your Mononoke fics! Was wondering if I could request fluff of Kusuriuri (either Ri or Kon, love them both) proposing to reader or accepting a proposal from reader? That &/or maybe a who fell first/harder? Totally up to you! Have a good day/night & take care of yourself!
Such Aggravating Emotions
Content: gender-neutral reader, proposal, first kiss, confession of feelings, reader travels with Kusuriuri, one-bed trope, reader can ward Mononoke off, marriage proposal, Kusuriuri struggles with knowing what he feels a bit (but he def knows what he wants), slight talk of murder, Mononoke hunting, based off the Mononoke tv show
Word Count: 2.0K
A/N: sooo.....lol I did both. What can I say, I love Kusuriuri and these prompts were great. Also thank you so much for reading my fics!! It means so much to me!! Sending love your way and I hope you enjoy!!
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You had a sunny laugh.
It was the first thing Kusuriuri ever took note of from you. He’d heard many laughs, but yours, for whatever reason, grabbed his attention.
You stayed calm when everyone else screamed and squawked about in their fear of the Mononoke haunting the inn you had been staying at. You stayed nearly as calm as he did. A feat not so easy to master.
You knew how to handle yourself against a mononoke. You didn’t just know silly facts on how to keep a spirit at bay, you helped keep it at bay.
When you asked Kusuriuri if you could follow him--learn more from him--he didn’t have to think too long or too hard before agreeing.
There was no harm in allowing you to follow him…
No harm, yes, but the realization that he had come to harbor feelings for you was utter torment.
It tugged at his heart and soul day in and day out. Tugged and tugged so that he couldn't help but leave lingering touches on your hands and shoulders. Couldn’t help but buy you small trinkets and joke with you just so that he might catch a small glimpse of your smile--to hear that laugh that had initially drawn him in.
You were startled when you came to the realization that this always-so-poised medicine seller might have feelings for you. Feelings you also harbored for him. Ones you had held from the moment your eyes had fallen upon his pale, painted face. Feelings you had let grow out of your control the longer you stayed by his side.
Though, you were never too sure. Always toying the line of being too obvious--too touchy. He never seemed to reciprocate but sometimes…sometimes you were steadfast in your assumptions. Times when he would stick close to you, never letting his shoulder waver from your own. Times when he would gift you small things you had been eyeing at market and times when his compliment, oh so sweet, made you feel like flying.
But then he would go right back to being that tranquil, mischievous mystery that he was and your doubts would come crashing right back over you.
Though, all doubts came to a halt after a particularly ruthless mononoke exorcism. You two had stopped for the night in a non-mononoke haunted inn, a room purchased and a single bed shared between the two of you.
It was always easiest to pretend to be a traveling married couple. There was less judgment--less questions, that way.
You’d tried to get used to sharing a bed with Kusuriuri--to not let it trick your heart and mind into being something other than practical but this night was different. Different because the peddler could not seem to find rest. Seemed so utterly unsettled. Like his mind wouldn’t let him rest.
You propped yourself up on your elbow so that you could gaze upon his face more easily, his blue eyes wide open. Eyes clouded in that same restlessness his body exuded.
“Antsy, are we?” You questioned, unable to keep from teasing the typically at-ease peddler. Blue eyes found yours and something like irritation filtered through them.
“You bring out such--” He moved then, propping himself up on his own elbow so he could look right back at you. So that he could tower over you in the way he always did. “Aggravating emotions in me.” You’re stomach twisted in your belly.
You brought emotions out in him?
Emotions?
You?
“I don’t--what do you mean?” You asked, voice coming out more soft than you had wished it.
Your breath hitched near painfully in your throat when he leaned closer to you, those eyes of his scanning over every feature your face had to offer.
“I struggle to know the true words but,” He brought his hand full of purple-painted fingernails to feel over the warming skin of your cheeks. “I wish to do this often. And,” His fingers danced lower. Nails grazed over the outline of your top lip. “Taste these.” Your lips gasped apart at what he was telling you.
Were you--were you right in thinking he felt the same?
No--no this was…a dream. Surely, it was just a dream.
“Oh,” You breathed as he pulled closer. The air in your lungs growing heavier against the racing beating of your heart. “Do you?”
“Yes.” He purred. A purr that sent your body trembling despite yourself. “Do you?” He asked, thumb brushing over your parted lips as he held your chin steady.
“Yes.” Kusuriuri grazed his nose lightly over yours as if to test the waters. Waters you all but plunged straight into as you pressed your nose closer in answer, chin raising so that you might try to find his lips.
Half-hooded blue eyes did one last frustrating look into your own before his lips were claiming yours. Lips just as soft as you had dreamed. Lips that tasted of the very same spices he smelled of. Lips that moved slowly against yours--deeply. As if he wanted to eat you whole. You wanted him to devour you whole. Wanted him to devour you body, mind, and soul.
They were lips you were gifted over and over again as you continued to travel with him. Your tentative relationship with the peddler only grew more powerful the longer you two indulged in each other.
He shared secrets with you that had never seen the light of day before. Secrets of his past and his very purpose on this earth.
You had done the same. Had shared your hopes and dreams and how you’d even come to successfully learn to ward spirits off.
There was nothing you two hadn’t explored and shared together and you found you never wanted it to end.
Another mononoke haunt began some years later. A battle Kusuriuri himself was struggling to win, the frog spirit having slashed into his thigh much to his annoyance.
You had been by his side in moments, having already surrounded those being haunted by the Mononoke in a ring of salt. Though he had been by your side for many years now, he was still entranced with your ability to keep such mononoke away.
“Are you hurt?” You called over the croaking of the spirit before you. One that lashed and clawed and kicked at the invisible barrier you had managed to create.
As Kusuriuri watched you, he couldn’t help but think of how lucky he was to have you by his side. How lucky he was to belong to you…belong…he wanted to be bound to you for as long as this life would allow.
“Marry me.” He spoke, his voice keeping that same even tone despite the weight of emotions raging within him.
You whipped your head around to stare bug-eyed at him. To look at him like he’d gone crazy.
It was a great shock to say the least. One that had allowed the Mononoke to gain an inch on you. You tried to refocus yourself but--
He had never once mentioned marriage. Any and all marriages you both had witnessed had been practically scoffed at by the peddler.
“You--you’ve hit your head.” As you glanced at the peddler still sprawled out on the ground behind you. He was looking in a way that made your heart begin to race. Race like how it’d raced when you two first started this strange relationship of yours.
He looked serious. Very serious.
“I have not.” He said your name slowly. Your heart only gave a fluttering twist. “Marry me.”
“I--why now? You don’t--since when do you care about that? It is a purely human invention.”
“You make me…” He gave a pause, taking note of the way your arms were beginning to strain against the effort of keeping the wild spirit back. “Wish to partake in such human inventions.” He saw your eyes, eyes he could spend hours staring into, begin to bubble with tears at his words.
“You’re serious?” You’re voice came out tight as if still not believing him.
The Mononoke broke through your barrier, then with a roared ribbit. You’re eyes pulled from Kusuriuri and his seemingly impossible question as webbed claws came swiping for your face.
You’re world blurred as strong hands grabbed you up into equally as strong arms, wind whirling around you as you were rushed away. You grabbed hold of Kusuriuri’s colorful kimono for support as he moved with fluid grace through the hauntee’s home.
“Deathy.” He purred, lips brushing over the shell of your ear in a way that made your skin explode with goosebumps.
Your feet had hardly found the ground before he was reaching into the expanse of his outfit to grab a handful of triangle-folded bits of white paper. Kusuriuri threw them in a curving motion, the bits of paper springing into their rectangular shape as they found a temporary home along the floor before you, the walls on either side, and on the ceiling. They flashed a bright red eye as the Mononke rammed itself into yet another invisible barrier.
The masters of the house you had left to stand in a circle of salt gave frightful screams at the sight of it, but neither you nor Kusuriuri paid them too much mind.
“You feel for me that deeply?” You questioned, another ribbit shaking the very ground you all stood on. “To be bound to me in that way for as long as I might live?” Kusuriuri crossed the small distance that lay between you both, thin fingers lacing between your own.
“Yes,” He spoke so surely. “And then some. I wish to be bound to you in this life and the next.” His face grew closer, eyes never once leaving yours. Never once stopped showing you such emotion he so very rarely let run this wild. “Till the skies fall and nothing but dust remains, I wish to belong to you.” You held onto his hand like a lifeline.
“Oh--only for that long?” You couldn’t help the slight tease. Not when you were feeling so--so loved. A love no one had ever shared with you before. A love you only ever wished to be blessed with by him.
Kusuriuri cracked a wide grin, the tips of his fanged canines flashing at you.
“Till the next world is upon us, I wish to love you.” His hand gave yours a squeeze. “Marry me?” He questioned once more.
Your eyes began to burn all over again in your utter joy. Joy you let spur you forward into his awaiting arms. Joy you let guide your lips against his. A joy you wished to express to him in the passion of the kiss you gave him. A kiss Kusuriuri was quick to give back. A joy he was quick to express back.
“Yes.” You murmured against his lips. “I wish all that too. I wish to be bound to you. I wish to love you with my every breath. I wish to love you after the breath has ceased to flow through my lungs.” You grinned so bright it began to sting at your cheeks. “Yes. Yes I will marry you.” Kusuriuri kissed you once more. Kissed you so deeply you almost forgot about the Mononoke ribbiting in bloodthirst your way.
“What are you doing!” The lady of the house screeched. “Proposals?! Now! Get away from each other and kill that thing!”
“Oh, we shouldn’t have thrown her into that bog.” The lord of the house moaned weakly. “We shouldn’t have tossed our little girl into that bog.” A sharp smack sounded as the lady tried to shut her husband up.
“She was a freak!” Kusuriuri smirked against your lips, blue eyes opening only by the smallest amount to share his sparkling amusement with you.
“Truth.” He whispered against your lips. You smirked back as the sword tucked safely in his wooden crate gave a click then a bang against its confines.
“She was five! Such a precious gem.” The lord cried, sobs shaking through his body as the sword gave yet another clicking bang in beg for freedom.
“Humm…it’s shape?” You whispered in question to the peddler you were ecstatic to forever stay with.
“It’s shape.” He agreed, turning his face away from you only to watch the wrathful spirit rage.
“Shall we ask them all the reason?” You again questioned, letting your hand linger in his for a moment longer.
in which you must take your father's place in the army, but keep clashing with the commander you're supposed to fool!
contains: lishang!toji x mulan!reader (YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS ) , toji gets a gay panic, toji isnt chinese so he doesnt fit here at all but idgaf because i said so, slight bondage, straight rawdogging cause captain goes straight to business 😛😛, porn with plot, LOTS of mulan references if you lock in you'd get it, HITTING IN FROM THE BACK 😨
for @jazzthatonewriterchick aint no fairy tale event! im so late but im SO HERE
5k
It was late.
Too late for the moon to shine, birds starting to chirp in the slightest streams of sunlight. Too early for you to be awake, too early for your local bread vendor to cross your streets.
Too early to have cut your hair and dressed yourself in armour, standing in line with males in a military camp. Too early to force your voice to be deeper, to stand straighter and taller.
Too early to face the scrutinizing gaze of Captain Toji.
Your hair was pulled back as far as it could go, stretching the skin of your forehead uncomfortably into a tight bun at the back of your skull. You were already mourning the loss of the hair you had to cut off, but you definitely couldn't show it on your face.
The Captain had started to walk across all the new recruits, arms behind his back in a way that seemed more intimidating than if he were outright slapping you. If you hadn't wasted time talking to that fuckass tiny dragon, maybe you wouldn't appear as sweaty as you did. Though, you had a sneaking suspicion that you were sweating out of fear of getting caught way more.
"And you are...?" His eyes gave you a once-over, narrowing suspiciously at your smaller frame. You spluttered for a common male name, and nothing came to mind except "Ping."
"You," Toji turned to his assistant, watching him tick off another name. He grabbed the clipboard from him, going through the details of your alleged identity. "It says here that you're supposed to be disabled, Ping."
You get curious looks from around you, but you force yourself to keep your gaze as innocent as possible. Well, as innocent a man could get. "There are a lot of Pings in my village, Captain. I'm pretty sure you're talking about dear old Baker Ping." Well, not exactly a lie, that one. Baker Ping should have stopped baking when he lost vision in both of his eyes a decade ago. You were scared to buy from there again for fear of finding another chest hair in your loaf of bread. "We must have gotten mixed up with another group."
"Mhm," he hummed with much disbelief, but moved along the line to your joy. You felt Mushu snigger in your pocket, and you felt the urge to pick him up and throw him right down the mountain.
"What was that about?" A soldier asked you, under the afternoon sun, while the two of you trained with swords. Honestly, he could pass off as more of a girl than you could with that slim-ass figure. Yes, queen, body goals.
"I'm not sure." You gritted your teeth as you held up your sword against his strike, feeling your arms burn. You hadn't exactly had any time to train before you came here, running off as soon as your parents were asleep or before you could change your mind. Your father would most definitely be angry, but at least he wouldn't have to lose his life. The stubborn man refused to stay at home or hide himself, even after giving half his life to the army already. His leg wasn't going to fix itself, but you could train to become as strong as he once was.
"Fight harder!" Came the Captain's orders from across the field, very much directed towards the two of you. I mean, what did he expect? The both of you were kind of pussies. He was training himself, beating up a recruit's ass mercilessly. Why couldn't he stop multitasking?
"Yes, Captain!" Came the mutual response, the two of you trying to push harder.
You were originally afraid of being an outcast, considering that you were probably the weakest there, but it turned out there were loners just like you. Sitting uncomfortably on the last seat available during dinner, you found yourself near the soldier from earlier, along with two of his friends. One was genuinely shaped like a midget, and you wondered if he passed the height requirement for the army.
Quickly realising that loners could be friends with loners and be loners together, you were now well acquainted with the slim baddie Ling, garden gnome Yao, and the fucking great wall of China. You still weren't sure what his name was, since he whispered under his breath most of the time.
The four of you were the weakest of the group, and Captain Toji constantly reminded you of that. He would pit you against stronger soldiers constantly, watching you fall over and over, struggling to even get up. His dirty looks in your direction only fueled your self-pity and anger towards the man. Why would he put you with someone at such a higher level? As if that would help you get better. It would only break your spirit.
This newfound alliance, however, was quickly destroyed when Mushu decided to butt his snout into business that wasn't his. You were partaking in a totally normal conversation, mind you, with the three of the men, when Mushu started to speak for you. Insults here and there for no reason, and you had started to look schizophrenic with the way you were hitting your pocket.
This ended with you almost getting pumelled by Yao and ending up with zero allies.
"Aw, don't sulk," Mushu poked at your sides, pulling out a notebook from god knows where. The dragon had decided to keep you up that night, even though you were very happy to put your head on a pillow and pass out. "Look what I got for you! Yes, yes, I know, I'm the best and all-"
"Where did you get my diary?" You yelped, grabbing the leather-bound book and pocketing it as quickly as you could, glaring at Mushu. "You little bitch, you went through my room when?"
"I didn't!" He protested. "The elders did! I just carried it along because they told me to! I didn't even read anything!"
"..."
"Okay, so I read the introduction, so what?"
"..." This time, your lucky cricket filled the silence.
"And a little bit of the pages while you were busy training, that's just because I was bored."
"..."
"OKAY FINE I READ THE FULL THING, I'M SORRY-"
Mushu was promptly dunked in the lake after that. You also did not give him the courtesy of drying himself off with your shirt. Instead, you flipped through your small notebook- half the pages were still empty. Maybe now, you'd have something to do instead of wallowing in self-pity.
The next morning, all the soldiers awoke to a callout into the pavilion. You followed groggily, catching sight of the Captain standing near a long, wooden beam. He waited until all the soldiers were in line before slipping off his robe. "You will all assemble here henceforth, at this time sharp."
Your cheeks heated at the sight of his back muscles before remembering you were a man and this was a non-gay-accepting time period, averting your gaze very quickly. You are a man. You are a man.
"Ooo, tough guy," Yao muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes at the Captain's words. You closed your eyes and pulled the speed face, waiting for him to be banished to the chambers of doom and despair.
"Yao," Captain Toji spoke. He pulled out one of the bows from the stand, aiming an arrow directly at your line. All of you stepped back, leaving Yao open to be incinerated. At the very last second, Toji turned, shooting an arrow to the top of the beam before you could even blink. It wedged itself between the wood with a splintering crack, the end sticking out and glinting in the morning sunrise.
"Soldiers," he shouted over the field. "Your mission is to climb this pole and get that arrow. Yao, thank you for volunteering to go first." He gave a grin to the said garden gnome.
"Oh, I'll do it. And I'll do it with my shirt on," Yao murmured profanities, cracking his knuckles and going to climb the pole before being stopped. "Wait, how could I forget?" The Captain walked up to him, holding out two golden discs. "This one represents strength, and this one represents discipline. You will use these to climb the pole."
Yao's hands fell flat on the ground under the weight. And you suppressed the urge to mutter something yourself. Ah, yes, climb a long pole with circular objects that weigh three times my weight. How innovative.
And it was no surprise when every soldier failed again, and again, and again. While the others were busy trying to do an extra challenge, you were busy trying to survive even the main training. With the bitchass emoji-sized man on your dick for the insults Mushu had spoken, you were continuously sabotaged each training session over and over by Yao and his two goons. Bugs in your shirt, getting tripped over, you name it. It wouldn't have even been that bad if Captain Toji wasn't present every single time, giving you a withering look that had you questioning reality.
You tried to do your part by helping around the troops, cleaning up extra, and using the skills your mother taught you to their full capacity. If she were here now, you would have thrown her a banquet. Every little trick she taught you for cooking, you used for dinners to help the cooks. They seemed to prefer you much more than the other soldiers, especially since you helped them wash the dishes later on. It wasn't like you had anything else to do except fail in training.
Everything you had worked for came crumbling down when Captain Toji approached you one night. He didn't have to say anything. He just had to look at you, arms folded, and your horse at his side.
You already knew what he was saying.
Leave.
It was only a matter of time before your father was discovered, thoughts plaguing your mind as you pulled on the leash of your horse tiredly. You glanced at the camp one more time, trying to figure out how to keep him out of the enlistment, before your eyes fell on the pole. The arrow that stuck out at the top, the weights that lay at the bottom, abandoned.
You tied your horse to one of the wooden posts, approaching the pole. At least, if you were going to leave, let it be after trying the so-called impossible challenge.
Your lucky cricket chirped in dismay as you fell down more than eight times minimum, your muscles screaming at the weight of simply just one disc. If only you could take off your shawl and wrap it around the pole. You would have been able to climb up way faster-
Wait.
You swung the weights around each other curiously, watching the black threads knot together behind the pole. Your face lit up as the sky lit up with the first light of daybreak, pushing yourself up further and further up the pole. Somewhere along the way, you had discarded your shoes, using your bare feet to get a good grip on the wood. When you looked down, you realised that soldiers had been watching you for goodness knows how long, cheering you on loudly.
About to slip, you were pushed forward by only the fact that it would be a public humiliation ritual if you fell down right now. Reaching the top with your core burning, you threw down the arrow with pride.
The shouts had started to heal your broken ego, but nothing could have done more than when you glanced at the ground to see Captain Toji staring up at you. His hands were crossed over his chest, looking down at the arrow before looking back up at you once more with a look far different from before. Sincerity. Impressed.
Pride.
And now that the three chipmunks weren't messing with you, you found that you did far better in the training sessions. You shot arrows with precision, carried the buckets of water with balance you didn't know you had, and fought with sticks till you were topping the ones who had you down just a few weeks ago.
And when you came back to your tent, day after day, you wrote down giddily in your diary how you were the best in the entire troop, and how the Captain had given you a compliment today.
Mushu had simply sat on your shoulders, rolling his eyes at your words. "You like him."
"No," you scribbled down. "I like winning."
Toji was one hundred percent sure he wasn't gay.
That was until you showed up in the army.
Now he was ninety-nine percent sure he wasn't gay.
Surely, all he felt for you was pride? You had been able to best even him in a fight yesterday, and that meant that you were far stronger than you had ever been. It couldn't have been more than happiness at the improvement of one of his students.
Yet, you had such pretty features and looked just like a beautiful girl when the light hit you right. Your laugh may have been boisterous, but there was still a feminine edge to it. What the fuck were you, a femboy? Did femboys even exist in this period?
Toji was fifty percent sure he wasn't gay.
Plus, he had caught you staring at him numerous times this past week. And not in the normal oh my god he's my army captain i'm so scared to fuck up in his prescence look, but as if you were a WOMAN. Which you WEREN'T. This couldn't be good for his mental health.
Toji was twenty five percent sure he wasn't gay.
"Just because I live with men doesn't mean I have to smell like one," you muttered, throwing your clothes over the rock and getting into the lake. The soft moonlight bathed your shoulders, and you could finally let your hair loose. Well, whatever was left of it after you'd cut it off.
Mushu protested. "Girl, they're gonna catch you any moment, and I know there are some things they're bound to notice!"
"Relaaax," you drawled, floating on the water happily and washing yourself off. "Everybody's asleep. Who's going to be out at this ho-"
"Ping?"
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-" You grabbed a lilypad from beside you and held it over the water where you were treading. God, why didn't pollution exist in this time era?
"Ah, it is you," the captain sat down on the coast of the lake, sandy spreading out with his weight. "What are you doing out here so late?"
"Oh, nothing, Captain." You deepened your voice as usual. You had never wished in your life to be more flat-chested than you did now. Goddamn everything to hell. This was the worst time for Mushu to be right. "I'm just cleaning myself from today's training."
"Cleaning isn't a word you hear a lot in the army," he chuckled, and you had to pause and blink for a second. Was this the first time you'd heard him laugh?
"Ah, well, my mother always drilled it into me to bathe," you laughed, trying to keep all awkwardness out of your voice.
"I miss getting in the lake, too," he admitted, looking at the water with a hint of wistfulness. "But the duty of a captain means barely any free time." You felt a bit guilty for being in the lake now, seeing as he had probably meant to get in as well. You couldn't have chosen another night to wash up. "I am very grateful for your help around the camp, Ping. You cook well."
"Thank you," you bowed your head slightly, happy at the appreciation. Who knew all it took for some praise was to climb a big, long stick?
"I might as well get in now, don't you think?" He had started to untie his silk pants, and your brain was screaming at you to just go under the water and drown before your trusty three chipmunks heard your bat signal.
For whatever reason, the entire troop had decided that they wanted to have a dip, too. For the price of seeing close to forty naked men jump into a water body you were currently in, you got to escape in the chaos, wrapping a towel around yourself and running behind your horse. Perhaps, after this, he was a goat. (IM SORRY IM SORRY IM SORRY)
But all that could plague your mind that night was the sight of the Captain's deft fingers undoing the knot of his pants. What if you'd let him? Surely, before getting executed, you would have been able to see -
Okay. Maybe you liked him.
I mean, who wouldn't like a man constantly shirtless and fighting? The scar at the corner of his mouth that tilted up every time he smirked, the way his hair fell over his forehead when he had it loose from his usual army updo.
A straight man. That's who wouldn't like him. But unfortunately, you were a very, very straight woman when it came to Captain Toji. So much so that one day you almost forgot that you were supposed to be an XY chromosome, walking out without binding your chest tight enough and then rushing back inside as fast as possible.
Okay. You definitely liked him.
But there was nothing you could do about it! Even though he seemed to look at you in a weird way. Maybe, if he were gay, you would have a chance?
No, that would never work. Gay guys needed dicks to suck, something you clearly didn't have.
"Focus." The Captain's voice rang out, snapping you out of your daydream and slapping you down hard with the wooden stick. "What are you doing today, Ping?"
You rubbed your eyes, watching him hold out his hand. You took it hesitantly. "Sorry, Captain."
"Something on your mind?" He asked, his voice gravelly. You shook your head. Something is definitely on my mind.
"Or, something you're hiding?" You choked on your spit, doubling over and cursing when Chien-Po, the apparent Great Wall of China, slapped your back to try and help you. You probably broke one of your vertebrae there.
"N-No, Captain," you choked out, watching his eyes crease at the ends with amusement, tilting his head with a knowing look. "Why would you say that?"
"Oh, nothing," he shrugged, moving past you. His hand brushed against your waist, causing you to flinch. "Just making small talk."
Small talk, your ballsack. Captain Toji never did small talk. About to go overthink, he turned back to you once more. "And, Ping?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"I hope you know that the soldiers weren't allowed to carry leather notebooks in this troop."
You sat back down on the ground in horror, Mushu giving a small "oops" from wherever he was in your clothes, and Cri-Kee giving you an awkward backtrack of doom.
Oh no. Oh no.
You ran back to your tent when your legs finally got feeling back, checking underneath your pillow and feeling horror settle in your stomach. Your diary was gone, and Mushu was standing like a guilty cat near your blanket.
"Mushu," you growled, dread filling your face and heart and lungs and you were going to get executed, weren't you? This was your last day, and he was toying with you. You were committing treason by doing this, after all.
"MUSHU!" You exclaimed, catching the traitor by his tail and dangling him upside down. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"
"NOTHING!" He tried to hide his face. "I was just reading your latest entry outside, and then that wretched captain came up, so I had to hide myself, but I forgot to take the book with me and-"
You sat down on your blanket, holding the pillow to your face and screaming loudly. This was it. This was the end. You couldn't believe that you were going to die before your troops even got to go to war.
Toji himself was very, very relieved after reading through the suspicious notebook. First, very flattered by the way you wrote about his compliments in detail, and second, very relieved that he was not imagining things.
Toji was one hundred percent sure that he wasn't gay.
The next evening, you were called to Captain Toji's office.
"Strip."
That was the first order you received. "I'm sorry?"
"Do you have a problem?" He tilted his head. "Surely, we're both men here. It shouldn't be anything new for me to see."
You paused, hands hovering over your robes. Shit, you should have worn armor and come. It would have given you an extra few minutes of life.
"Captain, I-"
"Strip."
You sighed, removing the ribbon of your robes as slowly as you could. You slipped the material off your shoulders, leaving you in your pants and your tight, tight binding on your chest.
Toji raised an eyebrow, and you took off your pants as well, sullenly. He opened his mouth, though you knew he was just asking for the sake of it: "Why is your chest wrapped?"
Well, if you were going to go out, at least you could go out with a bang. You didn't see the need to talk to your captain with respect now that you were going to die.
"I'm a woman; that's why," you snapped. "Do you need me to unwrap this, too?" You pulled at the bandages on your chest.
"I mean, by all means, go ahead," He shrugged, causing your cheeks to heat up. "But before you strip-tease, I would like to know the reason a woman would want to join an army."
"I needed to protect my father," you tried to explain yourself, purposefully ignoring his previous comment. You watched him get up from his seat, stalking towards you. "He was injured. He could not have possibly fought this war."
"Do you think there are no other men here who may be injured?" He asked curiously, eyes raking over you. "Do you think that in all of the troops, there are men of different ages and builds, still willing to serve the army?"
"I don't care about the other men over here," you growled. "My duty is to my heart and my family."
"Interesting." He had started to circle around you, like an eagle watching a rat. "Do you know why I did not execute you on the spot after I went through your diary, Ping? Though I must say, that's not an appropriate name to use anymore. What should I call you, soldier?"
You spoke your name, and he repeated it, committing it to memory. "Why do you think I have not executed you yet?" He repeated his question.
"I honestly think it's just to humiliate me," you admitted under your breath, picking at the binding.
"Now why would I humiliate my best soldier?" You could hear the cocky amusement in his voice, making your skin burn. He was currently behind you, so you couldn't even see his expression.
"Because your best soldier has a vagina."
"No," he said evenly, and you startled at the touch of his fingertips at your ribs. "That is precisely the opposite reason."
"...What?"
He spun you around to face him, untying your hair from the bun you had kept it up in. "Do you know what men miss in the army the most?" He purred, fingers spinning the ribbon around.
"Freedom?" You guessed weakly.
"Women." He tossed the ribbon somewhere onto his floor mattress. "And you are no exception to the category."
You opened your mouth to fight with some sort of insult against his supposed sexism when he shut you up by trailing his fingers down the column of your neck. "Not only can you cook and clean, but you can also fight and wield with might. You already prove my father's biases wrong the moment you stepped foot in this troop."
Your ears started to turn red with both his words and his proximity. His hands had stopped at your collarbones, but seeing that you hadn't moved away, he inched lower. With the speed he was moving at, he was giving you every chance to turn and flee from his tent.
"But surely, there can't be no reprimand for this action," Toji murmured, starting to peel off your binding carefully. "What do you think, soldier? What punishment do you think you deserve?"
Which is how you found yourself in a dark tent with your captain on top of you.
Now, where could you even start? The part where his candle flickered out? The part where you were ecstatic that you didn't have to be gay to kiss him? The part where he used his tongue to pull you apart in ways you didn't even know were possible? Or the part where he was currently drilling into you?
Okay, let's start with that.
Considering the fact that you had come from an orthodox village, your freak was already off the charts if you asked the elders. But you were still a virgin, so it was quite nice for Toji to push in as slowly as he could. You had bitten onto his arm in pain, holding on for dear life as he stretched you out with a cock you weren't sure even your horse had. You'd asked him to move as slowly as he could, and he complied, though you could see that it pained him to do so.
That was, until you'd started to squeeze so hard he thought you were going to milk him dry. He'd had to place one of his big hands over your mouth to suppress your sinful noises, flipping you onto your front so he could press your head into the pillows when even that couldn't stop your moans.
Your back was in the meanest arch, and even then you knew he was going easy on you. His thrusts may have been deep, but they weren't as fast as he could have gone. His restraint was showing, especially with the way his grip on your hair tightened with each passing moment.
He leaned forward till you could feel him press against your back, hips pummeling into you in ways that made you see stars. Shit, if you were going to fucked like this everytime your cross-dressed, you would have done it fucking ages ago. "Stop thrashing, brat."
Your arms had been clawing at his blankets for the last few minutes, unable to do anything in this position but arch and take every inch. Every time you tried to move, he would push your back down further. "I'm trying," you slurred. You swore you had drooled somewhere in the middle; you were so fucked out.
"Tch." Before you knew it, he'd grabbed the ribbon that was in your hair just half an hour ago and was now bound around your hands. You winced as he pulled them behind your back, using your arms as leverage to drill further in, if it was even possible. How did he manage to tie the ribbon so fast? How did he even find the ribbon in the dark?
"Stop moving away," he grunted, his thrusts becoming sloppy. Your thighs had already become numb- you'd cum at least three times already. "If bad girls deserve punishments, they have to take them."
You kept your mouth shut, burrowing into the pillows once more before you felt a sharp sting on your ass. You yelped, turning your head around as far back as it could go.
"I don't think silence is the correct answer, soldier."
"Y-Yes, Captain." Your words were punctuated with whimpers, and he smushed your face into the pillows once more to smother them. You felt another familiar coil in your stomach tighten, letting the pleasure wash over you without trying to fight it. You squeezed around his length so tight that he cursed into your shoulder, cumming with stars in your vision.
"Fuck, don't squeeze on me like that." He'd started to go faster, licking up a long stripe from the middle of your spine to your neck, making you shudder. "Turn around, turn around right now."
As if you could turn around yourself. You were like a rag doll right now, completely blissed out and at his mercy. He flipped you over himself, kissing you messily as you creamed around his cock. You could feel the slight roughness in his lips where the scar passed through, and you tried to nip on it clumsily. The action seemed to throw him over the edge, and he pulled out as fast as he could before you felt warm sprays all over your stomach and inner thighs. He let out a downright pornographic moan, and it was your turn to reach up in horror and cover his mouth.
His fist clenched around the base of his cock, leaving more messy ropes of seed over your stomach, some even reaching your breasts. He collapsed next to you as you reached a finger down to lick up a bit, scrunching your face at the salty taste.
He laughed at your reaction, using your discarded robe to wipe off the sweat and the cum lazily, before blindly reaching for the blanket with his feet. You assumed you were supposed to go back to your tent now, but if he was the one putting the blanket on you, surely he didn't mind?
"So, soldier, do you want to keep this job?"
You waited until your breathing evened out, using your brain to connect dots. You turned to face him on your side. "I want a law stating that women can join the army."
"I'll send a request to the General."
"Same time next week?" A giddy smile passed through your expression. Well, well, well, look who got stuck on the bait.
"As if." He growled, pulling the blanket up until it covered you up to your nose. "Same time tomorrow."
a/n: mulan my love my favourite i love mulan mulan is my childhood mulan is my soul nothing can ever make me hate mulan i love you mulan
The mission in space was every physics teacher's wet dream. And yet, when you found yourself alone on a spaceship, dread filled your mind. Fortunately, it turned out you weren’t quite alone. As a weird creature you’ve met by accident seemed to be quite happy in helping you finish a mission and keep a warm company.
𖥔 ݁ ˖pairing: ꒰ Alien!Gojo Satoru x Physics teacher!Reader ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖content/warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18+ : fluff, fluff, fluff : also a bit of angst : mutual masturbation : use of sex toys : happy ending : women in stem, doomed to never being able to touch each other : prepare some tissues : space : aliens : Satoru is a brat in every universe : alien's D : mates and mentions of mating ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖WC: ꒰ 15k ꒱
𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: This story is based on the movie Project Hail Mary. Shoutout to @indiewritesxoxo whose story The One That Got Away inspired me to write a space-based fanfic!
dividers by @diviniyae
art by daichichirou on tt
"Miss, what's the space like?" a little girl with round frames asked you once during the class.
What's the space like? You wondered for a moment, with similar glasses resting on your nose.
Little models of planets swirled under the ceiling, clashing against each other with warm beams of sunshine curling around their painted bodies. The classroom stilled with silence, heavy and curious, marked by a dozen little eyes glancing up your furrowed forehead.
"Unfathomed," slipped almost in a whisper. But the kids were too young to understand this word, so you tried again. "It's endless, deep, mesmerising, silent, like–"
"Like a night?" a boy from the first row asked, playing with the wooden spaceship, all the children in the class had just finished painting.
You chuckled, playing with your own little toy, brushing the little silver window with a thumb.
"Much, much quieter," the spaceship landed on your desk, right next to the little, soft ball painted like Earth. Your eyes shimmered as you looked around the class of a dozen munchkins. "What do you hear while sleeping?"
Something began to coil in their little Einstein heads, with soft foreheads furrowed in thought. A flicker of an idea – a spark, their young minds were yet to discover and nourish throughout their lives.
You watched them with a smile, something warm spreading beneath your chest. Not everyone was born to be a teacher, with the day-to-day tiring work of preparing materials for classes, conducting lessons and checking all the foolish assignments that neither you nor the children liked. The education system truly was a shit hole from the very first steps those young minds took.
"Miss, that's a silly question," a little girl without one front tooth giggled. "We can't hear anything while we're sleeping!"
You hummed softly as you picked up the small earth ball. It yielded gently beneath your fingers, and the woollen toy, crocheted by your mother herself, felt pleasantly soft against your skin.
The bell would ring soon, and the afternoon sun was high in the sky, creeping through the tall, clean windows into the small classroom. Summer break was almost here, and the sweltering heat lingered in the stuffy air, filled with children's coughs and soft breathing.
"Exactly," you said, sitting on the desk and tossing the ball into the air. "That's what space is like. You can't hear anything."
"But what if I close my ears?" another boy said, pressing his hands to them. "I can't hear anything now, miss!" he screamed, setting off a wave of sweet giggles from his classmates.
The small green ball flew his way, and the boy caught it in one hand, scowling. "Hey, miss, that's not fair!"
"That was not, I do admit," you slipped off the desk, walking around the classroom. All small pairs of eyes followed you like puppies. "But you see, in space, there would be no need to cover your ears, because there is no air or matter for sound to travel through. Even when you're sleeping, there's always something out there, right?" Your eyes met a few nodding Einsteins before drifting towards the window. "You can hear the crickets singing under your window and the wind swirling between the leaves. But in space, there's nothing. Simply an empty, endless realm stretching beyond our comprehension."
A few droplets of sweat coiled on your temple, and you quickly brushed them with a thumb. Glasses sat crookedly on your nose, hair slipped away from a pin-up, and so you pushed them behind your ear.
"Miss, the space sounds so scary," the girl with round frames sighed. "I don't want to be an astronaut anymore."
You chuckled, coming to the previous boy and stealing a soft lump of earth from his sticky fingers. "The space may feel lonesome if you're there alone. But now, astronauts usually go in groups." The ball landed back on your desk, brushing gently against the wooden spaceship. "But even if you were alone, I think the view would be worth the night spent in loneliness."
And as it would soon turn out, nothing was worth the years spent alone. On the huge spaceship, with endless darkness spreading across the little window and years spent somewhere doing God knows what.
"The sun is dying," the government envoy had said. "Can you help us save the world?"
She caught you right after one of the classes, with a half-empty cup of instant noodles and cheeks peppered with crimson chilli-oil kisses. Arrived with a tall, muscular man and a printout of the PhD dissertation, placing a copy on your messy desk.
Your forehead crinkled, eyes landed on a neat, Times New Roman formatted title, An Analysis of Water-Based Assumptions and Recalibration of Expectations.
"That's not mine," you mumbled, going back to the cup of noodles. You hadn't eaten anything for a whole day, and your stomach was already pressed against your spine, with hunger twisting your weary mind.
"That's your name, isn't it?" she said, pressing a neatly trimmed nail against the smaller letters beneath the title.
You didn't even spare her a glance and simply shook your head. "No, I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
Both she and the man sighed, rolling two small chairs from the children's desk to sit in front of yours. With eyes fixed on your face, grimacing in ignorance, and a few locks of hair slipping into the cup.
"I'm Yuki," she said, crossing her legs before looking at the man with the dullest, most bleary eyes you have ever seen. "And that's Choso. We're from a… well. Now you only need to know that we work for NASA."
And that meant one thing – trouble.
Seeing your utmost disinterest, she continued in a warm tone. "Listen, we know your dissertation was a fantastic breakthrough that the supervising committee didn't appreciate. But–"
"A small correction," you interrupted, with eyes still glued to an almost empty cup. "They did not not appreciate me, but completely failed me. My research was proven wrong, and I spent almost five years chasing something that was never there. So no, it wasn't a breakthrough or anything."
Her long fingers clenched into a fist, and a tongue nervously filled a creamy cheek. "Listen, in our current world situation, we believe that your research wasn't pointless. The hypothesis that life can exist without water–"
"Which was ultimately proven that it cannot," slipped in a whisper, gaze still following anything but those two.
"Right," she sighed, staying shockingly patient. "But the thing is, it actually may."
And for the first time in the past five minutes, you finally looked at her. With eyes hidden behind librarian-like glasses, a white shirt neatly pressed against your body, and chilli oil still coating lower lip. You brushed it quickly with a tissue before clearing throat.
"You have five minutes."
But Yuki needed just a second.
"There are some… microbes, the nature of which we aren't yet sure, that are slowly eating the sun. If we don't do something, in thirty years the global temperature will drop enough to kill every life on Earth."
A long, heavy silence stretched between the three of you, though she was the one doing the talking. The man in a suit sat in silence. He was rather handsome, with dark hair falling long down his neck and purplish under-eye bags framing his deep, doe-like eyes.
Feeling your eyes fixed on his face, Choso wriggled in place. "We believe that you are one of the few scientists who can help in research on those microbes."
A deep sigh slipped past your lips as you took off your glasses and closed eyes. A pulsing headache was filling your mind, weighing down an already overstimulated brain. A few short strands of noodles clung to the bottom of the plastic cup, looking up at your weary eyes, pleading to go home.
You finally murmured, throwing the cup into the bin, "I don't see how that's my problem. I'm just a physics teacher, the academic environment pushed me away, and I believe there are many more qualified scientists for this role."
Yuki's forehead furrowed, lips pressed in a line. "Not your problem? The world is dying, and you think it's not your problem?"
You could almost see a grey smoke drifting above her head, eyes shining like two coffee beans. Golden hair brushed against her suit-covered breasts, with a few straight strands sticking to soft cheeks. She appeared magnificently commanding, exuding a dominant aura of someone beyond the law. Even sitting on a small children's chair, you felt goosebumps cover your bare shoulders.
You leaned back in a chair, the hard backrest digging into your spine. "I just don't understand why it should be me. This," you pointed at a three-hundred-page dissertation, "was just a foolish fantasy of my younger self. And trust me, I felt how stupid it was," your eyes fell to your fingers, playing with a soft, earthy ball. "No one treats me like a scientist anymore."
And then, Yuki stood up.
Suddenly, reaching over the desk right to your shirt, before pulling you closer with a single move. Eyes fixed on yours like a deadly viper, and a sweet note of heavy perfumes hit your nostrils.
"Try it," she gritted through her teeth. "Accept my offer till I'm still begging. I don't want things to get messy, but I really need your help on this one."
And so, feeling rather threatened, you nodded swiftly and followed the kind smile that lifted up her lips.
Now, three years later, reflecting on that time, you never felt as happy and alive as you did then. Surrounded by the world's most exceptional scientists, working on alien, new microbes – the freshest discoveries in current scientific research – spending days and nights fuelled by bitter coffee, sitting in the labs.
The time didn't matter, as long as you could work on your research. To once again feel like a valuable input to the academic environment and a student from your PhD days, when the world was most beautiful under the microscope and while collecting the newest data.
Your heart raced during the meetings as your fingers carefully noted each idea, each plan that other scientists put forward. The greatest minds in the world, flooding your own with plans and speculations you could've never thought of. Your brain fired multiple times a day, always running, always getting fed with new questions and solutions.
Why is the sun dying?
How can we stop it?
How to produce enough fuel to go all the way right to the sun?
Is that even possible?
But then it was revealed that an alien microbe was composed entirely of water, and your world collapsed. Because it finally confirmed the very point you've been secretly trying to reject for years, proving to you that cells cannot survive without water.
Your heart broke, and a wave of shame washed over your spine. The shame connected to your younger self, foolishly believing in a greatness of discovery no one has ever made. Something worth the international conferences, massive grants, Nobel Prize, and yet, you needed a single, alien cell, something not belonging to the human world, to finally prove those old geezers from your committee right.
The white, big lamp of the lab flickered; darkness spilt over the endless night. Nothing but a faint buzz of mosquitoes filled the lab, hitting the window again, and again, and again. Hungry and relentless, looking at your body hunched over the failed experiment and slightly trembling lip.
You haven't noticed someone else's presence until something cold and wet touched your cheek. Turning the head around, you noticed a can of soda and Choso's pale fingers wrapped around it.
"Thanks," escaped in a whisper, as you took the drink.
He nodded, sitting on the stool right next to you. Your lab partner, who's been through your highs and lows for the past few weeks. The biggest encouragement and life support, always reminding you to eat well and drink something other than a third coffee in a row. He was another government body, Yuki's closest friend, yet – you liked him.
He felt the most normal here, and thus, your head rested on his shoulder, while hair covered the slightly wet cheeks.
"Are you crying?" he asked quietly.
Your head shook, and a second later, a loud sniff rolled. Choso chuckled, offering a tissue.
"Thank you, Cho," you mumbled, trying to hide the streaming tears behind the wide glasses.
He nodded, waiting for you to calm down a bit. The white lamp buzzed quietly, and the screen of the computer shone bright with your PhD dissertation. The thick letters of the title, with your name written right below.
Three hundred pages of bullshit born from your silly dreams. The Nobel Prize? Dear heavens, you barely deserved to be part of the current team.
"That's not the end of the world, you know?" he said, then pressed his cheek with tongue. "Hm, no. It actually is."
You laughed disgustingly, with a snort slipping out of your nose and another wave of tears streaming down your face. "I'm sorry," slipped almost silently. "I'm sorry, I proved you all wrong."
Choso sighed, looking at your sorry state. He pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear and brushed away a single tear with a soft thumb. "No, you didn't. Now that we know what it's made of, you can think about another solution."
But there isn't another solution, you wanted to say, and instead bit down on your lower lip. The words bubbled in your throat, but a thin thread of hope still pulled at your heart. A faint wish that maybe this discovery wasn't a disaster. That the alien cell, made almost entirely of water, could somehow help with the mission.
That you could still prove yourself as a true scientist.
"Hey," Choso whispered, turning your face towards him. Deep, warm eyes shimmered with kindness as he offered a soft smile and gently pinched your cheek. "You are one of the smartest people I have ever met. I'm sure you can figure this out. Yuki believes in you. I believe in you." Staring into his eyes, you nodded with a pout. He chuckled and opened your soda with a quiet hiss. "Alright, let's call it a day and get back to it tomorrow. We still have time."
But the fact was that – you didn't.
And it was painfully obvious in how Yuki glanced into your lab every few days, asking about progress and results in halting the spread of alien microbes on the sun. Her neatly plucked eyebrows furrowed whenever you shook your head, and a short, stressed sigh escaped her rosy lips.
Try to hurry up, she would usually say, pulling a not-so-comforting smile.
Weeks went by, and everyone's stress increased. Yuki decided to set up a deadly mission, sending a team of astronauts to collect data personally.
The catch? They wouldn't return.
While there was enough fuel to reach the star teeming with alien microbes, there wasn't enough to return. Their goal was to collect the microbes, find a way to stop them from consuming the sun, and send all the data back to Earth.
The first time you heard about it, your knees almost buckled. It sounded outrageous, absolutely crazy, and the chance of finding someone mad and healthy enough to meet the requirements perfectly was already impossible.
And as it turned out, you were wrong.
The four astronauts were more than willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good – to venture into the vast, endless space and perish there, in the company of strangers and eerie silence. To become saviours on a mission that could save the entire world.
Except, there was a risk the mission would fail.
Except, no one knew if they wouldn't lose their lives for nothing.
Because if that happened, if it turned out that all the money and sacrifices the government has invested in it would go to waste, the world would truly descend into shambles.
You stood against it from the very beginning, but Yuki had already decided. And so there was nothing left to do but help the spaceship travel the twelve light-years towards the only star that was also dying, devoured by an alien microbe.
One hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres.
An unimaginably vast distance a simple mind could not grasp, yet you had to find a way to make it work. To figure out how to gather enough fuel to propel the massive, metal spaceship through every single kilometre.
And after a few weeks of getting yourself filled with coffee and nights spent outside the NASA base, gazing up into the endless darkness, you finally got it.
"The alien microbes possess unimaginable power," you said in one breath, looking like a madwoman. With hair twisted into a messy braid, hands shaking from too much caffeine, eyes glimmering as if possessed by Einstein himself. Your fingers gripped the black marker before drawing another black dot on the whiteboard. "You see, what we can do is allow the engines to feed the alien microbes into a reaction chamber and boil them to the point of natural breeding. This way, the cells will multiply and multiply, allowing us to use them in a much more efficient way," the black marker swooshed all over the board, drawing a crooked picture of the spaceship.
At least thirty pairs of eyes, seated in a conference room at NASA headquarters, stared into it with furrowed yet hopeful gazes. Yuki and Choso, among them, tried to understand the point you were making. The crazy discovery you had made mere hours earlier, before quickly asking for a meeting.
"Our ship doesn't need turbines, generators or heat exchangers, because there's no conventional fuel. It works as a sort of ship driven by light energy–"
"That's impossible," someone among the other scientists interrupted. "You cannot fuel a ship of such dimensions with light alone."
You nodded, whispering like a psycho under your breath, head buzzing with numbers. "Yes, you cannot do it with the sources we have here, on Earth. But," you turned back towards the whiteboard. "Our ship is not like the others, and the microbes allow us to actually use the light force as a fuel. Look, for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Newton's third law, we all know it, right?" A few heads nodded in unison. "Well, our ship will emit light in one direction, while Newton's law will push it in the other. I know it used to work only in theory, but with the amount of power packed into a single microbe, we can use it for our good. In short, the alien power goes into the ship, the light comes out, and we can move forward."
A long, heavy silence filled the room as you finished your little drawing. Black lines coated the board, crossing the black dots and twisting around the childishly drawn ship. You pushed your glasses up your nose and tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear.
That was it. Nothing else could've been done on your side. If none of the scientists and governmental bodies believed your crazy plan could work, there was no other way to put the ship on a direct course towards that star.
Yuki sighed and looked around nervously. While people whispered, shook their heads, or took notes, no one offered you a warm nod or made direct eye contact. But it also seemed that no one else had a better idea.
"Are you sure it can work?" Yuki asked, a heavy gaze lingering as warmth crept up your cheeks. "It's over a hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres. Are you sure the ship can be fuelled only by this alien microbe?"
Something weighed on your heart. Fear, panic, years spent believing you weren't good enough to become a real scientist. Those snickers from the PhD commission stating your research was useless. The rejections from one scientific conference after another, as no one wanted to accept your proposals.
Days spent on crying and staring at your dissertation, as if looking at it long enough would suddenly make it all worth it.
And then, under the cold light of the conference room, with thirty heads staring at you in blank mimicry, you needed to make a decision.
The one that would soon turn into a weight on your life.
"Yes," finally slipped. Strong and confident, as you corrected glasses slipping off your nose. "I can make it work."
But then…
But then the catastrophe came.
The betrayal.
Yuki apologising with utmost sincerity. Choso sitting quietly in the corner of her office. Three men keeping your body down.
From the moment you saw the space crew, one thought kept lingering in your mind. You dismissed it with a casual "they'll figure it out" wave, ignoring the instinct that indicated something was off – something that should have been clear from the start.
Why didn't the space crew have the scientist?
And a day before the departure, you finally discovered why.
"I'm sorry, I'm really so so sorry," Yuki said, trying to calm your wriggling body. The man's hands dug deep into your spine, keeping the hands and knees in place, with a cheek pressed to a dirty carpet. "We don't have any choice, and you wouldn't agree if I asked–"
"Of course I wouldn't!" you screamed, trying to bite the soft hand that reached towards you. "It's a fucking suicide! I'm a simple teacher; I can't go to a fucking space–ah, can you be a bit more gentle?!" But the men's fingers were already wrapping your hands with a thick rope. "Yuki, you can't do it to me!"
The woman didn't say anything. She merely opened her office door and beckoned someone inside. Wearing a white robe and holding a syringe between their fingers.
Your mind raced, breathing became almost impossible, and your throat clenched as you fought the sudden urge to vomit on the carpet. You tried to meet Choso's gaze, but he sat in the corner with his head in his hands, avoiding your gaze since you entered the office.
"Choso," you cried, as the doctor came closer. Long, thin needle shimmered under the office's cold lamp, sending a shiver down your spine. "Choso, l-look at me. You fucking coward, you bastard!" Fat tears rolled down your cheeks as the man sat like a stone figure. "You knew about it from the beginning, right? How could you do this to me?!"
Deep, warm eyes that you spent days gazing into finally looked up. Slightly wet, a bit hazy, while taking in the miserable state you found yourself in. Your glasses slightly crooked, lying a bit away from teary face. A few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks, arms twisted painfully behind back.
His fingers dug into the leather chair, as if trying to force himself to stay back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't… I couldn't bring myself to tell you…"
"That I'm going for a fucking suicidal mission?!" you interrupted, still trying to kick the men off your body. "I thought we were friends! I trusted you! And you simply sold me away?"
Yuki shivered, her gaze shifting between coldness and heartbreaking warmth whenever she looked at your writhing body. She slipped her trembling hand into the pocket of her jeans before giving the doctor a small nod.
"N-No," you cried, when the man in white bent down. A sudden, sharp pain washed over your body, tickling the ends of your fingertips. "Please, I d-don't want to, I can't…"
And then, a weariness slowly filled your mind, lulling it into a deep sleep. Your body relaxed, eyes half-closed, as if weighted by the countless sleepless nights you had spent in labs.
The men lifted you up, keeping your head steady, but you didn't feel a thing. Your feet felt funny, light, as if blending into feathers. Some hushed voices started to argue, someone's warm hand brushed your cheek, and a heavy, musky smell filled your nostrils.
And before you lost consciousness, a silent save the earth sneaked into your ear.
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
"Amazing," a low sigh slipped past your lips as you watched a massive ship slowly follow yours.
Monstrous, at least twenty times larger than the spaceship you called home for the past three years, which couldn't be contained within the small window you looked through. It appeared incredibly bright, almost as if it were made of glass, yet you couldn't see anything beyond the thick walls.
It's been shadowing you since yesterday, and it has been following you since yesterday, regardless of how long you travelled or how fast you went; it remained right there. Always in your line of sight from your window, constantly mirroring every move you make.
It was… fascinating. To say at least.
A little frightening? Sure, as you were alone on a ship, with the crew long gone and drifting silently through the vast emptiness of space.
But still – fascinating. It marked the first time a human saw an object outside Earth. Majestic and otherworldly, it looked somewhat familiar yet vastly different. A faint cosmic glow shimmered on its diamond-like walls, casting short beams through your solitary window, as if attempting to communicate. As if the creature within tried to contact.
Still drifting slowly, you bit down on your lower lip. "Maybe I should stop?" you thought out loud, as another flicker of light hit your window. "What if they'll attack me?"
But at this point, already being alone on an impossible, suicidal mission, it seemed that an alien attack would be the least of your problems. In fact, maybe it would even sweeten your life a bit, and before meeting death, you would still have a chance to make the first human contact with life outside Earth.
"Okay," You took a deep sigh, pulling down the engine handle. "Let's see what you want from me."
Your ship stopped, and the monstrous glassed vehicle followed right away. With your forehead pressed to the window, you waited.
And waited, waited, till ten minutes passed and the ship stood still. Your tongue pressed against the soft cheek as you walked back and forth, awaiting any sign of activity. Yet, the vast galaxy outside remained tranquil, a gentle glow reflecting off the smooth, wall-like surface of the enormous ship. It lacked doors and windows, being just a glassy, shimmering exterior that–
"Oh no," your throat tightened as it drew closer. And closer, closer, swooshing towards you, something long slowly sliding out of the ship's tall wall. "Oh, that's bad, fuck."
A panic squeezed your heart, thoughts rushed through a tired mind, and there weren't enough cuticles on your nails to bite them all. The window was too small to see the thing clearly, but it seemed to be heading straight towards your ship's door. A long, shining tube swooshed closer and closer until your ship suddenly vibrated, as if gently brushing against a foreign object.
Your fingers fidgeted with the plush fabric of the shirt, while droplets of sweat made your glasses slide down your temple. With unsteady legs, you cautiously moved toward the astronaut's suit and started pulling it over your body. The zipper felt heavy under your touch, and the bubble-shaped helmet was more suffocating than usual. The oxygen backpack almost doubled your load as you headed toward the door, with heavy pounding in your chest.
Your heart was always perfectly healthy, and yet for the first time in your life, you tried to remember all the possible symptoms of a woman's heart attack.
Chest pain, severe shortness of breath, nausea, radiating pain in the neck and jaw, you counted in your mind, marking each and every sign in your current state.
"Fuck, okay," trembling, glove-coated hands squeezed the handle of the massive, metal door, before you pushed it. It opened with a low, soft creek, inviting you into the endless tunnel filled with darkness.
To your surprise, gravity worked here, and thus you dropped heavily onto the hard floor. A soft oh filled the helmet as you lifted the flashlight a bit higher. Something shimmered at the end of the darkness, yet you weren't sure what.
Your steps didn't echo from the thick walls as you slowly approached the entrance to the alien ship. Thoughts clashed painfully in your mind, questions rose one by one as you breathed with a squeezed chest under the weighty kilograms of a spacesuit.
How many of them were there?
What did they look like?
Were they friendly?
How quick and painful would your death be?
Your mind tried to ignore the last one, as the chance of a cardiac arrest before meeting an alien seemed much more likely. Fingers clutched the flashlight tighter, feet moved carefully, one step after another, sticking to the tunnel's crooked surface.
"Hello?" Your voice bounced off the walls, lined with terror. "Whoever you are, I come in peace!"
Oh, what a cheesy line, you thought, biting down on your lower lip.
After a few steps, the glimmering thing came fully into view, and only then did you notice it was a thick glass wall. Or at least something similar to glass, with a hard surface that stopped you from going any further.
Glove-clothed hand touched it, helmet bumped against it, as you tried to light the darkness spilling behind it.
"Hello?" slipped a bit louder, with your fist knocking on the glass. "Anyone there?"
A silence, dull and endless, filled an eerie tunnel. Looking back, you took a note that your spaceship was still there – safe and sound – and you let out a deep sigh. It's not as if it would suddenly float away, but–
A heavy thump suddenly shook the tunnel's floor.
Your head snapped back, breath hitched, fingers squeezed with a tremble around the flashlight.
"H-Hello?"
The light reflected off something towering and shimmering, slowly moving toward you in a relaxed, unhurried manner, nearly as tall as the tunnel itself. A bluish halo beamed off the creature's body, filling the dark space with a soft aura.
You stepped back, trying to direct a flickering beam straight at the thing coming your way, but your hand trembled too much. The heart was on the verge of stopping, and dread haunted the mind as it drew closer, revealing its height. At least two and a half metres, brushing the ceiling of the tunnel's crooked walls, filling the narrow space with its wide body.
And when the light caught on their face… oh.
The pale blue skin shimmered softly under a luminous glow. It appeared unnaturally smooth, soft, and a sudden, foolish wish to brush it with your thumb swirled inside your mind. White, snowy hair touched the handsome forehead, while nearly inhumanly pale-blue eyes gazed down at your spacesuit-covered body. You looked tiny and short in comparison, with a gloved hand once more resting on the glass wall.
The creature was dressed in a white suit, clinging tightly to its body and digging deep into the hard muscles bulging under its skin. Alien's head tilted, knees bent down, and within a second, it found itself on eye-level with you.
White lashes decorating endless, luminous blue fluttered, as if trying to take in the terror twisting your face.
"⊑⟒⌰⌰⍜," a low, manly voice crept past the glass.
Your eyes bulged like two porcelain plates, fingers pressed closer to the wall.
So he was a man.
Well, you could already figure that much based on his looks, but the warm tone slipping under your bubble helmet was evidence enough.
Your mind didn't register the language at first, but when his soft brow travelled up, and lips curled in a smile, you thought that maybe he was awaiting an answer.
"Oh, um," you took a step back, waving your hand clumsily. "Hello."
The creature's head tilted again, and he mimicked your gesture.
You blinked twice, still struggling to believe the situation you're in. "Uh, okay, what now?" you whispered. "I am..." You pointed at your head and said your name clearly and loudly. "What about you?"
"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the creature said, and a wave of different sounds and tones once again hit your ears.
You sighed, pressing tongue against your cheek. "Right, it's not going to work."
He looked at you, and you looked at him. You, with a slightly furrowed forehead and your mind rushing through all the possible ways to communicate with the alien. He, with lips curled cheekily and pale eyes fixed on your face.
"I wouldn't mind your cooperation, you know?" you mumbled, but he tipped his head left and right, like a curious puppy.
"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the same sounds once again slipped past the glass wall.
His head was tipping and tilting, and a second had passed before you finally understood that he wanted to say something.
"What? I don't understand," you said, mimicking his movements.
And thus both of you were shaking and tilting your heads, going over and over the same ⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒, and I don't understand.
His brows furrowed as if irritated, and large hand touched his chest. He took a deep breath – first and second – then pointed at his head and finally at yours.
Oh.
"You want me to..." you gestured as if removing the helmet. A quiet chuckle escaped him, and eyes glinted. "But I can't breathe here."
He didn't understand and thus pointed at your head once again. "⏁⏃☍⟒ ⟟⏁ ⍜⎎⎎."
Your head shook. "Whatever you say, I cannot take it off. Because I will…" Your hands slipped up to your throat before a wave of trembling convulsions bent your body. It wriggled, shook, before, with a theatrical cough, you fell down the crooked floor.
The creature was staring at you with a furrowed forehead and a gentle flicker of amusement coiling in his spectral eyes.
"Not the best first impression, I know," you muttered, swiftly standing up. "My point is, I can't breathe without it."
But it seemed he either didn't understand or was simply relentless in his pleadings. As the long fingers hit the glass wall, pointing right at your head. Another deep breath slipped past his lips, and he nodded, as if trying to say it was fine. Whatever he filled the tunnel with, you could breathe here.
And thus, the thought of what if slipped quietly into your mind.
What if he was right?
What if he really did fill your half of the tunnel with oxygen?
But what if he was wrong, and the moment the helmet would go off, you would die in inhumane suffering?
Light blue eyes shone with anticipation, lips curled into an encouraging smile, and a finger pressed harder into the glass wall.
You took a deep breath, feeling the droplets of sweat coiling at the nape of your neck. He seemed to be a highly intelligent creature, with the ability to communicate as well as you and a rather comprehensive understanding of the differences between your species. For some reason, trusting him felt almost natural, and the assuring look of his spectral gaze made you drop your head with a sigh.
When fingers hooked on the helmet's edges, your heart was nearing its death. Chest squeezed painfully, eyes closed till the eyelids dug deep into your balls. The sweat was now dripping down your spine, wetting the nape of your neck and shirt that clung to your body under the heavy spacesuit.
"Okay," you whispered, both to yourself and him, and it seemed that he was rather amused by the agony twisting your mind. When he chuckled, your brows furrowed. "Don't laugh. There's a rather big chance this air will burn me from the inside."
And so it happened – your fingers slowly unclasped the neck ring, allowing the pressurised seal to loosen with a soft puf. The bubble helmet was lifted unhurriedly, as if your lungs were still trying to grasp the rest of the oxygen swirling inside it.
With still closed eyes, you took the first breath. And the second, and the third, and then, looking back at the alien, a sweet, loud scoff slipped past your lips and flushed cheeks.
"⌇⟒⟒, ⟟ ⏁⍜⌰⎅ ⊬⍜⎍," he chuckled, pressing his forehead to the glass wall.
Still in shock, you stepped closer, also touching the warm, crystal surface with your brows. "Sure, whatever you say."
You looked at each other for a while, with beaming smiles and foreheads almost brushing as you leaned in, a rather intimate gesture. It seemed that the first meeting with another species broke down some specific walls for both of you. The curiosity and fascination with one another blurred the lines of proper manners, breaching all the careful first steps you surely should think of.
His eyes flickered, suggesting a new idea had just come to him. He raised a finger and gestured for you to stay put. After your gentle nod, he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving you alone with your thoughts swirling in your mind.
Five minutes passed, then ten, and as you sat on the crooked floor and took off the heavy spacesuit, he finally came back, with something gripped by his hand.
You looked closer, noticing the collar-like device and a small earplug. He placed it inside his ear while wrapping the collar around the pale neck. A faint, crispy sound filled his side of the tunnel, and milky brows furrowed as he pressed onto the device in his ear.
And then, with a gesture, he asked you to say something.
"Um," your head tilted, and he sat right in front of you, waiting with a soft smile. "You are rather pretty for an alien."
His fingers still pressed the small device, and after a second, cheekiness flickered in his eyes. "Am I, question? You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."
To say you froze in shock would be an understatement.
Your lips parted, eyebrows nearly touching hairline, as body leaned forward before your hand pressed against the glass wall. You didn't know whether you were more surprised by either his ability to speak your language or the casual compliment that caused your cheeks to heat up.
"You can…" You shook your head, barely breathing. "But how is it…"
He pointed at his ear. "This device recognises your language," then gestured to his neck. "And connects with this. Whenever I speak in my language, this collar converts it into yours."
A soft ah slipped past your lips, eyes fixed on the thin, crystal band made of a sort of rubber material. Your finger brushed the glass wall, as if trying to feel the device beneath it.
Your brows furrowed when another issue started to bite into your curiosity. "But how do you know my language? How did you build this translator? Our species never made contact."
He sat closer, pressing his forehead to the glass again. At this point, you started to wonder whether it was a sort of typical signal from his species, carrying a special, unknown meaning. And when he beamed with joy, you noticed little white droplets shining faintly, sprinkled around his cheeks. Was this an equivalent of a blush?
"You didn't with us," he pressed a finger to yours, and only then did you see the true, monstrous size of his hand. "But the Reds had been studying you for years."
The reds…
"Oh gosh!" A gasp ripped out of your throat as you covered your mouth with a hand. His head tilted. "The Reds, you mean, Martians?"
"Why are you shocked, question?" he asked, carefully eyeing as you quickly stood up and started walking back and forth between the walls.
Your mind pulsed, trying to comprehend everything that had happened over the past hour. The strange spaceship, the first-ever human contact with life beyond Earth, the final confirmation that aliens did, in fact, kidnap people and conduct experiments on them.
"I'm shocked, because humans never made any contact with life outside our planet," you said, biting down on a fingernail. "How long have you known the Reds?"
A low hum slipped past his lips, and smooth, blue forehead creased. "Five hundred years, I say."
"What?!" Your knees buckled as you once again sat in front of him, with hands and forehead and breasts pressed tightly to a glass wall. "Five hundred years? How is that possible? Are your planets close to each other?"
His head shook, but forehead remained wrinkled. "Humans are very underdeveloped."
You chuckled softly, noticing small, adorable language mistakes the translator made here and there. It's still, robotic voice muffled the creature's deep tone, and something squeezed your heart, as you surprisingly discovered that the honeyed warmth of his tone wrapped your mind in a rather pleasing manner.
"Yes, it seems so." Your head turned, with flushed cheeks pressed to the wall. "But till now I had no idea how far behind we are."
He stayed quiet for a moment before tapping gently on the wall. Your eyes slipped back to his, noticing the droplets sprinkled across his face, radiating adorably like flickering stars.
"My name is Satoru," rolled quietly, as the shimmering dust coated his cheeks ever wider. "Your name, question?"
When you said it slowly, he nodded, still tapping on the surface. Right against your pressed hand. "That's a very beautiful name."
"Yours is not bad either."
He hummed, as if in agreement.
Your head grew heavier and heavier, and the warmth was gently trying to coax you into sleep. As you yawned, Satoru's ghostly eyes carefully followed the exhaustion clouding your forehead.
"Are you tired, question?"
His throat bobbed when you giggled. "You don't have to add a question at the end of each ask, you know?"
You assumed that, because of his grammar rules, he needed to emphasise the difference between normal sentences and inquiries. You've noticed that his language sounded much more melodic than yours, yet it lacked the upward pitch humans use.
"But I am tired, thank you for asking." Looking over your shoulder, you've noticed that your ship was, fortunately, still there. "How about I go to sleep, and we'll get back to our talk in a few hours?"
You slowly stood up and grabbed your heavy spacesuit. Glasses slipped off your nose, and hair stuck to still-warm cheeks, as you lifted up the flashlight and… oh.
It seemed that you missed the sudden sorrow deepening between Satoru's brows. Eyes widened in panic, big palms plastered to the wall with lips just slightly opened, as he looked with a fearful expression at your attempt to move away from the wall. From him.
"Satoru–"
"Can you please sleep here?" His voice trembled, although the translator's robotic tone remained unwavering.
You looked around the tunnel, feeling the crooked ground bending beneath your feet and the dark walls emitting a deep, earthy smell. "I don't think that's a good idea, Satoru." A warm smile lifted your lips as you turned towards your spaceship. "But don't worry, I'll be back. Sleep for a bit, and before you'll notice, I'll–"
"Please," the anxiety filling his shaken voice stabbed right through your heart. "Please let me watch you sleep."
You glanced over your shoulder, seeing him in the same position. With hands pressed against the wall and eyebrows furrowed deeply.
"Watch me sleep?"
He nodded. "I… I didn't watch my crew sleep. The crew died. Satoru has been alone for the past forty years." Your lips fell open, but he quickly added, as if afraid you'd refuse again. "I watch you sleep, you won't die."
Seeing his face – filled with anxiety, pure fear, and misery – you could only smile softly and nod. As the mere thought of this man spending over forty years in space all alone tore your heart apart in the most inhumanely painful way.
"Yes, okay," barely pushed past your lips, before you cleared your throat. "Just let me bring my stuff."
You quickly changed into pyjamas, gathered a few blankets, a pillow and enough water for the night, before going back to the warm tunnel.
And then, as you drew closer to the glassy wall, you noticed a slight change in its shape. As during the five minutes you were gone, Satoru had prepared a special shelf for your body to lie right next to him. With his own feather-like blanket, he lay on his side, waiting for you to slip into the long space and hug him.
You giggled, filling the space with your own things. "That's quite intimate, Satoru."
His body was much taller than the width of the tunnel, and thus, he curled his legs a bit before trying to get even closer to you. "What does intimate mean, question?"
With head hitting the soft pillow and blanket covering your body, you turned his way. Nothing but a thick crystal wall kept you away from brushing noses with each other.
"It means that you're trying to be romantic with someone," but then you thought he might also not understand what romantic means. "Hm, it's when you do nice things for a certain person that you wouldn't do for anyone else. For example, make a special bed to be closer to someone."
A soft crease wrinkled his forehead, and the peacefulness of his eyes told you that he was deeply thinking. "I wouldn't do it for anyone other than you."
The sincerity beaming from his eyes was enough to assure you of the innocent truthfulness of his words. So you sighed, nuzzling deep into the pillow, hoping he didn't notice the warmth on your cheeks.
"That's very romantic, you know? Something you would say to your special someone."
"To your mate, question?"
You hummed, softly closing eyes. His presence somehow made your body tingle with a pleasant warmth, allowing the sleep to haunt your mind in a much softer, calmer way. In a way, you didn't feel for a long, long time, spending days in loneliness and a maddening need to feel someone else's warmth again.
You couldn't feel Satoru's heat, yet your heart fluttered fondly as his gaze truly watched you sleep.
"Yes, although humans don't mate."
"Why, question?"
When you giggled – sweetly, kindly – droplets coating Satoru's cheeks lighted up. Solely for a second, but it was enough to make him slip closer, and closer, and closer, till the glass wall was digging painfully into his body, and his heart still rushed your way.
You bubbled something under your nose. An answer he could not hear. With your lips falling open and a crystal string of saliva dripping down the soft pillow.
His finger pressed against the glass, as if wishing to brush it away.
And when another five minutes passed, a soft snoring filled your side of the tunnel. Breath calmed down, and body drew closer to his. Trying to curl into his – big, burning hot, utterly dangerous for yours.
"I watch you sleep," he whispered, brushing the glass with your pressed cheek. "You never die."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
Satoru was much more intelligent than you expected.
It's not that you treated him as beneath you, but the true power of his mind exceeded your expectations.
And as it turned out, he was in the same situation as you – researching the alien microbes that were also eating his sun. Except that his species discovered the problem forty years before yours, and thus a wave of panic washed over your mind. Because if a creature like Satoru couldn't find the solution to the problem that apparently touched not just Earth but the whole universe, you wouldn't do it either.
One difference between you and Satoru was that, as an engineer, he could actually do things himself. Simply produce them, with all the glassed walls and tiny models of planets made from a strange, gluey substance that rolled off his fingers. He wasn't a scientist like you, so when he heard that you were the "brain" of the crew, his eyes flickered.
"We can work together," he proposed, already considering the path to the only planet not consumed by alien microbes. Since it wasn't infected, it suggested there was something in its atmosphere that enabled it to withstand the lethal bacteria. "You will be the mastermind of the entire operation, I will develop the sources. Also, I have spent forty years here, so I know how to navigate."
His eyes were fixed on creating another little planet, rolling the gluey strings between his pads, moulding them into a ball and waiting until the substance dried into a crystal orb. After a few days, your glassy wall had advanced enough to have a small opening for a shelf where you could exchange little presents.
Although you forgot that Satoru's atmosphere was close to boiling lava in temperature, when your hands accidentally brushed, a nasty, red bump was left on the skin of your thumb.
He put the ball on the shelf and moved his hand away so you could grab it.
"Which planet is it?" you wondered, brushing the crystal surface.
He tsked – something he learnt from you mere hour ago – and mumbled. "The earth, of course."
A scoff escaped your lips, and warmth spilt over the heart. "We're not that small."
"I believe you are."
"And we have more greenery."
He wondered, this time building a small spaceship. Your spaceship. "I would like to see it."
Some things have become clearer after spending the past few days in Satoru's presence. His planet was one of the closest to the sun, wrapped in a dense atmosphere that protected its inhabitants from being burned alive. As Satoru said, the days merged with the nights, and it was always rather dark – hence the pale, almost spectral eyes he and other inhabitants had. There was little to no greenery, and the water system had long been sustained by technologies developed by engineers like him.
"A lot of sand", he once said, and you wondered whether it would look like anything close to the climate of Arab countries.
His head tilted then, and eyes flickered with curiosity. "How do Arab countries look, question?"
You tried to describe the endless desert plains, the crimson sun, the curling droplets of sweat on your neck, and the nights filled with beaming joy as best you could. The feel of warm sand under your feet, sea brushing the skin sweetly and fresh dates melting on your tongue in sugary pleasure.
He listened, with eyes following the curve of your lips and fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
"I would love to see it," he muttered, poking the glass wall with his finger. "It sounds beautiful."
You giggled, following the pale blue of his skin. Soft and shiny, it reminded you more of a region bitten by cold than of the merciless atmospheric temperature of over two hundred degrees Celsius.
"You're rather pale for someone living right next to the sun."
He scoffed, with fingers still creating the small spaceship. In the meantime, you leaned against the crooked tunnel's wall, with a laptop on your thighs, trying to plan the route towards the only "safe" planet.
"I'm not pale. I'm blue."
"That was a joke," you shoot him a glance, seeing the irritated squint of his eyes. "It means that the thing I say is supposed to be funny. You should laugh."
A low, awkward chuckle rolled off his lips, and you couldn't help but burst out laughing. Satoru knew how to express his joy, but it seemed he didn't quite possess the humour you did.
The moment has passed, and a comfortable silence stretched between the two of you. He was mapping the galaxy, while you tried to work out whether your ship still had enough fuel to travel that far. It would take you months to reach that planet, but there seemed to be no other choice. After that mission, the fuel will run out, and you, just as planned, will die here – somewhere in the embrace of endless space.
A low sigh slipped past your lips, catching Satoru's attention. "Are you tired, question?"
Your head shook, and a few strands of hair fell loosely from a pinup. "I would love to invite you to my ship. There's a room where we can watch movies and stuff. I'm sure I can find something about Egypt."
And so…
You've also learned over the past few days that Satoru took everything seriously.
In the most genuine and firm understanding of this word.
Two weeks have passed since your meeting. One morning, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dressed in nothing but panties and a loose shirt while brushing your teeth, a deep, gravelly rumble shook the entire spaceship.
Your heart leapt into your throat, eyes bulged, and you dashed out of the room with wet hair and bare feet. With all the prayers you've learnt as a child repeating in your mind over and over again, as you run towards the entrance of the ship.
Did you somehow get unsealed from the tunnel?
Did something hit the ship and cause the irreparable damage that would cost you your life?
Fuck, did–
But when you finally got into the room connected with an entrance, with toothpaste smeared all over your cheek and glasses falling crookedly off your nose, a low gasp slipped past your lips.
"Satoru?!"
Because the pale-bluish creature himself stood in the middle of your spaceship, locked in a…
"And you're in a ball?" Like a hamster, wanted to join, but he probably wouldn't know what a hamster is.
Standing right in front of you, fully upright, with long legs wrapped in a white suit and a muscular back bulging under the stretched material – he appeared even more monstrous than usual. A creature over two metres tall, looking all over your place with amusement shining in his eyes, his gaze following all your dirty panties spread across the floor.
"Yep, so I won't die in your atmosphere," long fingers knocked the crystal ball, before lips curved in a cheeky smile. "Can I smell it, question? I want to know how your body smells. Put it to the shel–"
A sudden warmth had hit your cheeks, and throat tightened around the remnants of the toothpaste. "Absolutely not! It's very not polite of you to ask such things."
He started walking around in a large ball that barely fit the corridors of your spaceship, its hard walls brushing against each and every machine, piece of furniture, and console on its way. He strolled freely, dropping different comments here and there, while you followed him and picked up all your clothes.
"So dirty," he snapped, pushing a loud scoff from your throat.
"I didn't expect the guests!"
But he ignored you, as your bedroom appeared somewhere within the line of his sight. Blue cheeks shone with crystal droplets, and white, fluffy hair almost stood on end with excitement. Before you could stop him, long legs swiftly moved towards your bedroom, taking in every little, dirty, detail – more panties, a small mattress, a few books lying scattered all over the floor.
"Is that our nest, question?" He looked around before parking his ball next to your mattress. He sat down, leaning against the floor, and finally shot you a look. "I like it."
With a deep, weariness-filled sigh, you returned to the bathroom, cleaned yourself, and re-entered the bedroom. Soft light reflected off the glistening droplets on his cheeks as he probed the fabric of your panties with his finger. Only then did you realise that the ball, despite being firm, was quite flexible, enabling him to slide his fingers through its surface, which was covered in a sticky, shimmering coating that shielded his skin from the oxygen.
You took the material away from his curious gaze and pushed it back into your bag.
"Satoru, what are you doing here?" slipped rather harshly as you sat down on your bed.
He seemed to be confused by your tone, tilting the fluffy head with a furrow. "Are you mad, question?"
You knew that getting angry with him, while he was still learning to recognise human emotions, was silly. Stupid, even, and you felt as if you were shouting at the poor puppy. Except that this puppy was much taller than you and probably weighed twice your weight.
With a sigh, you fell back on the mattress and covered your face with an arm. "Sorry, I'm not mad. Just… surprised. I didn't expect you would come up my ship."
He tried to roll closer, but the space was too small to allow him any other movements than going back and forth from the entrance to your mattress. So he stayed in place, trying to observe the expression on your face.
"I can't see you like that," he noted.
Another thing you've learnt about his species was how important contact and intimacy are. Not even sexual ones, but rather a simple need to always be with someone. To communicate while looking right into their eyes, to feel their skin on theirs, and to follow the movements of their lips. To feel the presence of another creature next to them, even if the only thing you did was sleep next to each other.
So another sorry slipped past your lips, and you sat again, showing Satoru your face. He slightly lightened up before pressing a hand to the crystal ball.
"You said, and I quote, I would love to invite you to my ship," he noted with utmost seriousness, and you rolled your eyes. "So I came."
Well, he was right. You did say that, and you did wish there were a way to bring him into your ship. Travelling together would be much easier if both of you were on one ship, so amidst the pure chaos and shock he caused, you quite enjoyed the fact that he could live here.
With you.
"Okay," your hand pressed to the ball, filling half of his palm. "But we need to set up some rules first. First, we don't sleep in the same bedroom–"
"But I must watch–"
"Satoru," you interrupted him, seeing the pale eyes slip into the sorrowfulness. "You have excellent hearing and even more excellent sight. I'm sure you can watch me sleep while staying next door." A grim twisted his face, and a low mumble filled his little bubble. Too quiet for the translator to catch, so you chuckled sweetly, seeing his brattiness surface. "Okay. The second rule – you can't sniff my panties. It's something… reserved only for mates."
And, well, if that didn't fire him up – with eyes suddenly beaming in excitement and droplets twinkling one by one, like a tiny mingling stars. You felt as if you had challenged him, and thus quickly added. "And because we are not mates, you cannot do it. It's too intimate."
"I want to be intimate."
A sudden flush hit your cheeks, and warmth spread beneath your chest. "No, Satoru, you don't understand. It's about sexual intimacy. Something you share while…" saying it out loud felt like giving a biology lesson to elementary school kids. "Mating… with your special someone. When you, well, have sex and stuff. Do you know–"
He chuckled low, a sly smile lifting his lips. "I know what mating is."
Something in your lower belly bubbled, seeing him like that. Tall and strong, spreading a slightly possessive and dominating aura. With eyes full of bratty cheekiness and something, something, slightly sensual dripping from his voice.
"Well, so you know that we can't do it," You moved back, taking your palm away from the crystal ball. "Let's work on our plan and try to find a way to save the world."
And with a slight dissatisfaction, Satoru finally agreed.
But the next months spent in his presence were… interesting. To say at least.
Every day brought new surprises, which sometimes ended with your body blushing from head to toes, sometimes him getting shy and flustered, while still trying to keep up the cocky demeanour.
He was nothing less than excellent when it came to engineering and helping with the travel itself, also being an amazing companion for the long, daring journey.
Soon he resigned from constant stay in a ball and filled the interior of your spaceship with long corridors of crystal, making himself at home. Whenever you were – he was right next. Be it a bedroom, control room, kitchen or…
"Satoru!" You quickly covered your breasts with your hands, seeing him walking into the bathroom with the most casual demeanour.
A plate of some weird substance, he was always eating for supper, and a white suit half unzipped, showing off his muscular, blue chest. He leaned against the door, spectral eyes slowly following your naked body. From legs up to hips, staying longer on the gentle swell of your ass and the mould of your pussy, before going up, and up, to the breasts covered by your trembling fingers. "Sweetheart is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."
"Sweetheart" because he really wished to call you something human pairs use for each other. Even though at least three times a week, you needed to remind him that you, in fact, were not a pair.
A muffled, surprised scoff escaped your lips. You pointed to the exit with one hand, forgetting it was clutching one of your breasts. When the silky swell smoothly slipped from your grasp, bouncing gently before his eyes, he moved closer, already pushing a finger through the stretching wall.
"Can I–"
You smacked it, once again showing the exit. "Satoru! You can't walk on me while I'm naked."
"Why, question?" he asked, relentlessly trying to get closer to your body. With a finger poking the wall, that unfortunately couldn't stretch enough to even brush your skin. "Come a bit closer."
Something in your belly bubbled, warmth spread across your chest, and a single, dirty thought of letting him touch you bloomed in your mind. After all, sexual needs and anatomy were among the things all researchers wished to know about foreign species. And because Satoru was of the same, curious kind as you…
"It's too early, out!"
His head tilted, and lips curved into a foxy smile. "It's eight in the evening."
"No, I mean, we're not close enough to do such stuff."
He knocked on the crystal wall. "Sweetheart, but I can't get closer."
Oh god.
You sighed, finally letting the other tit bounce softly too. Leaning against the small shelf, you glanced at him with a frown. He, however, looked anywhere but into your eyes. Rude.
"Our relationship is not on that level…" yet. "What you want to do is too intimate. Sexual." And then, a sudden curiosity spiked your mind. "Satoru, how does the… mate thing look like among your species?"
His eyes finally slipped up to yours. "We choose one mate for a whole life."
Well, that was rather clear.
"What about the, you know…" You gestured awkwardly, partially at your still naked body.
"The mating," he finished. But as if feeling the spike in your curiosity, with round eyes ogling his naked chest and slipping shyly towards his hips, he bubbled a low chuckle. "Come closer, and I will show you."
What a brat!
With the last tsk and a dirty look shot his way, you turned back towards the mirror and finished your quick, morning "shower". Even while using rinseless soap and water pouches to clean your body, you still felt Satoru's presence behind you.
Deep blue eyes following the curve of your body, back muscles working beneath the soft skin, and when you bent over to rinse your face, a sudden, sharp breath escaped his throat.
You didn't have to look back to know that he was looking straight at your pussy.
"It's wet," he mumbled, coming closer. And closer, until his finger once again tried to evade the stretching wall, too short to even brush the swell of your ass.
You hummed, trying to hide an embarrassed warmth kissing your neck. "It's a natural lubrication. It usually happens when a woman is…" oh fuck it. "Excited."
He seemed charmed, completely bewitched, and some part of you wished the difference in temperature between your bodies wasn't over two hundred degrees Celsius. As the moment Satoru's hands touched your skin, you weren't sure whether calling it the third-degree burn would be enough.
"Why is sweetheart excited, question?"
With your body leaning forward and hands resting on the shelf, you looked back, eyes slightly hazy, wetness dripping down your thigh. A silken droplet swirled down your leg, and Satoru's always oh-so-attentive eyes, of course didn't miss it.
"I want the taste," he mumbled, and only then did you notice a bulge, trying to rip free from beneath the white spacesuit covering his hips.
You took a deep breath, bending yourself lower and lower, till he could clearly see your cunt shining with silky wetness.
"I'm excited," you started, voice dripping with sensuality. "Because of you."
As if awaiting this exact answer, his eyes, for just a second, ripped themselves away from your soft pussy and looked up. To cross with yours – slightly teary, a bit too warm.
"I want to–"
You turned around, once again leaning against the shelf. A low groan escaped his throat, as he no longer could see your pussy in its fullness. The little pout twisting his lips made you giggle, but a tricky, dirty thought has slipped into your mind.
"How about this?" You took a step, then another, until you stood right in front of him. Much closer than before, but not close enough to let him brush your skin. "I will let you touch me. Watch me…" You coughed, feeling this wind of bravery leave your body as quickly as it had come. "Masturbate. And you'll let me do it too."
Satoru's lips fell open, eyes sparkled in excitement. "I thought the intimacy was only for mates. Are we mates then, question?"
"Let's call it friend with benefits."
His eyes narrowed. "We don't do such things with friends."
You scoffed, pushing your hip to the side and biting the inside of your cheek. "Well, we do, so you can either accept it or not."
And seeing that this time his bratty stubbornness wouldn't work, Satoru nodded.
A few minutes later, you found yourself in the most embarrassed, going-straight-to-the-grave position you could imagine. With elbows supporting your body on the bedroom's mattress, legs spread open, and pussy pressed against the crystal wall. The slippery juices coated the surface, making Satoru breathe much, much harder than before. With fingers wrapped around the biggest, most monstrous cock you've ever seen.
You needed a moment to take in the sight that sprang up in front of your eyes after he took off the rest of the suit. Massive, veiny shaft, with a swelled protrusion at his base, probably used while mating. The blue skin was peppered with similar droplets sprinkled on his cheeks, and shimmered faintly whenever he looked down at your cunt.
Small and fluttering, with your hole squeezing around nothing and clit swelled from excitement.
The penetrative gaze of his made you warm up even more. "Satoru, touch me," slipped like an order.
His long finger brushed the crystal wall and pushed – gently, carefully, till he felt a soft button under his pad and heard a low moan escape your lips.
He dreamed of feeling the gummy structure of your pussy. To roll the clit between his fingers, without any surface protecting his body. To lower himself down and smell, lick, taste the dripping cum that in his mind was sweeter than anything he had ever tried.
And it should be noted that he had quite refined taste buds.
His other hand pumped his massive cock in slow strokes, enjoying the sight spreading in front of him much more than the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the dripping shaft.
"Does it feel good, question?" He asked, hearing another moan fill the small bedroom.
"Y-yeah, ahh, try to make gentle circles," slipped faintly, as you started to roll nipples between your fingers.
His thumb pressed against your clit harder, making your feet curl and legs spread even wider. As if trying to invite his massive cock, that would surely rip you in half.
Maybe the fact that you couldn't touch each other wasn't that bad. Because if he somehow found a way to fuck you with this size, you sure would feel it up in your throat.
And thus you enjoyed the sight spreading in front of your eyes – his beefy thighs bulging whenever you jolted under his thumb, pearly cum dripping down the blue skin, long fingers squeezing the veiny meat as he still oh-so-carefully rubbed your clit.
"It's getting wetter," he noticed, biting the inside of his cheek. "I want to taste you."
His low voice made your body melt under his fingers, forcing your thighs to spread wider and wider, while chasing the pleasure bubbling in your belly. Your hole fluttered around nothing, and a sheer sight of his cock spun your mind in crazy wish to get yourself stretched around it. To feel every vein scratch your tight walls, till the drenched head would kiss your swelling womb.
"Fuck, wait, I have an idea," you backed out, crawling towards your bag.
Crazy, stupid, nasty plan slipped into your head, as you took out a mid-size, creamy dildo. With a sucking pad at the end, and a slightly curved head. It wasn't yours, as you somehow found it among the things… oh well, does it really matter? It was clean and had been bathed in antiseptic spray multiple times; thus, using it was not disgusting at all.
But when Satoru saw it, his breath hitched. Eyes slipped down to his cock, and forehead furrowed. "Why is it so small, question?"
You chuckled, sticking it to the crystal wall. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's the average size of a human's dick."
He followed your body as you once again spread your legs open and brushed the silicone cock through your folds a few times. Drenching it all in your juices, and Satoru, since learning the meaning of jealousy, felt something unpleasant bubble in his heart. Because he wished to be the one making your pussy flutter around his head and push it inside, till your sugary walls would clamp around his fat cock.
Your forehead furrowed, eyes glistened from prickling tears as his thumb once again landed on your clit. But this time, the pleasure was twice as intense. With a silicone dick stretching your tight pussy and his finger rubbing you in slow, maddening circles.
"I could make you feel better," he groaned, hearing another pitched moan slip past your lips. "This pathetic thing is not worthy to be inside my sweetheart."
With rising irritation, he pressed your clit harsher. Till a tremble washed over your body and back hit the mattress, as you rolled your cunt to feel the dildo go deeper. But Satoru was right – his cock would indeed make you feel better.
Your hands slipped up to your breasts, pinching the hard buds and chasing the maddening pleasure bubbling in your lower belly.
A deep frown creased Satoru's forehead, and he gently squeezed your clit. "I can't see your face."
"R-right, sorry–ahhh," A cry rolled off your tongue as you once again leaned on your elbows. "Satoru, it feels so good, mhmm."
His cock was more flushed than before, with a cherry tip spilling the heavy, thick droplets all over his hand. He pumped it madly, never once taking his eyes off your lovely face. With pleasure twisting your brows and teary eyes fixed upon his.
"S-Satoru, I, fuck, I'm going to cum," the silicone cock kissed your cervix, smooching it wetly with hefty, gluey cum sipping from your hole.
You tried to imagine getting split open on his cock. Being filled by his cum, with creamy saps stuffing your swelling womb and pumping your belly full. Getting manhandled by his muscular arms and wide back, as he would fold you into a mating press and push into the mattress. Till each and every spring would painfully dig into your spine.
So with a final cry, you came.
With a loud cry, spine arching into the sweetest curve, and a sprinkling of sweetness gushing all over his thumb, although it was a true pity that he couldn't feel it. Your body trembled and lips fell open, seeing a furrow cloud his forehead and fingers tightening around his cock.
And then, an idea slipped quietly into your mind.
"Wait a minute, don't cum yet," you muttered, taking a pair of panties lying on your bed. With a single, dirty move, you rubbed them against your drenched folds, gathering all the creamy cum and honeyed sweetness.
Satoru… dear heavens.
When a flimsy material landed inside the shelf, quite similar to the one he installed in a tunnel, Satoru's fingers snapped forward and snatched it. He brought it closer to his nose, lips, feeling your precious wetness and the rich flavour burst right onto his tongue, as a low, primal groan escaped his throat.
"Mhmm, s-so, ahh, tastes so sweet," a muffled cry was almost incomprehensible with your panties filling his mouth.
The head of his cock pulsed, massive balls constricted whenever his tongue took another lick of your fresh cum and eyes… oh, eyes stayed on you.
On your breasts coated in sheer sweat, thighs still spread open and a little, minx smile twisting your lips. Satoru was sure he could cum only at the sheer sight of your angelic face, and thus, after a few more harsh pumps and muffled cries, he came. Loud and heavy, with creamy ropes shooting all over his glimmering skin and fully emptying everything he has been keeping far too long.
What a waste, you both thought, wishing it landed somewhere far, far sweeter and warmer. Deep inside your womb, preferably.
A moment has passed, with a small bedroom filled with your heavy breaths and shy glances, looking everywhere but at your cum-coated bodies. With a faint cough, you finally closed your thighs and covered yourself with a blanket.
Blooming loveliness crept up your cheeks, and suddenly looking at Satoru required far more courage and calm than it had merely thirty minutes ago.
Before you could ask whether he needed a towel, his low voice spoke first. "Are we mates now, question?"
He said sheepishly, lifting your panties with a finger.
You groaned and fell on a mattress with his chuckle tickling your burning ears.
You didn't want to destroy this moment, even though you knew your mission would end with you dying in space. That he would go back to his planet safely, while you would float and float and float, while eventually dying of hunger.
And so, sharing this sweet moment of intimacy, with warmth spreading beneath your chest, you nodded. "Yes, Satoru. Let's become mates."
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The next few months were filled with nothing but joy.
With movies playing on repeat in the small, cinematic room, Satoru watches each of them with his lips agape. Enjoying the landscapes of Earth, you could project them into a closed space, with a blue sky spreading across the ceiling and tall Scottish plains stretching beneath your feet.
With the golden sand of Thai beaches shimmering in the sun and coconuts falling from the palms, the chirping of birds perched high in the lush trees of the Amazon Forest, and the endless plains of the Sahara Desert.
When you joked that the three pyramids in Giza you were just looking at were believed to have been built by aliens, he only hummed and nodded as if in agreement. A scoff rolled off your tongue, and his head snapped towards you.
"Why are you nodding? Of course they weren't!"
Plush, bluish lips curved in a sly smile. "Is sweetheart sure, question? It looks like something we have on our planet."
An unbelievable shock crossed your face as you stared at him, speechless. "No, you don't!"
"Yes, we do."
"You're fucking with me."
His head tilted. "I thought we can't fuck."
You rolled your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder. Or at least against the crystal surface he was pressed against. "Forget it."
"I can't, my memory is excellent."
And that was indeed true, as Satoru seemed to remember every single thing you said or did over the past few months. The plan you devised to obtain a sample of the planet's atmospheric gas to discover why it was immune to deadly microbes was etched into his mind with meticulous precision.
Truly mesmerising creature he was, especially as he also remembered which buttons to push, to make you cum faster.
What you had also discovered was that Satoru loved to talk about your future.
Particularly during the late nights, when you were curled up under the warm blanket, lying on a mattress in a dimly lit room, with him cuddled up against your side.
He couldn't brush your soft cheek pressed against the wall, but it was fine.
For the look of your lovely face, he watched with warmth blooming in his chest, was enough.
On such nights, when both of you longed for each other's warmth, he enjoyed dreaming. Of you returning with him to his planet, building you a small, private island with oxygen, and fulfilling all your wishes. You teaching the children of his species physics – as you did on Earth – and him continuing to serve as the most valued engineer on his planet.
Of you and him living together in a small seaside cottage, spending days loving each other and lying on the soft beach till darkness would spill over the ocean's horizon – the only his planet had, the one he was ready to fully give into your hands. Having sex all day and night, to which you responded with a sweet, faint giggle, as sleep slowly slipped onto your eyes.
"And how would we do it, hm?" you mumbled, pressing against the crystal wall.
A soft furrow haunted your forehead, and he imagined calming it with a gentle roll of his thumb. "The atmosphere of my planet allows us to use a special technique," through the glass wall, he traced the curve of your lips. "It wraps my body in a thin barrier, but I would be able to touch you," soft lips touched to the point where your nose pressed. "And kiss you. And hug you, make love with you, although we wouldn't have children."
You understood why and giggled softly, slowly opening your sleepy eyes to meet the endless, pale blue. "You really want to get even closer, huh?"
It was a joke, and yet a warmth bloomed behind his spectral eyes, forcing your heart to skip a beat. His hand pressed to the part where your chest met the wall, before he leaned his forehead against "yours". "If I could, I would make you live inside me. So nothing in this universe would ever rip us apart."
A faint oh rolled past your lips as you bit on the soft inside of your cheek. "Satoru, I don't know how long your species live, but… I don't have as much time as you think."
A sudden panic swelled behind his eyes, and thumb slipped out of the crystal wall to brush your lower lip. "My best friends have been mates for the past hundred and sixty years. How many can you give me, question?"
Something ripped through your heart. Cut it with painful slashes, till a crease on your forehead deepened. "Not a lot, Satoru. Maybe seventy years?"
His thumb paused, an ache spreading across the vast, pale blue plains. "I've lived three hundred years without you," he said, warm lips pressing into the wrinkle between your "brows". "I won't survive another seventy."
But the endless honeymoon couldn't last long.
For there was a reason why both of you found yourselves in space. Why the mission was tagged as suicidal, and why there wasn't enough fuel to get you back to Earth. And while Satoru's dreams indeed sounded tempting, you knew that it simply wouldn't work out.
For you breathed oxygen, and he needed ammonia gas.
Your body stayed cool at thirty-six degrees Celsius, while his was burning up to over two hundred.
He was three hundred years old – you twenty-seven.
But he didn't have to know all of that. Over the past twenty-seven years, no one had made you laugh, enjoy, and love life as much as he did. Even if those brief moments of happiness were only meant to last a few months, they were enough.
After the mission, he could go back safely to his home, and you… well.
And you would need to watch him die.
It was truly unpredictable, and none of you could foresee how the situation would turn out. You finally arrived on the planet, prepared to collect the necessary samples of the antidote. You didn't know, however, how dense its atmosphere would be.
How the wind would violently hit your ship, tossing it sharply left and right as you stepped outside in your spacesuit and carried Satoru's sampling device back onto the ship.
He told you to leave it. When you almost fell off the ship, he begged you to come inside. Hit the wall with hands, screamed right into the speaker inside your helmet, pleaded to leave the sample and just come back.
But you simply couldn't do it. Because leaving it here, after Satoru spent decades in space trying to seek the solution, would be simply foolish. Egoistic, and thus, after a few harsh currents, you grabbed the box filled with antidote cells and went back to the ship.
But then, it started spinning. And spinning and spinning, wish wind smacking it in violent currents, and you found it almost impossible to get back onto the normal route. Every single light inside the control room shimmered red. Satoru tried to calm you down, but there was nothing he could truly do from behind the glass wall.
You pushed and flickered every button, every controller, but after one sudden, brutal tug of the ship, your face hit the console.
Eyes filled with red, a nasty crack came from the nose, and the gaze became a bit hazy. You tried to push one last button that would help the ship get away from the planet's strong current, but you were simply too weak. With blood slowly covering your whole face and belts still pinning you to the chair.
Satoru shouted something, but you couldn't hear him clearly. Was it because of the red lamps and an alarm filling the control room? Or maybe because of the sudden sleepiness that blanketed your eyelids?
His fists hit the glass wall, spreading the dull echo around the control room. A soft sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart rolled past his lips, but you simply had no energy to look up. As if you did, the sigh of his trembling, panicked face would rip your heart apart.
His large fists wanted to break through the wall, eyes looked at the blood dripping down your face, body filled with helplessness and desperation, trying everything in his power to get close to you.
With a single finger, you still strained to push that last red button. To get the ship back on track, at least allow Satoru to be safe, and finish the mission that would help save his planet. But your body couldn't handle the gravitational force caused by the spin, which pressed you into the console. The slow crushing of your lungs, mind filling with fogginess, throat crushed beneath the flickering buttons.
So with a soft, almost inaudible I'm sorry, your eyes closed.
A second has passed, a minute, with mind registering the crying alarm and… and a shatter of glass.
A sudden pain washed over your body – burning and stinging every nerve. Someone lifted you up, carefully, slowly, trying to wrap you in blankets and clothes, anything to keep you from the lethal touch.
Quiet, you'll live, sweetheart will live, sweetheart, sweetheart, keep your eyes open, amid violent waves of coughing and painful moans, filled the corridors of your spaceship. When your eyes opened a little, you saw nothing but thick steam evaporating from something.
Someone.
"Satoru?" slipped out in a whisper as, from beneath the curling steam, a blue, familiar face looked down at you, wet-cheeked. "Satoru, no, y-you'll die–"
"Shhh, sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay, sweetheart will live," he repeated like a mantra, hugging your wrapped body closer to his.
Fiery skin burned through the thick layers of blankets, leaving burns all over your bloodstained skin. Your body hit something, and before you noticed, an automated medical care robot soon filled your vision. The mechanical arms pressed the oxygen mask to your face before an IV needle slipped beneath the skin of your arm.
"Satoru," you mumbled weakly, trying to find those familiar, pale eyes.
And he was right there, offering you the most painful, heart-tearing sight. Tears ran down his cheeks, white steam curled tortuously from his body, and gaze slowly grew weaker. He could barely breathe, yet still stood right there.
Over your barely warm body, making sure that you would live.
"I watch you–"
"No, S-Satoru," barely pushed through your squeezed throat. With crystal tears swirling in your eyes and fingers trying to push him away from the table. "Go back, p-please, or–"
"No, I watch you sleep." his fingers grabbed the hem of your shirt. "You won't die".
You were too weak to fight him. In too much pain, with your head pounding, skin burning from his touch and anaesthesia slowly kicking in.
And so, with a last look into the eyes your heart laughed for, you fell asleep.
There was no way to tell how much time had passed. How long you stayed under the mechanical clutches of the medical robot.
How long Satoru needed to suffer, to make sure you would be alive.
But when you finally woke up and ripped yourself away from the needles, he wasn't there.
He wasn't in your sight, but something else, something burned, marked the floor. Dark traces of blue dust led further inside the spaceship. Still weak, with the last traces of blood dried on your cheek, you followed them, your heart pounding. And a little grain of foolish hope bloomed inside your heart, fresh tears already swirling in the corners of eyes.
The ship was back on a normal route, carrying you through the galaxy at a slow, peaceful pace. Thanks to Satoru.
The blue dust led you through the control room, down into the basement, kitchen, bathroom, and finally to the bedroom, as if he tried to, for the last time, see every part of the ship. Just to make sure everything was working. That after waking up, you wouldn't have to bother yourself with anything.
And so another wave of crushing sob bubbled in your throat. A pain ripping you open as you entered your shared bedroom and saw him there – curled on the mattress, the upper part of his body already slipped inside his crystal corridor. As if he didn't have the strength to crawl in fully. Too busy watching you sleep.
"Oh, Satoru," a cry finally escaped your throat, as your knees bent beside his body. "You fool, so stupid, you're–oh!" A hysterical lament filled the small bedroom as you touched his cold body. "Satoru, how c-could you leave me alone?"
Face, always beaming with so much warmth and joy, lay in dead silence. With your loving, blue eyes closed behind the curtain of white lashes and lips more pale than usual.
Gathering every last ounce of strength still boiling in your body, you brought his ball back. In such a tight, ammonia-filled space, the chance of his recovery was much higher.
Opening it was almost impossible, so you cut a hole big enough to, with pain ripping through your muscles and sweat dripping down your spine, somehow push him inside. And then you glued the walls tight, with a prayer dripping off your lips, and your body cuddled into his crystal ball.
"I'll watch you sleep," you whispered, brushing the surface with his pressed cheek. "You won't die."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖
The sun spilling through the curtain tickled your cheeks. The chirping of birds made you sigh deeply, and the gentle sea breeze coated your skin with soft kisses. The shoulder, the soft line of the spine, the slightly sweating neck, with a salty fragrance slipping sweetly into your nostrils.
You tried to stretch, waking up your stiff body from a deep slumber, but something locked you in place.
Something heavy and long, curling around your waist and pulling you closer to another stony wall.
Or, maybe you should say, stony chest.
Looking over your shoulder, you've met with a cheeky smile curling your husband's lips and still-sleepy, pale eyes. He pulled you closer, until your head found itself under his chin and your legs entangled with his.
"Good morning," you giggled, turning in his arms. "Did you sleep well?"
Satoru hummed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The thin barrier wrapping his body glimmered under the spilling sunlight. After years on his planet, you no longer needed a translator to understand his language. And so you kissed his blue neck, tracing the kisses up, and up, along his jaw and chin, until finally locking your lips with his.
"Apologies, I didn't watch you sleep."
You chuckled, biting gently on his lower lip. "Were you that tired after last night?"
"Mmm," a soft, satisfied hum escaped his throat when you felt something hard poking your belly. "Forgive your husband, he didn't realise he had a tigress and no wife at home."
You chuckled sweetly, forcing his lips to curl in a sly smile.
"Does my wife need anything? Do you want Suguru to lower the temperature?"
Tracing the sharpness of his jaw, up to the curve of his lips, your head shook. "No, it's warm enough. Maybe you can ask him to lower the birds' chirping a bit. I think they're a bit louder than yesterday."
He nodded, pulling you even closer. Till your bodies tangled in one, and a slow, peaceful pounding of his heart beat against your breasts. "Mhm, sure. But let's sleep a bit longer, and then you can jump on me as much as you want, hm?"
So with the last, soft kiss between your brows and heart swelling from feeling the heaviness of your body on his, Satoru allowed you to cuddle into his muscular chest and watch him slowly slip into a deep slumber.
Warnings: A lot of talk about childbirth, labor, and possibly inaccurate medical terms. Mentions of storing and freezing the placenta. Segments using swear words and being involved with the delivery (except 8, he's a minor). Segment 35 (Omega), being a little possessive and self-centered as always. No smut, but mentioned and implied nsfw.
Sitting in the labor room, you held the red scarlet-eyed baby in your arms, stroking the infant's tuft of blue hair every now and then. Segment 8, or "Little Doctor" as you like to call him, leaned over the side to look at the newborn, an innocent sort of curiosity brimming in his very own pair of red eyes.
Your baby was born healthy, looking just like a mix of both you and Zandik. He'd helped deliver it himself, muttering about how he trusted no one but him to take the task upon himself.
Well, technically, it was just Segment 25 who helped with the main task; the others volunteered themselves with other stuff, such as weighing the baby, stitching your tears up, cleaning the blood, storing your placenta and umbilical cord for research purposes, etc.
All the segments insisted on helping out, even Little Doctor, who unfortunately had to sit outside for most of the labor but was eventually allowed in to see the baby and check on you. Everyone's main goal was to ensure the mother and newborn were both safe and healthy.
Now that everything was successfully executed, you and the newborn were both taking a small, well-earned nap. All the adult segments turned to look at one another with suspicion.
Who the fuck was the baby's real father?
They all had slept with you, came inside of you, so the possibility that one of them was the father was 20%.
Except they were all Zandiks.
They all had the same DNA, the same blood. They might as well all be identical twins, if identical twins were all the segment of a man who died a century ago.
"Well? What were we all even expecting? That the baby would be born, and we could take a DNA test to verify the paternity? We all share the same blood dipshits. Ever thought of that?" Segment 18 spat out, looking at the other older segments after they'd all stepped out.
Segment 25 merely took off his mask and gloves, opting to let the other Segments deal with the guy instead.
"We were hoping to keep the peace until the baby was born to keep our Lady's pregnancy smooth. You know she gets troubled when we all get into unnecessary fights." Segment 65 explained, stepping closer to your door to make sure it was locked in case their argument woke you up. "A miscarriage would've been tragic. Besides, we all had our own goals to accomplish during this period. I doubt Omega is going to let you have a share of the placenta."
Omega, or Segment 35, who snuck off to the side to keep your placenta in a freezer, shot them all a dirty look. "How rude! Preserving the placenta has it's benefits-"
"We never said it didn't. But must you be so greedy as to keep it for yourself?" Segment 45 cuts off.
"-because I am the most research-oriented out of all of us, one who shall produce the most fulfilling results. In case of a genetic disease or a tumor, it will prove to be very useful." He preened
"You talk as if you're the real father." scoffs Segment 18.
"Well, of course I am. Who else but I could produce such brilliant progeny."
The comment riled up Segment 18, who walked up to Omega's face, his sharp teeth bare, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, old man? You sure your sperm can even swim that far? Your cock get that hard? Well, getting erect would be no problem for such a beauty; however, I bet her fallopian tubes shriveled the moment you got in you son of a-"
"Alright, alright. There's no need to stir up a ruckus right here," said Segment 25, wiping his hands dry on a towel, clearly the most tired of them all.
Unlike the other Segments, he had to be on-call and close to you that day, and hence had stayed by you till the moment you had pushed the baby out. "She's still inside, sleeping, taking a well-earned nap before one of us has to wake her from her blissful slumber in two hours to take her vitals again. Not to mention, we will need to attend to my newborn as well. For now, we could all take a moment, Segment 8 will alert us should anything happen-"
"What do you mean, 'my newborn'?" Segment 45 butts in, "You didn't even try to debate whether the child is yours or not."
"Well, of course, because it is mine. Only fools fight over what's not theirs-"
"Get a load of this asshole-"
"Can we all take this somewhere else, the baby might wake up-"
"Dottore!" a voice booms from down the hall, along with the sound of multiple footsteps.
All Segments turned around to see The Regrator, Pantalone, along with a few Fatui agents carrying many boxes and bags with them.
"I believe congratulations are in order? How is the missus and the baby?" asked Pantalone.
"Who let this guy know about her labor? I thought we were to keep this information from the other Harbingers," sneered Segment 25.
"And you certainly did, I assure you. No one other than me knows about this little joy of yours. I only happened to find out about this because the 8-year-old segment seemed quite anxious about not being let into the operating room. Seeing as you did not hesitate to let him watch the dissection of the original Zandik, my only conclusion about not allowing him in the operating room was that your wife was giving birth. That, and the fact I hadn't seen her for quite some time. Seemed easy to deduce." The Regrator stated, shrugging and rustling his fur coat.
"And what if it was a surgery like, say, an appendectomy? What use are the gifts then?" Segment 18 pointed out.
"Then I believe that you must get started on producing a progeny, no? Anyway, I've brought a few tokens of goodwill. I hope you'll accept them from a friend."
"Leave them out here. She's sleeping, and we'd rather not disturb her or the baby." Segment 65 said, pointing towards a table for the gifts to be kept. "We'll let her know of them as soon as she's able to concern herself with things other than herself and the baby. I hope you understand she's not in the condition to receive guests at the moment."
"That's alright." The Regrator signed his agents to keep the presents on the table and take their leave.
"Speaking of not disturbing the baby, though, what were all of you arguing about? Well, it's not rare to see each of you in disagreement with the other. Rather, it happens pretty often to be rare. But an opportunity that brings all of you together to have such a conflict......."
"We were discussing who the real father of the baby is," said Segment 18.
Pantalone nodded in understanding.
"I'd hardly call that a discussion. But does it truly matter? All of you are the same person, and hence, similar at your core. I'm sure the child would benefit from having multiple parental figures. I wouldn't call it a major issue."
"It is." Said all the Zandiks there in unison.
"Dear Feofan, it seems you still don't understand us all, even when you are a dear friend of ours. We all may be derived of the same Zandik, but as Dottore, we're all different," Omega explained, "Our values, our approach to research, our research, and our view of this world, they all differ due to the number of memories we carry. Determining the true father is determining whose legacy will be carried on. It isn't as simple as 'raising a child'."
".......so it has to do with your ego," Pantalone cheeked.
"How rude, I have genuine affection towards my wife and my child," said Omega.
"There he goes again," Segment 45 groaned, rolling his eyes.
"Oh my god, it's MY baby you twat," argued Segment 18.
"Well, you're certainly not raising my child with that mouth of yours," said Segment 65 calmly.
"Gents, gents," Pantalone raised his hands, trying to mitigate and calm down all the Dottores before it would escalate, lest they end up dissecting another one of them again.
"I have a solution. How about you solve this the way you know best? You're all intelligent and highly educated individuals; surely you can come to a conclusion amongst yourselves."
All the Zandiks looked at each other, as if they had never considered that idea.
"Determining the father of the baby through research. We can't do a DNA test, but....." mused Segment 45.
"Surely, only DNA can't be the only factor to determine the paternity," suggested Segment 18.
"If we can't find a way to find a match with blood, tissue, or DNA, we could always narrow down the possibility of one of us being the father by calculating the fertility factor of our sperm, the time between conception and delivery, and the general condition of the mother and the baby during pregnancy," Segment 35 muttered.
Pantalone sighed, seemingly relieved that he had managed to prevent another Zandik from being dissected today.
"I must, however, object to executing this plan right now," said Segment 25, "her postpartum period is to last for at the very least 2 months, and we have a newborn to care for as well."
"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.
"Then," smirked Omega, "we shall have a time limit of 2 months to conduct our research. Whosoever manages to bring concrete proof along with the timeline and convinces everyone that the baby is theirs shall get to claim the progeny and raise them. Do we all agree?"
"Yes," said all the Segments.
"Then shall I volunteer as a referee? You know, as a neutral party, to keep things nice and fair?" asked Pantalone.
"Of course, friend. You're more than welcome to invite yourself to my research discussions. You are, after all, the one funding all of our experiments," said Omega gleefully.
Pantalone watched with interest as all of the Segments dismissed themselves, some going to rest after what he assumed was a long day of being in the delivery room, others sprinting to their assigned labs to get a head start on their research, while the rest stayed to be available for you.
'Ah,' Pantalone thought to himself, stepping outside and pulling out a cigarette, 'this whole ordeal shall be quite entertaining.'
a/n: hello hello everynyan |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ I wrote this at 3 am in a fever dream lol. Fun fact: kids of identical twins are genetic half-siblings. SO if you have an identical twin and have a baby, the baby is also half of your twin lol. It gave me the idea about what if multiple people shared the same DNA and boom that's how I wrote this fic in 2 hours when I have like 12 other drafts that have been collecting dust ehe (ᵕ—ᗜ—) I might make a few edits here and there so pls excuse any grammatical errors lol I don't know english well ≽^•⩊•^≼ anyway enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
@luminarylorecat Do not repost, translate, adapt, feed into AI, or claim this work. Reblogs and links are appreciated; copying and reuploading are not.
Tw(s): Medical trauma, intimate betrayal, dehumanization, psychological manipulation, coercive control, human experimentation, moral injury, institutional abuse, violation of body autonomy, use of syringe, existential dread.
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tag: @darkangel-lover
can be read as a part of this.
Clear cyan liquid fluttering in a cold syringe, its tip twinkling like fangs in a predator's mouth; eager to sink its teeth in his flesh. Your hand held the needle as if it was a serpent— it may have been in a sense; another test from the head scientist to see how far he can tear apart his best soldiers and gather the shreds to sew them back into übermensch¹.
Drawing a deep breath, you tipped the needle's end with your middle finger’s nail, stray dews of liquid flying off and little barely making it out. You've done this thousands of times before, a skill you memorized like your name, but the guilt never ceased, only growing every time you blink thinking of it. Was a violence committed with shame forgiven? you dearly hoped not. you claimed to love; to be different, caring, merciful even in carrying out the one of many atrocities that made Sephiroth flayed out of humanity's skin.
Swallowing, you kindly instructed “Lift up your sleeve please…”.
Face as empty as a blind man's eyes, he obeyed. He had gone through this and more as long as he can remember, a bird bred to fly with a string connecting it to the cage. Skin pure porcelain, tinted with blood beneath, lively for someone considered to be a walking weapon; more than most ‘ordinary’ humans who didn’t see further than their noses allowed. You wiped the little space on where his shoulder and arm met with an alcohol soaked cotton, sterilizing it before hovering the syringe on it. For a second, you hesitated— the very same hand that held his back and wiped his face is now injecting poison through him. What use was in repeating love vows to an angel at night only to pluck its feathers at day? He was pure, too pure for you or anyone. Lily stepped on and tarnished cruelly for its crime: existing.
Swiftly, you pierced the needle in him to its shaft, dense muscle sinking. His arm was sculpted, pallid lamina coffining the lanes of shy blue veins along. It never felt like a body; more of a marble veiled with silk. fingers atop his upper arm for support, touching him alluded to dallying something too precious to be carelessly swung around— he's a first class soldier, anything but fragile, yet your eyes caught another shade of him that longed to be ordinary.
“There…” you whispered. He rolled his dark leather sleeve back down, not bothering to wait for you to bandage it.
The silence lurked, out of mutual exhaustion. The cord was cut short as he asked, voice a purl of water “Did he ask you to do this?”
Your hand halted, the used syringe still in your fist, hovering above the trash can. You licked your front teeth, zipping your lips inside before answering with a small “Yes.” You heard him let out a jagged breath, halfway between a chuckle and a glum “He always sends the things I cannot strike down.”
Hojo warned you for a reason. ‘Attachment clouds judgment.’, he had repeated. back when your head was filled with all those rose-colored glasses, you didn't see what wrong have you committed by being close to someone as Sephiroth— You didn't care if you got hurt, but your foot dug too deep in the trap: If you love him stay by his side, If you decide to leave he'll be thrown under the guillotine of Shinra and SOLDIER, this time abandoned by his sole ‘support system’— You. If you left he got hurt, If you stay you'll hurt him yourself. The illusion of choice in its most perfect tableau.
Maybe you've been the Cerberus² guarding his heel, maiming and nailing him to the cross till he ascended all the way up to paradise; far cry from this planet, Hojo, SOLDIER and you. where he could be human at last, loved in a way you couldn't offer.
¹ : Originating from Friedrich Nietzsche's philosophy, the Übermensch (translated as "Overman" or "Superman") is the goal of humanity: a being who creates their own values and rises above the "herd" morality of the masses.
²: In Greek mythology, Cerberus is the multi-headed dog that guards the gates of the Underworld.
⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, mentions of self-harm (reader), allusions to vague qifrey x olruggio, lowkey codependency, reader has subtle yandere-ish tendencies if you squint, spoilers for manga (please let me know if there are any more tags i should add this is my first time writing content like *gestures*)
"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was."
Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works, until it doesn't.
⟢ chapters: one | two | three | four
I. THERE BENEATH
drag path (n): a visible, often continuous trail, mark or disturbance left behind on a surface by an object or person being dragged
Qifrey had told himself it was fine.
The memory-erasure spell Olruggio concocted had worked beautifully, despite the circumstances. His friend's eyes had gone blank for only a moment, and in the next, they'd been taken ahold of by a deep sleep. The sort of sleep that was gentle and kind, even as the silverwood's pale branches writhed and recoiled in remonstration. And when Olruggio awoke, the sun was setting over the lake, and there was no evidence of what had transpired; only the familiar tilt of Qifrey's hat, a dark ribbon rippling in the wind, and the frayed ends of his tassel brushing Olruggio's shoulder.
That had been three years ago.
Now, Qifrey stands at the window of an unfamiliar room in a newly built house that will one day be his atelier, somewhere out in the Naakiwan Downs, east-northeast of the Kahln. The land stretches endlessly before him—open plains rolling into each another until they dissolve into the distant horizon, vast swathes of pale grasses beneath a blue sky that seems to go on forever. It rarely rains out here, on the Zozah Peninsula. An atelier, of his own, under the open sky.
One part of his promise, kept.
But he's not foolish enough to hope that his distance from the Great Hall—from Olruggio—will not give rise to problems of their own. Traveling alone had done nothing but proven that even that minute solace was enough for the silverwood to take root once more. And Qifrey would rather die than let his dearest friend's sacrifices have been made in vain.
He needs to stay on the edge. Unsettled. Uneasy. The moment he stops feeling as though the world is pressing in on him, so will the silverwood.
Beldaruit used to hover. For some reason, Qifrey remembers that with uncomfortable clarity. The sage's pale smoke-grey eyes would track him wherever he moved through the magic workshops of the Great Hall—never overt or intrusive, yet always there. And greater than his control over conjuring magic was his talent for conjuring nonsensical excuses, ones that he would use to check on the condition of Qifrey's health and mind.
You work too hard, Beldaruit would say in that airy, almost absentminded tone—so lighthearted it could almost be mistaken as jest. And Qifrey would roll his eyes, dismiss his concerns, and Beldaruit would worry anyway.
Perhaps that's what he needs. Someone to worry about. Someone whose concerns and matters would keep him tethered to the present, too busy to fall into the quiet where the tree could spread its roots.
An apprentice, then.
He finds you one afternoon as ordinary as any other. It's raining when he reaches the port town of Havso—a steady patter that turns the cobblestones slick and darkens the wood of every dock and doorway. For all the precision Qifrey has honed over water, getting wet remains an irritation he's never quite outgrown, and the sound of rain prickles at his awareness like a thousand fine needles, impossible to ignore. He hurries through the narrow streets, searching the shops—for a new cast iron pot to replace the one that had cracked last week, some twine for binding dried herbs, other small sundries—when he sees you.
The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at all—not to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.
Qifrey doesn't mean to stop. But he does.
You look up when his shadow falls over you. He takes the edge of his cloak, the water dispelling spell inked discretely beneath its hem, and sweeps it in a gentle arc above your head. The rain above you curves away. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your gaze tracing the water trickling off the air as though sliding off an invisible dome, before you look back at him again.
"I don't like getting wet," Qifrey says, in manner of explanation.
You simply stare. For a moment, Qifrey wonders if you speak the common tongue at all—it's not uncommon for sailors from foreign kingdoms to abandon unwanted children in port towns like this—or if you're simply mute.
"You're soaked," he tries again, more gently this time. "Do you have anywhere to go?"
Silence stretches in the space between each of his heartbeats. The rain patters, fingertips dancing along the boundary he's drawn. Then, you shake your head.
So you do understand him. Qifrey should have guessed—children like you are a dime a dozen here, orphans, strays, the overlooked and unclaimed. No one would notice if one or more vanished from the edges of the docks.
Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magic—and by extension, the silverwood—to ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.
He takes you in.
The first few weeks are easier than he expects. You come to him with no poor habits to unlearn—no stubborn rune-drawing tendencies, no theoretical 'shortcuts' circulated by some of the lazier professors in the Great Hall. Teaching you is like working on a blank sheet of parchment. You simply watch what he does and try to do the same. And when you fail—which is often—you do not seem to be affected or frustrated. You simply do it again.
The only real issue is that you have never learned to write. Qifrey watches your hand wobble across the parchment—leaving dark splotches in some places, lines breaking off in others. Your fingers wrap around the ink wand like a stick you've picked off the ground, all knuckles and no finesse.
Qifrey lets out a quiet sigh.
"Your grip is wrong."
You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.
"Like that."
The moment he releases you, however, your grip tightens again reflexively. The wood of the ink wand creaks faintly in protest. He quickly takes your hand again.
"Gently," he murmurs. "Like holding a robin's egg."
Qifrey guides your hand across the parchment. A straight line. A square. A circle. Your hand relaxes under his, just a little.
"Just like that," he says, and lets go. You look at the ink wand in your hand. "Now, try again."
You practice until the sun goes down.
He teaches you the basics. The three basic components that make up every spell, the five elemental sigils for fire, wind, water, earth and light. The keystones that govern a spell's direction and strength and purpose, how the sizes of the rings can affect its range and potency. Everything he says, you memorise. And everything he teaches you, you practice until you can reproduce it by heart.
After only about a few months of training, Qifrey dares to say that you've reached the standard that most witches your age who've grown up around magic would be at. The rate at which you're learning is… unexpected, to say the least. He should be pleased. Any decent teacher would be.
Qifrey tells himself this as he watches you inscribe a heating spell along the belly of a copper kettle. It's a reasonably complex problem for a beginner—the spell must conjure heat but not fire, be stable enough to maintain an even boil, hot enough to warm but not so fierce as to warp or melt the metal. It's a careful balance of precision and power that tends to elude most newcomers to spellcasting.
You hand him the kettle when you finish. Qifrey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifts it up to his good eye, turning it slightly in the flickering light coming from the fireplace. The dispersion keystones are neatly drawn, arranged around the central fire sigil in two concentric circles. The limiting keystones sit where they should, too—balanced on either side, ready to dampen the spell the moment the heat climbs too high.
"Good," Qifrey says at last. The word feels thinner than it should be. He lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some flaw to justify a correction, but finds none. "We'll be able to use this to brew tea in the mornings, now."
You nod once at his assessment from where you're watching him by the kitchen table, then ask, "What next?"
There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on.
The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.
Qifrey tries to keep his distance at first. He really does. A master-apprentice relationship only needs to go so deep for one to learn and the other to worry, and too much closeness would be counterproductive in his attempts to keep the silverwood at bay. He buys you all sorts of magical books and supplies you with wands and ink when you need it. He cooks, too, warm and filling meals that nourish the body and are rich in nutrients, until the hollowness in your cheeks softens, replaced by a healthier, rounded plumpness. He corrects your glyphs when he spots mistakes and guides your hand when your lines falter. It barely assauges the guilt in his chest.
You don't make it easier for him. Through no fault of your own, he knows, and yet somehow, that only makes it worse. You don't seek him out for any needs outside of your magic studies, never ask for anything, and eat exactly what he puts in front of you without comment. You wake up at dawn to start the tea kettle, and from there you start practicing magic without ceasing until he has to firmly tell you to go to bed.
There are no tantrums, no complaints, no childish demands for attention or affection. Surely, even children must have their preferences. Trinkets they like, foods they refuse to eat. But you are quiet and serious and wrong in a way that he cannot name, and Qifrey finds himself watching you much the same way Beldaruit had once watched him.
"You don't have to keep doing that," he tells you one evening. You're hunched over the kitchen with a half-empty cup of water, the parchment in front of you crowded with dozens of identical glyphs. The fire sigil that you'd just traced over in water glistens for a moment, then fades as the parchment slowly dries. You must have drawn the same glyph at least a hundred times now.
You don't look up, dipping your wand in water again. "My circles aren't perfectly round yet."
"You don't have to master everything in a single day. You could take a break."
"Why?"
Qifrey doesn't have an answer for that. Or rather, it's perhaps that he has too many. Because you look tired but refuse to admit it. Because your hands will cramp if you keep going. Because watching you work yourself into the ground makes me feel something too similar to what I used to feel for Olruggio, and that scares me.
"It was only a suggestion."
You consider it for a moment, and then turn back to your parchment. Qifrey sighs, pushing aside his robes to lower himself into the chair across from you.
"Do you have any reason for learning magic?"
You rotate your wrist once in the air before setting the wand's nib to parchment. "You asked me to."
"That's my reason, not yours."
"It's the only one I have."
Qifrey watches your hand move across the paper, and something in his chest tightens. This arrangement is supposed to be simple—selfish, yes, but simple. You are supposed to ask things of him, to need him in small, manageable ways that keep him worried just enough about your progress and studies without causing him too much concern. You have done exactly just that.
And yet here he is, worrying about you constantly for a completely different reason.
He thinks of Beldaruit's gentle gaze, the soft curl of smoke illusions coaxed into being on nights when sleep proved treacherous, when the memories of darkness and rain pounding unceasingly against metal and claustrophobia set in. He remembers Olruggio's warm smile and even warmer eyes, the ribbon on his hat that Qifrey still touches sometimes in the dark, tracing the multiple preservation sigils he's inked onto the silk.
His reminder to never forget, to never grow complacent.
"Take a break," he says again, and this time, there's something in his voice that makes you stop.
You look at him for a long moment, head tilting slightly to the side. It reminds Qifrey vaguely of a sparrow. Finally, you speak.
"You're worried," you say, as though you're making an observation. Qifrey forces a smile.
"I'm your master. It's what I'm supposed to do."
You glance down at your parchment once more. For a moment he thinks you might refuse, ignore his words and go right back to practicing, but then you set your wand down next to the paper and push your chair back, legs scraping along the slate flagstones.
"I'll continue tomorrow," you announce, without looking at him.
"Good," he says in response, and the two of you sit in silence at the kitchen table, undisturbed except for the crackling of the fireplace, and Qifrey has to remember how to breathe without counting the spaces between each one.
Hearthglen Village is about a few furlongs from the atelier, more often than not in need of small, persistent fixes, and thusly, the ideal place for you to practice using magic after passing the Pentacle of Proving's second test. Qifrey walks beside you through the small handful of thatched cottages scattered through the patchwork quilt of farmfields, returning the villagers' greetings with easy familiarity. It's always good to maintain good relations with the unknowing, especially those living nearby.
Eventually, the two of you arrive in front of the client who'd requested Qifrey's services. The problem is simple: a farmer's irrigation ditch has gone haywire somehow, and now his turnips are drowning in mud. Qifrey could fix it alone in ten minutes, but that isn't the point. He nods towards the field, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
"Go on."
You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat's—vaguely displeased, faintly affronted, as though the world has committed a personal offense by being this unpleasant. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.
In the meantime, Qifrey chats with the farmer as you work—something about the summer heat this year, the stubbornness of the soil—but he makes sure to never let you slip from his sights. You're already at the ditch, hat bobbing as you hover over the mud. He can almost picture your hand beneath the shelter of your cloak: fingers wrapped around the wand, drawing those precise lines that you'd practiced over and over again with unswerving confidence.
He's listening to a rundown of this year's cabbage harvest when a faint rumble echoes across the field. The earth shifts, groaning as though rousing from a long slumber, and then the water starts to move. Mud loosens and starts to drain from the fields, revealing the green leaves of the turnips peeking out through the soil once more. It's quickly replaced by a steady stream of clear water.
The farmer's face brightens with relief. He claps his hands together with a delighted laugh, already turning to call out his thanks as you drift back over to the solid ground of the path, the hem of your cloak splattered with drying mud. You don't smile back; instead you wipe the faint sheen of sweat from your brow and look to Qifrey for approval.
He pushes his glasses up and nods once. "Well done."
You accept his verdict the same way you accept everything else—quietly, without visible pride or disappointment. The farmer tries to press a basket overflowing with all variety of squash into your hands and your eyes find Qifrey's like you aren't sure what to do with gratitude. He takes it for you.
"They're a natural," the farmer nudges Qifrey as he moves to leave. "Where'd you find a talent like that?" Despite the surge of pride that races through him, he hesitates.
"They found me," Qifrey says, instead.
More villagers request your help over the course of the afternoon. A family's goat wandered into a small ravine, a child's kite got stuck in a tree. You lift the frantically bleating animal to safety with a levitating spell, and coax the wind into tugging the kite loose from an elm's tangled branches while the village children gather to watch you work with eyes full of wonder. The girl bounces on her heels as the toy finally drifts down into your waiting hand, and you hand it over without a smile.
She hugs your legs anyway. You stand there awkwardly, arms glued to your sides, and Qifrey has to look away before he laughs.
Hours later, after the last request has been fulfilled and the sun is low enough to turn the clouds a warm ombre-ochre, you and Qifrey decide to walk home, the path stretching before you like a pale ribbon through the fields. You walk next to him in silence, as you always do, fingers stained with smudges of black ink and clay soil.
"You did well today," he says.
"Thank you."
"But."
You glance at him then. Just a slight flicker of the eyes, darting sideways and upwards. You've learned, by now, that your master is far from straightforward around topics that are necessary but difficult to broach.
"But?"
"But magic doesn't seem to make you happy," he finishes.
You neither deny nor confirm it. Your steps just slow slightly against the gravel scattered on the path, stones crunching beneath the soles of your boots. For a while, there is only the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields.
Eventually, you speak.
"Does it have to?"
Qifrey thinks about that. About the way you've perfected every spell he's taught you but never once asked to learn any out of your own desire. About how you can spend hours, days, drawing circles and lines over and over again simply because he tells you to. About how quickly you've become good at magic—and how little of it seems to belong to you.
"It doesn't have to," Qifrey says, at last. He's cast all sorts of magic in his life, spells that have burned and hollowed, ones that have scarred and pained him beyond what any physical wound can. Not all of it was joy. Not all of it was kind.
Yet.
"But you should find a reason. To desire magic, I mean."
You glance at him, eyes briefly searching, as though weighing the shape of his words, their meaning. He licks his lips, suddenly dry.
"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "I—I hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."
The last sentence escapes him in a rush, as though forced from his lungs with some sort of wind dispelling spell. The thought settles heavy in his chest again, the silverwood shuddering. For all his care—for all the effort he's poured into teaching you properly, responsibly—one truth remains unchanged: Qifrey had taken you in because he needed an apprentice. Not out of kindness. Not out of any noble intent he can comfortably name.
He doesn't know what he would say if you ever asked him why. Any lie would feel too great a disservice to the one person he'd thrust this fate upon, and the truth feels brittle, insufficient—something that would fracture the moment he speaks it aloud.
But you never have. Sometimes, he suspects that you already know.
The remainder of the walk back passes in silence. The sky fades from sienna to lavender before deepening to a dark indigo. One by one, the first stars emerge at the very top of the firmament, their light faint and trembling. You say nothing, and Qifrey tells himself to give you time—you need space to process things, and pressuring you would only make you retreat further into yourself, like a snail hiding in its own shell.
The atelier comes into view at the end of the lane, its windows dark. Qifrey steps ahead, undoing the sealing glyphs on the door. It swings open with a soft creak, and he pauses, holding it ajar for you to step through.
You don't.
He turns back to see you standing a step behind the threshold, gaze lowered to the path at your feet, as though something he cannot see there has snared your attention and taken it captive. Qifrey frowns, head tilting.
"Apprentice?"
You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietly—
"I want to cure Master."
For a moment, Qifrey forgets how to breathe. He can only stare at you, mouth slightly parted. The words fail to catch despite him having nothing to say. Your voice had been small, careful—like you'd been turning the words over in your mouth for miles, smoothing their edges so they wouldn't cut your tongue on the way out. Of all the things he'd imagined you might say, this had never even been within his considerations.
He grips the door handle a little more firmly for support. The brass carvings bite its patterns into his skin of his palm.
"Cure me," he repeats, dumbly.
"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."
Qifrey didn't realise you'd noticed. He thought he'd been careful.
"I thought I asked you," he says, more quietly, more unsteadily now, "to want something for yourself."
"I don't like seeing Master in pain."
Qifrey’s grip on the door falters. Something tightens in his chest—perhaps the silverwood, perhaps something else, so sharp it cuts him open like a blade, and yet he doesn't know whether he wants to let go. For so long, he's been waiting—for you to want something, to reach beyond instruction, to claim even the smallest piece of magic for your own.
And you have.
Qifrey exhales slowly, the sound thin against the quiet of the evening. For once, there is no ready answer waiting behind his teeth. He thinks of Olruggio's face, the path to salvation he'd offered Qifrey paved with the pieces of his own memory. He thinks of the tree growing inside of him, its roots tangled in his ribs, its branches seeking the sun through where his eye once used to be.
Healing magic is a direct alteration of the body, and every form of body alteration is forbidden—banned on the Day of the Pact, enforced by the Knights Moralis with iron and fire. And even if it wasn't, the silverwood is not merely an illness. There is no cure for what grows inside of him.
But you don't know any of that.
So Qifrey smiles softly. Releases his death grip on the door, pulling away to rest a hand on top of your head, the same way Beldaruit used to do for him.
"That's very kind of you," he says.
Your expression doesn't change, but the tautness in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, as if you'd been bracing for him to laugh at you, to dismiss your dream as a fool's flight and fancy. Instead, he pushes the door open wider and gestures you inside.
"Come on," Qifrey tells you, swallowing the sudden thickness lodged in his throat. "Wash up. I'll make squash stew for dinner."
You nod and disappear up the steps to the second floor. Your footsteps fade quickly, and soon Qifrey's ears pick up the sound of running water, of the bath being filled.
He remains in the doorway a moment longer, one hand braced against the frame, the other lifting—almost unconsciously—to brush over where his right eye used to be, featherlight. The motion is familiar, thoughtless. Almost habitual.
But he's been exposed, now. A deprecating laugh escapes him, the wisps of it slipping between his teeth. It's only now, Qifrey thinks, that he's beginning to realise just how foolish he'd been.
He's fallen into the pit that he'd dug with his own two hands.
Sleep eludes Qifrey that night.
He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting on his chest. Beneath skin and bone, the cage of his ribs, the silverwood pulses its slow, patient rhythm, waiting. The ceiling above him is indistinguishable in the dark, but he's stared at it so many sleepless nights that he can recall to memory the grain of every plank, the small water stain in the corner that faintly resembles a bird in flight.
Just above him, in the room upstairs, you are sleeping soundly—or he hopes so, at least. Belly full of squash stew, dreaming of pleasant things. That you are warm and resting, and that, for once, you are not pushing yourself past the point of sense simply because he asked it of you.
I want to cure Master.
Qifrey turns onto his side, facing the wall. His pillowcase smells faintly of lavender—scented sachets you'd made last week, making use of some aromatics a village herbalist had given you for your help. He'd accepted one when you'd offered it, almost without thinking, assuming that it was thoughtful but practical gesture.
Now, the scent lingers like smoke.
Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their seats and think, that's the one.
But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.
Qifrey pushes out a breath, the tip of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. You will learn about the forbidden magic, eventually. Every witch does—and as your master, it will be his responsibility to teach you about it. Some things are too dangerous. Some lines cannot be crossed. All magic that is drawn on the human body or affects the human body is outlawed.
And that includes healing magic.
You will learn that, and then you will not ask too many questions about why his eye cannot be fixed. Eventually, you will move on and find another, better wish.
But for now, Qifrey takes your words and folds them carefully, tucking them away into the furthest corner of his heart where the silverwood cannot reach. He closes his one good eye and waits for the sun to rise once again. And when it does, Qifrey will greet you in the kitchen downstairs with a cup of hot tea and a smile, he will teach you combination sigils and binding spells, and he will never bring it up again.
Because some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud, and some teachers are too selfish to let them go.
Summer slips unnoticed into autumn, and autumn, in turn, yields to winter. Qifrey teaches you to crochet, then to knit—awkward at first, fingers too stiff around the slumbersheep yarn until Qifrey takes your hands and guides you through the movements, much in the same way he does when teaching you spells. He shows you how to tend to the heating spells that keep the house warm without burning it down, how to summon precise gusts of wind to blow snow off the atelier's sloping roofs. And the months pass just as the weather changes—gradual, inevitable, marked only in hindsight by the shift in the air, the thinning of light.
And as you grow older, Qifrey finds the distance he once tried so carefully to maintain eroded by the same unrelenting tide. Bit by bit, day by day—until one morning he wakes up and realises he cannot quite remember what it feels like to not have you there.
It's not something that changes overnight. Instead, it is a thousand small, mundane things—the way his hand moves without thinking to drop two cubes of sugar into your teacup, the copper kettle with your heating spell whistling behind him on the stove. You're at the basin with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, washing a skillet faintly smelling of bacon while a brushbuddy dozes on your shoulder. Everything is good, and everything is warm.
This is dangerous, Qifrey thinks. And then he thinks it again, because the first time hadn't been enough to make him stop.
The morning he's forced to confront it comes without warning. Quietly, unassumingly, a thief in the night.
Qifrey notices that something is different the moment he steps into the quiet of the kitchen. The kettle is cold, and the matching cups that a travelling potter had made for you sit upturned on the counter, untouched from where you'd set them aside to dry last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, listening. The atelier breathes around him like an extension of his own body—the soft creak of timber settling, the low whisper of wind along the eaves—but beneath it, nothing. No quiet patter of footsteps in the floor upstairs. No water running in the washroom.
Perhaps you're sleeping in, he tells himself. The idea is almost pleasant. You never do; you're always awake before him, tea already steeped, moving around the kitchen to prepare breakfast—presence slipped so easily into his morning routine that he'd stopped noticing it altogether.
Qifrey sets the kettle to heat, before rummaging for the battered tin of tea leaves in the overhead shelf. He prepares a cup for you, placing it at the chair that has become yours in all but name, and sits across it with his own. The brew's a little more astringent than he's used to—steeped a touch too long, perhaps—but he drinks it anyway, idly sorting through the neglected stack of mail from the council.
The sun climbs higher in the sky. Light spills through the kitchen window, between the gap in the curtains, inching slowly across the table to catch on the rim of your untouched cup. Qifrey looks through the latest spell you've been working on: an attempt at replicating his Palm Dragon Teacup. He makes small suggestions in the margins, noting down more efficient arrangements and combinations of keystones, ideas for refining its precision. Still, it's good work. Your work is always good.
More time passes. He finally completes drafting a letter to the Great Hall—something about independent ateliers and watchful eyes—and sends it off before picking up a book about complex fire spells. Qifrey thumbs through the pages slowly, more out of idleness than focus, pausing every now and then when something catches his eye. A variation making use of the stabilising keystone. A more efficient heat-dispersal glyph. He dog-ears about six different pages with the intention of showing them to you later, when he looks up and realises that your tea has long gone cold.
Qifrey closes his book, sets it aside, and heads for the stairs.
Your bedroom door is closed.
That isn't surprising to Qifrey. You've always been a private person by nature, and you're even moreso protective of your few possessions, your personal space. Qifrey learned early on not to intrude without invitation or cause.
But your diversion from routine is… odd. Surely you will forgive his worry.
Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over the wood of your door, before he knocks. "Apprentice?"
No answer.
He knocks again, a little sharper this time. "It's past noon. If you want to sleep in, just let me know, alright? You deserve the rest."
Still no answer.
The thin thread of unease tightens around his chest.
"I'm coming in."
The door swings open easily beneath his hand. The room that he steps into is familiar and empty. Your blankets are carefully folded at the foot of the bed, your traveling cloak absent from its hook by the window. And your sylph shoes, the ones that he'd helped you mend just last week, are missing from their place next to the dresser.
Qifrey stands in the center of the room, the air suddenly going very, very still. The silverwood in his chest trembles.
Calm down, he tells himself firmly. Your bed is made—your absence must be deliberate. There must be some sort of explanation. Perhaps you wanted a taste of mischief, to act your age for once. Perhaps you snuck out to one of the nearby villagers, Hearthglen or Azmar, to meet people, make friends. Be normal. You mentioned the daughter of Azmar's baker last week. He recalls a girl your age with flour on her apron who'd been fascinated with your magic. Perhaps you've gone to pay her a visit.
He turns slowly, forcing his gaze to move along with him. Your ink wands are in a little cup on your table, textbooks sitting in rows on the shelf where they belong. Encyclopedias, histories, grimoires he'd deemed safe for for your learning. Nothing out of place. He's about to leave the room, fetch a guidance orb just to make sure that you're alright, when—
Something small and furtive shifts between a gap in the books. The brushbuddy's tail twitches into view before it darts back into the narrow space behind, as though caught somewhere it shouldn't be.
Qifrey frowns.
He reaches up and pulls the entire front row of volumes aside, setting them down on the table with a heavy thump. Dust stirs in the air. Behind them sits another, shorter stack of books, tucked neatly out of sight. Aside from him, there isn't another occupant in this atelier for you to hide things from. Which means you meant to conceal this deliberately. From him.
Why?
Qifrey ignores the cold uncertainty in his chest, picking up the first book. Medical journal. Second. Herbal remedies of the Southern Continent. Third, an encyclopedia on human anatomy, although only the section on ophthalmology is bookmarked, annotated so densely that barely any margin is left untouched. The rest of the books are of a similar vein.
Only the last one is different—a notebook, worn pages filled with a cramped but script that he would recognise anywhere. The rest are filled with sketches—plants that even he doesn't recognise at first glance, roots and leaves and bulbs rendered with careful attention to detail. Analgesic properties. Toxic in high doses. Antispasmodic. Causes hallucinations.
He flips through more rapidly, pulse quickening, but the later pages only get worse.
Burn, left forearm. Applied tincture from ground monoceros horn and milkwort. Moderate pain reduction, mild nausea. Bruise, right knee. Poultice from steeped elderwood and nightpoppy. Significant pain relief, but results in complete loss of sensation and movement in area. Lasts three hours. Burn—
Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for… for—
He doesn't dare to let that thought complete itself. He turns the pages quickly, skimming past entries until he reaches the last one. The ink is smudged where the parchment presses together, as if you'd jotted it down and closed it in a hurry. It's still faintly wet.
There is a rough sketch of silvery stems and thin, needle-like leaves. Spineneedles, you've labelled them. Your notes crowd the margins: potent pain-relieving properties. Possible long-term restorative effects. Grows only in steep valleys inhabited by winged serpentines, venom necessary for germination. And below it—
Kestrel's Maw, eight furlongs north of atelier. Serpentines least active at dusk and dawn.
Qifrey feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Outside the window, the sun hangs high in the cold winter sky, almost at its zenith—long past dawn, past any reasonable margin of safety. It's far too late. You should have been back hours ago. No, worse—you should have never gone at all, risking your life for such foolish, pointless endeavours. You should have been in this very room, sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, unharmed and safe and under Qifrey's protective eye. Instead—
He'd flown over Kestrel's Maw once, years ago. He still remembers the way the cliffs drop away into nothing, wind screaming through the narrow ravines, strong enough to throw even an experienced witch off balance. And the serpentines there are especially aggressive—great, winged creatures with beaks like drawn swords—nesting in the crevices where the spineneedles grow.
And that's where you've gone.
I'm responsible for this, Qifrey thinks numbly, and the words are a realisation as much as an accusation aimed at himself. I did this. I made you this way. I wanted someone to worry about, and now—
The image comes to him, unbidden: your body, broken at the base of the ravine. Impaled by sharp spikes at the bottom, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Cloak ripped and dark with blood, flesh torn from your bones by monstrous beaks. And your face—that quiet, serious, earnest face—pale, chest still, eyes open yet blank and vacant and unseeing and—
No.
No.
Qifrey runs. He doesn't think. He doesn't allow himself to. The door is too far—he shoves your shutters open and throws himself out of the second floor window, into the harsh midday sunlight. For a second, wind rushes up to meet him, flailing, falling—before the sylph seal beneath his feet flares. And then he's airborne, rising too fast but not fast enough, the wind tearing at his hair, the fragile control he's forcing himself to hold together.
Please, not them, is all he can think as he hurtles through the sky. Not my apprentice. Not them. I'll do anything. Please, please, please—
He doesn't know who he's begging, only that he'll beg anything, bargain everything—if it means that you're still alive when he arrives.
Even from a distance, the ravine makes for an unnerving sight. The karst pinnacles spear upwards as though they seek to pierce the sky, like the vicious teeth of some enormous, long-dead beast. Qifrey had forgotten how sharp they were, every edge honed to something hostile. Even the light falls strangely, splintered by stone so that shadows fall where they shouldn't, fractured into shifting planes that make depth and distance difficult to judge.
He clears the plains beneath him with unmatched speed, wind tearing past him—
—and then, he sees you.
You're clinging to a narrow outcropping perhaps fifty feet below the cliff's edge, body pressed close to the rock wall as though trying to become one with it yourself. Your sylph shoes are missing from one foot, and there's a long rend in your cloak. You aren't moving—only holding on, just barely—feet perilously close to the edge of a fatal, yawning drop below.
Above you, three winged serpentines circle patiently in the air. Their beaks hang slightly open, tongues flickering you as if tasting the air—your blood, your fear, the inevitability of what's next. The only mercy here is that they're not attacking. They are waiting, drawing it out. The same way a cat toys with a mouse it already knows cannot escape.
Qifrey doesn't stop or slow. He dives.
The wind screams past his ears, rising to a fever pitch as he plummets. His palm quire slips into his hand by instinct alone, wand flying over the paper in sharp, practiced strokes before he can even spare a thought as to who might be watching.
The spell takes shape in a single breath. Water wrenches itself from the air, the thin moisture caught in wind and stone, surging upwards into a coiling mass until it takes shape—a great, fluid dragon, its body twisting through the open air with a roar that echoes throughout the entire length of the gorge.
Two serpentines are caught in its jaws almost immediately, their cries cut short amidst the sound of snapping wing and bone. The third shrieks, veering sharply away before wheeling back, beak gaping in fury—but Qifrey is already moving, one arm wrapping around your waist and tearing you off the cliff face, hauling you bodily into the open air. You make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—the closest to afraid he's ever heard you—fingers gripping at the front of his shirt.
"Master—"
"Don't call me that right now."
The serpentines shriek behind him, rallying. Qifrey presses the sylph seal on his boots together, the weight of you unwieldy and palpable in his arms, and flies home.
You don't speak on the way back. Neither does he.
The atelier rises into view at the edge of the fields, its familiar shape cutting through the blur of wind and motion. He lands harder than he intends, knees buckling for a second before he forces himself forward—half-carrying, half-dragging you through the front door. Your cup remains where he left it, untouched on the kitchen table, and he sets you down onto the chair—the same one he'd been sitting in just an hour prior, drinking tea and so, so oblivious—more roughly than he intends.
You don't complain. You never do. The same way you never protest, never ask, never tell him anything—
Qifrey turns away. His hands are shaking. He wrenches open the drawers, rifling through them with none of his usual care, yanking out bandages, salves, clean gauzes. Something clenches in his chest like a fist, squeezing, tight, so tight.
"What were you thinking?" he snaps. He almost doesn't recognise his own voice—low and taut and cutting. "Going to such a dangerous place—alone—without telling anyone—without asking—"
He finds the antiseptic, shoved into the back of a drawer. His fingers slip on the stopper, trembling faintly.
"You could have died. Do you understand that? You could have died. Those creatures—they could have—" Sent you plummeting down the cliff. Eaten you. Torn you to pieces. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. The images they conjure are too much to bear.
He whirls around again, still not quite looking at your face, and takes your left arm. The cuts are worse up close—long, ragged scratches that split skin, dried blood flaking at the edges. Your palms and fingers are raw and abraded from where you must have clung to the sharp rock.
Qifrey dabs at them with more force than necessary. You flinch just once, before going still again.
"Rash. Reckless. Stupid." The words spill out of him like water from a broken dam. They're sharp enough to wound, meant to hurt, and he knows this even as he says them but cannot bring himself to stop. "I didn't teach you that. I taught you to think, to assess, not throw yourself off cliffs for—for worthless plants—"
"Master—"
"I said don't." Hearing that title alone makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when you—"
"It's Master's fault."
The words land like a slap. Qifrey turns to look at you—one hand frozen over a roll of bandages, the echo of them stinging—only to find your mouth drawn taut in a stubborn line. And your eyes, those quiet, watchful eyes that have always followed him so carefully, are hard with something he's never seen in them before. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to accusation.
As though he is the one who has wronged you.
"Oh, it's my fault," he repeats, his voice rising sharply on its own, an unpleasant mixture of anger and incredulity. "I didn't tell you to sneak out without telling me. I didn't tell you to seek out winged beasts you have no experience fighting. I didn't tell you to—"
"Yes, because Master never tells me anything—"
"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishcloth—stained with your blood—twisting taut between his white knuckled fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. Maybe tear his hair out. Another part of him—a smaller, quieter part—wants to lock you in this atelier and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you are safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am trying—I have been trying—to protect you from—"
"I don't need to be protected like a child—"
"Then stop acting like one!" Qifrey is shouting now. He knows that he is shouting. He can't stop. "Sneaking around behind my back, hiding books in your room, burning and cutting yourself, putting yourself in mortal danger for a cure that doesn't exist!"
Your obstinate expression only darkens further. "Master can't know for certain—"
"I do!" His hands come down hard on the tabletop, and you flinch. Your teacup jumps, porcelain clattering as it tips. Cold tea spills across the gingham patterns. "I know because—" Because he's already been to the Tower of Memories, and he knows that what ails him is no illness or curse. "—because I've already read every book, tried every remedy—I know that there is no cure! There is no cure, and there will never be, so stop trying to throw your life away for something so—"
"I won't!"
Something in Qifrey snaps.
"If you're so unwilling to listen to me," he says, his voice suddenly cold and flat, in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."
The moment those words leave his mouth, Qifrey knows at once that he would do anything to take them back—tear them out of the air, swallow them whole even if they cut his throat to ribbons—but the damage is already done.
You go very still. The anger doesn't leave you, not entirely, but something beneath it fractures—hairline cracks spiderwebbing across thin river ice. Your mouth works soundlessly, shaping around words that don't make it out, before pressing into a thin, bloodless line.
When he dares a glance up again, your lashes are wet. You're not crying—you never have, not in front of him, at least—but your eyes are bright, too bright now, in a way that feels dangerously close. Your lower lip wobbles only once before you sink your teeth into it and force it still.
Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs the fading remnants of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches the heat from his bones, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget.
But this—this—is worse.
Qifrey's hands falter, then drop back to his sides. Why had they even been raised in the first place? The kitchen is too quiet now, empty except for the phantom ghosts of your anger and his, the steady drip of tea from the table's edge, forming a puddle on the flagstones beneath. He feels exhausted all of a sudden—wrung dry and scraped hollow.
It's only then that he notices the bag. Your hand—the other one, still dirty and bleeding—is curled around a small pouch of cloth, pressed so tightly against your chest that your knuckles have gone white. Even after everything, you are still clinging to it. Still trying, desperately, to keep it safe.
"Give me the bag," he says.
Your eyes jump to Qifrey's face. You glance down at the bag, as though just only remembering thtat it's there, before your fingers tighten around it again, spine curving over it protectively. Hesitation flickers across your expression for a brief second, before you give a small, stubborn shake of the head.
No.
Qifrey sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, patience fraying, before he reins himself in forcefully. He's done more than enough damage, today. "I won't—I'm not going to do anything to it," he says, trying to sound reassuring, more gentle. He doesn't know if he succeeds. "Just—please. Give me the bag."
You stare at him for a moment longer, as though wordlessly weighing whether you can trust his words. Then, slowly, reluctantly—you loosen your death grip on the pouch and hold it out.
It's surprisingly light in his hand, once he takes it. Almost as though it holds nothing inside at all. His fingers, still faintly numb and tacky with your blood, fumble with the drawstrings as he pulls them loose. He looks inside.
A handful of silver leaves lie scattered across the bottom of the pouch. Thin and gleaming, each one shaped like a sewing needle. Spineneedles. Carefully gathered, but so few of them—barely enough to brew a single thumb-sized vial of tincture.
Yet the mere sight of them is enough to strip all the anger from him in an instant. Qifrey stares down into the pouch, the thin scatter of silver leaves there glinting faintly like stars in the night sky, and feels something inside him give way.
He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed of—is himself. Because the only reason you did any of this—pushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's way—is because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you'd uttered that day close to his heart, like a precious treasure, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you hurtling straight into danger's embrace.
A slow, quiet breath escapes him. Qifrey slowly lets himself sink to his knees in front of your chair, suddenly weary in a way that he cannot quite name.
You shift at the movement, glancing down at him with something uncertain in your expression, unsure of his moods.
"…Master?"
He sets the pouch on the table and carefully takes your hands in his. You try to tug them back to your chest on instinct but he holds on to your wrists, gentle but insistent. Qifrey turns them over, palms out, your fingers curling slightly, and looks at the small, round marks he's never looked close enough to notice before. Burn scars. Old and new, layered together, a wordless record of every time you had pressed pain into your own body in search of something that might help him.
His throat closes around the words he doesn't have.
"Thank you," is all he can say, in the end. Even then, it feels inadequate. "For trying to cure me. For going to such lengths to ease my pain." Qifrey pauses, his thumb brushing over a half-healed scab on your knuckle. "But it… it won't work."
You look at him, then. The defiance has receded from your eyes, leaving behind a thin, wavering uncertainty in its place. "How can Master be so sure it will not work?"
Because I've already tried everything. Because I read about it in the Tower, and I know the truth. Because the problem isn't my eye or the headaches—it is the tree growing inside of me, the parasite that will kill me if I stop worrying, if I stop hurting, if I let myself be happy for even a moment.
But Qifrey cannot say that. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. His fingers drift down unconsciously to brush the ribbon trailing from the top of his hat.
"Because, like I said, I've tried every remedy in existence." He shakes his head with a defeated smile, squeezing your hands. "Nothing works. And it only hurts me more—more than my eye or any headache—to see my beloved apprentice put themself in danger for my sake."
You go still, fingers curling loosely under his own.
"I should be the one protecting you," he continues. "Not the other way around. That—that's the whole point of having an apprentice." Qifrey almost laughs at that, the line of his mouth twisting into the shape of a half-formed, self-deprecating smile. Oh, he was so, so foolish. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. And yet, here you are, throwing yourself into danger for me."
His gaze drops back to your hands, the small scars scattered across your skin.
"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that they are not merely for your sake—they are true, plain and simple. "The pain is small in comparison."
You don't speak for a moment. The afternoon light has shifted, turning golden and syrupy, pooling on the floor between you like liquid honey. Qifrey can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in the silence, a slow, steady march in his ears.
"But I don't like to see Master in pain."
Your voice is small, but matter-of-fact. You say it in the same way you might state an obvious truth, such as fire is hot and water is clear and the sun rises in the east. As if it's simply a fact of the universe that you dislike seeing him in pain—and therefore, you must do something about it.
Qifrey's heart clenches, a sharp and sudden thing. Before he can think better of it he's already leaning forward to gather you into his arms. It's the first time he's ever hugged you, he realises distantly. He's held you when you were learning to use sylph shoes for the first time, guided your hand and wand through careful strokes, rested a light hand on your head once or twice—but never anything like this. Never returned even a fraction of the quiet comfort you've given him simply by being there. Some master he's been.
You go stiff for a moment against his chest, caught off guard by the suddenness of the gesture. A few breaths pass before your shoulders loosen, ever so slightly, and then your forehead dips, coming to rest slowly against the line of his collarbone. And your hands, one half-bandaged and the other still dirty with smeared blood and dirt, come up to grip tentatively at the back of his shirt.
When had you become so precious to him?
He closes his one good eye and presses his face into the top of your head, ignoring the way his glasses push up on the bridge of his nose. Your hair smells faintly of lemon verbena and soap. "Don't do something so dangerous again, alright?" His voice comes out muffled, even to his own ears. "Promise me."
There's a long pause. Then: "I don't want to give up, Master."
Qifrey sighs, something between an amused sigh and weary acceptance. Clearly, it'd been wishful thinking at best to hope otherwise, and the fault for it lies squarely with him. He draws back just enough to look at you. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.
"If you have any ideas," he says at last, the words coming together with reluctant resignation, "tell me first. Before you do anything. We'll experiment together—here, in the atelier, where it's safe." His eye narrows slightly, a faint edge of sternness threading through the softness. "I won't stop you from trying. But I'm not going to lose you to a cliff face or anything else, and there will be no forbidden magic. Do you understand?"
You hold his gaze. For a moment your expression is unreadable—eyes too much like mirrors, reflecting too much of him back at himself, too clearly, too honestly. Then, slowly, you nod.
"Okay."
"Good." The word leaves him more easily than expected, as though some heavy weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. Qifrey pulls you in again, a brief but quieter second embrace, before he lets you go and leans back. Even with the space between you now, the residual warmth of you lingers, settling into the hollow places between his ribs like sunlight.
"I'll make dinner tonight," he announces, getting to his feet. "You should get some rest. But first—let me finish treating your arms."
"Okay."
You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, careful as though he's handling some priceless, irreplaceable magical artifact, tutting softly under his breath at the state of you. The cuts, the burns, the bruising—he tends to each with attentive hands, and insists on drawing you a bath of milk and herbs as he works, all while you squirm and offer half-hearted rejections in protest.
Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.
a/n: i cannot believe that some of my best writing this year might have been for yet another white haired man voiced by joshua waters in en who is also competing in the depression olympics. the only difference is that qifrey is a twink and i only found out about him three days ago before proceeding to bash out ten thousand words for him despite not really blorbo-ing him. am i denial or do i need the asylum 😔 n e ways i hope you enjoy! please don't crucify me for the age gap or the eventual problematic student teacher relationship </3
❝ HIS CINDERELLA CAUSE I MAKE IT FIT ! ❞
⤷ Enjin x Fallen Spherite!Reader
>>>>>> Apparently Enjin has all the 'luck' when it comes to finding Spherites in No Man's Land. This time he's found you—a stuck-up Spherite noble—cast out with the trash. You're prissy, needy and an overall pain in his ass. Definitely not his type—but that slutty pussy sure is. ♡
>>>>>> 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 𝟏𝟖+ for filthy enjin smut. enjin & reader are delulu & down bad. big dick!enjin. size queen!reader. bimbo!reader. sex under the influence. public sex. breeding. bjs. enjin is overall diabolical. but there's also a bit of plot too with some romance/fluff/humor. no spoilers for anime/manga.
>>>>>> 𝐰𝐜: 13.1k
𝐚𝐧: major special shoutouts to @honeybunnnnie my trash daddy partner in crime, who beta'd for me and gave me lots of good lil' gems I incorporated here. we share one horny brain cell when it comes to this man and the amount of headcanons we have made based on this that I didn't even include is INSANE lmfao.
You aren’t Enjin’s type.
That much is certain the moment he stumbles upon you after being called to check out a disturbance in No Man’s Land. Scanning the terrain of garbage, Enjin wonders if he’s hallucinating.
Still high from the night before—or maybe there’s a leak in his full face?
Either way he had to be tripping absolute balls right now because what the hell else could explain the giant kaiju-like plushie with bunny ears, wide beady eyes, and jagged teeth ripping apart trash beasts in the distance like they were wet paper towels?
But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over.
All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring.
Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.
Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.
You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.
Keh, interesting.
With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…
Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.
Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him.
Fuck, you have a mean right hand.
Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there.
“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out.
Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city.
The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.
Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.
Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.
When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.
“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips.
You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!
“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”
Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.
“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.”
Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.
Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.
However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.
Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance.
Yeah, not your fault. Enjin thinks and cuts you a break.
For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.
Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them.
At least—not yet.
But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem:
You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.
Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.
Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.
Not after he saved you.
Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.
And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.
“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”
“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.
Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.
The fuck?!
Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.
But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat.
While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.
Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.
It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.
Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.
He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.
A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?
Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.
Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.
Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected.
However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.
But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.
You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.
It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.
And yet?
Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you.
Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him.
Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.
Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.”
He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.
“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!”
You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.
“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.”
“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”
You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.
It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him.
There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.
Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.
Doesn’t mean anything.
Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.
It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.
All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”
So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.
You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.
Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.
“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.
Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.
You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.
You think you actually recognize it.
Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.
You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness.
“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.
“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”
You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.
“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”
“HAH?!”
Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.
He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.
When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.
“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”
You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.
You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs.
“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.
Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.
“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”
From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.
Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.
You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.
His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.
“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.”
Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.
“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”
Ouch.
Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.
However…
You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.
…that doesn’t make it worthless.
Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is.
Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.
Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.
Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.
“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”
Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.
“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”
Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.
“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”
Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.
Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.
“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.
Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.
“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”
Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.
“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.
Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon.
“Ugh! Fine!”
You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.
“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”
Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.
“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”
Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.
“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”
While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.
Heh, time to pull out the big guns.
“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”
You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.
“You’re not serious.”
But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later. You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.
Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:
“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”
Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.
“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”
Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.
“Open.”
Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.
“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”
You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.
Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.
The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.
“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”
The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell.
Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.
“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”
You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.
“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”
Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle.
Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.
Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.
“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”
You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for.
Whoops.
Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state.
It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.
Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.
The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue.
You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one.
But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.
And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.
Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.
Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.
Is it hotter in here, or—?
Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.
Not that he’s jealous or nothing.
Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.
However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.
Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.
Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—
“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”
Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.
“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”
For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.
You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp.
“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”
Huh? What does he mean that isn’t—
You freeze.
Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.
“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”
Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.
Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak.
You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.
“Heh.”
The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.
There’s no way that’s his dick!
Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’
“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”
Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.
“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”
Your eyes meet his dead-on.
“I do.”
“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”
Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.
The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.
“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.
You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it.
Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.
“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”
Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.
But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly.
“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”
You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.
There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock!
He had to be the one fucking with you here.
Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.
But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else.
Yeah. Science.
Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real.
“C’mon now…”
Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.
“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”
Shit. You knew it was intentional?
“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”
The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.
“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”
Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.
Christ.
With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath.
Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small?
Or is your pussy print just that fat?
Enjin gulps, mouth dry.
His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.
After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs.
All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.
“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”
“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.”
Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.
“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”
Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway.
However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.
For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.
Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.
Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.
Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.
You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life.
Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.
“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.
“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”
Bullshit!
Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.
“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”
Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.
“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”
Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth.
Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.
Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger.
There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.
Truly, though—you are in awe.
Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.
Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.
But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now.
It was never you.
The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric.
Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him.
Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.
“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”
You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs.
“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses.
His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.
“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”
Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.
How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?
Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.
Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.
You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat.
“May I?”
Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut.
“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy. And best of all?
Meant just for him.
Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.
“Keh. Do you, boo.”
Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy.
Good God, he’s a big boy!
Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.
Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like.
You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.
Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material.
You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip. Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.
“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”
Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.
You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.
“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”
Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw.
“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”
Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away. But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.
If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.
Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined.
And he’d imagined it plenty.
Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you.
You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak?
Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.
“Hate it?”
Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick.
“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”
If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.
You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.
“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”
Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.
“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”
If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions.
Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy.
On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.
Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.
“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”
Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it.
Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch.
Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.
Oh fuck, even his fingers are big!
A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.
Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time.
To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late.
He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.
“HAHH—FUHH!”
Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you. Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.
Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop.
“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”
Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.
You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.
“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.
All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.
You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.
You need him to get hard again—immediately!
Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute. His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.
But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.
You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top. Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.
Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up.
Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.
“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”
You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.
Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying.
“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”
You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.
“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”
The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.
Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?
But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.
“Too s-slow!” You groan.
Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.
Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now.
Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles.
“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”
Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.
You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.
But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.
Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.
Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair!
Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.
The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.
Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.
“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”
The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.
Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.
“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”
Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.
The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him.
“Run that back.”
Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.
The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck.
You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs.
“I…I did it.”
Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.
Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.
Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.
Because honestly?
Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect.
For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you.
How could he even look at another woman after this?
One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.
Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.
Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him.
Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.
“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up.
But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully.
“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?”
Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.
“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”
Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.
Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.
Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.
“Shiiiiit!”
Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.
“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.”
SMACK!
Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.
“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”
SMACK!
“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him.
Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.
Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward.
“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.
The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.
“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.
The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.
“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”
Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you.
“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”
Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.
“Bet.”
Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.
Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get.
Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.
All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram.
The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.
“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!”
Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.
Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you.
If you never—
Enjin cuts the thought off cold.
Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back.
Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.
Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’.
“Enjin?”
Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.
“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”
Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.
But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment.
Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.
His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—
If you never fell.
But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:
If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself.
Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?
If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you. He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.
But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.
“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.
“....right, here.”
Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.
“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.
Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.
You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication.
“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”
As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.
Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude
“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…”
You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head.
“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”
It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral.
“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”
Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck.
“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”
Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.
“FUHHHH—take it!”
Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.
In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms.
Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit.
“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”
Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.
“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”
Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.
“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”
Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.
“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”
Cumbringer!?
Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners.
Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.
Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.
“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”
When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.
“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”
You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.
⛓
Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.
Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.
Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.
Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?
Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.
Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.
A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.
“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.
Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.
“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked.
The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.
Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.
“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket.
Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.
“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”
Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.
“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.
“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly.
Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.
“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”
Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now.
“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.”
Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.
She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”
Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life.
Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.
“One more thing.”
Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.
“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”
Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.”
Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.
“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”
Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.
Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.
“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”
Call? Oh, heh.
“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily.
It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.
“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”
Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.
“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh! She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”
Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.
Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats.
The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.
“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”
𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡
also, in case anyone is wondering—yes, reader's jinki is a labubu and yes, enjin just guilt tripped reader into growing him his own personal stash djhscjhdfj.
banner: mash up of official manga + rororogi mogera 'last mall' doujin panels.
A/N: Just a little scene I wanted to add, didn't know how to, scrapped, then brought back. Just a short scene before the next episode. Chapter 12 is on the way dw.
Prev < . > Next
🌂
Everyone got themselves situated in the hotel they were staying at. While Canvas Town mourns and celebrates, the Cleaners aren't going to get their tags anytime soon with all the festivities. Everyone checked in for the night, most already sound asleep.
Not Enjin though.
Enjin stubs out the cigarette bud on the sidewalk and throws it in a bin. He stands up with a groan, stretching out the cramped muscles from sitting so long. He walks back into the hotel, planning to finally go to bed.
“Stay still.”
“They itch.”
“Well, don’t scratch it.”
Seems like he’s not the only one up.
The door to the toilets was left wide open, letting Enjin peek inside to see who it was. You and Rudo stood by the sinks, one was plugged and filled with water. You pat dry Rudo’s hands with a towel. Rudo’s red—almost black hands. No wonder the kid's instrument is his gloves.
You pull out a roll of bandages and begin wrapping his arms. It was quiet, a comfortable silence that didn’t need to be filled, just the sound of the bandage rustling was enough.
“Hey (Y/N), what were those colorful things Remlin exploded in the sky? You seemed really happy watching them.” Rudo was the first to break the silence. You give Rudo a smile, “They are called fireworks. They are often used in celebrations because of how loud and flashy they are.”
Your eyes soften and glaze over, “I’ve only seen fireworks once, back in my world when I was a kid. Probably around your age. There was a famous celebration called the fourth of July. My family usually didn’t celebrate, we didn’t have time to.”
“But that day, my brother managed to sneak us fireworks to play with. I remember being so happy to see them, because for once, I really got to be a kid. Even if it was just for that day.” Your smile turns into something bitter sweet.
Enjin doesn’t like that kind of smile. He prefers the one you wore when watching the fireworks. Maybe he should take you to see more.
You quickly wipe it off, focusing back on Rudo’s bandages. You snip, tape and start on the second arm. “I thought about dad. When watching the fireworks.” Rudo doesn’t look up, just focuses on the bandage circling his arm. You pause for a moment but continue, “Is it because of what Remlin said? About Gob not being able to enjoy the afterlife if we’re all sulking.”
Rudo nods. You think for a moment before speaking, “Your dad loved you, very much. And you love him. That’s why you’re so adamant on getting revenge.” You finish bandaging his arms and hold his hands, “But you can’t let that consume you.”
You crouch down to meet his gaze, “At the end of the day, you’re still his kid, and he would always wish for happiness for his son. So as important as revenge is to you, don’t forget to have fun every once in a while.”
Rudo’s eyes gloss over with tears but he tackles you into a hug to hide them, “I miss him.” You wrap your arms around him tight, rubbing circles into his back, “I know kid. I know.”
Enjin backed away from the doorway quietly, slipping into the shadows and past back to his room. Seems like you got it handled.
Enjin closes the door to his room, leaning back on the door with a sigh. He pulls out the anti-possession necklace you’ve made for him, holding the tiny charm in the palm of his hand.
Each wish you have to for your world, something in him churns and aches.
He closes his hand around the charm, letting the metal dig into his palm.
tags: dark tom, violence, magic duelling (mentions of injuries including cuts, bruises, blood, and death), lowkey toxic relationship, kissing, implied sex (but no smut)
hogwarts.
one of the oldest, if not the oldest, wizarding schools in the world (several historians have opposing opinions on that subject). with its extensive history and countless mysteries, hogwarts proved to be quite an impressive building all around.
you knew that some people found the archaic history boring or irrelevant. you recalled the lack of attention from your fellow pupils during history of magic classes. it was true that the majority of people preferred the more modern schools that have already adapted and advanced alongside time, but you thought that they lacked the allure hogwarts had. it was something about the ancient history that was entrancing. perhaps it was the fact that the corridors and towers you walked across as a teenager were also occupied by wizards and witches centuries ago - some growing to be the most powerful magical beings the world had ever seen.
that was ultimately why you had sent an owl with your application as soon as you heard of a job vacancy at hogwarts. it was not a linear decision; you had actually spent a few months working at the ministry of magic immediately after graduation. you had been placed in the department of magical creatures as a first year employee and had quit soon after you were tasked with wrangling a misplaced kappa, who had nearly bit off a finger on your wand-dominant hand.
after that fiasco, you had debated remaining unemployed for a while, using the decent bit of gold you had saved up, but that seemed awfully boring and wasteful.
you wanted to do something impactful; you wanted to make a change. you wanted to be left as a part of history, like the fact that the current currency system was created centuries ago, yet it was still used to this day. you wanted to make an impression that would last longer than you would live.
and what better way than to teach!
☆
“truly, thank you for your time. it has been years since i have seen a mind as bright as yours.” headmaster dippet smiles.
“it is my pleasure, sir.” you stay quiet, your knee anxiously bouncing as you wait for any indication you have successfully passed the interview.
he sips his tea before clearing his throat. his office is quite barren. . .
“i would love to have you as a defence against the dark arts professor,” yes! “though, unfortunately, i had just recently filled that role earlier this week. a very promising young wizard, just like yourself, though his professional experience is closer aligned with what hogwarts is looking for.”
you have to fight to keep a frown off your face. “oh. . .”
“but you are still so young! why rush into a profession so soon? travel, explore. magical france is truly incredible in autumn - i can recommend a few spots, i go there nearly every year. st. tropez is especially gorgeous.” dippet continues on, barely looking at you as he fumbles with his tea.
you stare blankly, fighting back tears as you clutch your transcript. you were so close; the dream you had held onto for all this time was dangled right in front of you, like a bone, only to be yanked further away once more.
“excuse my ramblings, miss.” dippet claps his hands together, “i understand that a rejection can be disappointing, but you have enlightened me during this interview. i do happen to have another opportunity for you.” a glimmer of hope. “you must understand that hogwarts’ library is the most fundamental part of the castle - aside from the headmasters office of course.” he lets out a hearty laugh, and you awkwardly chuckle along, anxious to see where the conversation is headed. “our previous librarian has unfortunately resigned due to personal reasons. we were considering magically automating the library in his absence, but you know how adolescent witches and wizards are - constantly keen on testing how far their magic can go - the automatic system would be destroyed before christmas. we need a wizard, a magically advanced and talented one, one like yourself. so, what do you say? would you be willing to be hogwarts’ new librarian?”
your mouth moves before your mind, “of course, i would be forever grateful.”
“excellent, my dear! let us handle some paperwork before i introduce you to your duties.”
though, being a librarian is not what you initially envisioned yourself doing, you couldn’t help but accept the offer. it is still hogwarts - and books are fundamental to education, you would still be playing your part in educating a future generation.
baby steps, you remind yourself.
you at least had one foot in the door.
☆
the great hall is as boisterous as you remember to say the least.
the students are barely contained to their seats, eager with the beginning of the term excitement. it brings a small smile to your face. you cannot imagine being that age again and being restricted magical use during the summer, no wonder they are all anxious to be back.
it truly does feel full circle. you were once one of those students, anxious and confused regarding the unknown future. you never would have guessed you would be back at hogwarts, this time at the staff table. it’s an entirely different perspective - figuratively and literally.
you are drawn out of your musings when professor mary flint clears her throat from beside you, eager to continue the conversation you were having.
“that is enough about me, how has it been working in the library over the summer? were you able to sort through all the books and files yet?” mary asks from your left. you introduced yourself to her when you ran into each other earlier in the day. you weren’t able to connect with any of the other faculty over the summer - too busy cooped up in the library, so you are grateful she is there to converse with.
your head perks up, “oh yes, of course. though it was quite a tedious task. the library is far more extensive than i remember.”
“i can imagine,” she murmurs, wiping her lips with a napkin. “the greenhouse and gardens has been just as much of a nightmare. i simply wanted to enjoy a few weeks in manhattan without worrying about my mandrakes, and of course dippet hired a coverage who forgot to cover his ears when rooting.” she shakes her head with a sigh.
“oh, that sounds awful,” you agree, helping yourself to another serving of pumpkin juice.
“indeed, i had to apparate across the ocean when i was in the middle of an opera. spoiled my whole vacation!”
“at least it’s all settled now,” you give her a smile, “i still have to redo all the wards on the restricted section, it’s like nobody even tried to make them effective-”
you are cut off by the sound of chair scraping beside you.
“apologies for my tardiness, ladies.”
and if that wasn’t the most handsome man you have ever seen. objectively. tall and lean. dark brown eyes that deepened like delicious honey pools under the candlelight, high and sharp cheekbones, and a perfectly aristocratic pointed nose. you stare for a moment, looking for a singular flaw or oddity, but you realize life truly is not fair when you cannot find one.
“not at all, tom, you have nothing to apologize for,” mary murmurs, leaning across you to speak to him. “dippet’s beginning of term speeches are nothing worth attending anyway.”
the man, tom, lets out a delicate laugh, taking his seat. “it’s good to see you again, mary.”
you feel him turn to stare at you, and you suppose the appropriate thing to do is introduce yourself. “and, i don’t believe we have met yet, it’s a pleasure.” you smile and extend your hand, telling him your name. “it’s my first term at hogwarts, i’ve just filled the librarian position.”
tom shakes your hand delicately, “tom riddle. it is nice to hear i won’t be the only new faculty member to join hogwarts this year.”
“oh, that’s lovely! may i ask if you’re going to be teaching?”
he nods, beginning to prod at his plate. “yes, i’ll be teaching defence against the dark arts.”
you physically feel all the colour drain from your face. so this is who had stolen your dream job from you. you narrow your eyes as you stare him. already so casual and self assured - he just started for merlins sake! and he was starting a job that was supposed to be yours. he didn’t even seem excited to tell you what he taught - it was almost like he didn’t even care. if you had gotten the position like you were supposed to, you would be telling people you taught defence against the dark arts with pride. this arrogant little-
tom meets your eye, and his brows raise in shock. “i apologize, did i say something to offend you?”
he looks concerned, genuinely concerned, and it takes you a few seconds to realize you were scowling at him.
“no, not at all,” you reply cooly.
mary lets out a nervous giggle from your other side, “was defence your least favourite subject in school?” she questions.
“it was my favourite, actually.” you clarify stabbing a roasted potato.
“oh, well maybe she just had a special attachment to the previous professor.” she grins at tom, “we all have our favourites don’t we? i’m sure you’re going to be popular among students this year.”
tom laughs, “i can only hope to be an excellent professor to these talented young minds, first impressions are important.” he smiles, staring at you.
mary looks past you, saying something else to tom that you cannot even be bothered to listen to.
you scoff under your breath. you don’t even have the will to finish your meal - not with him right beside you. perhaps it could be considered petty or rude, but your emotions are so high, you cannot find it in yourself to care.
“excuse me, you two, i think i’m calling it an early night.” you stand up and head towards the exit. you don’t bother waiting for a response - if you have to hear another stupidly perfect sentence about tom’s perfect job, coming out of his perfect mouth your head is going to implode.
☆
the next morning you find yourself cringing at what happened last night.
perhaps you were being a little childish.
losing the position to tom wasn’t his fault - it was dippet’s. tom was just like you: a young adult around the same age, hoping to fulfill a dream. but still, he looked so young, barely a few years older than yourself. so what possible experience could he have gotten that gave him a leg up on you?
you know that dwelling on it will only drive you mad. past is past - so you can at least try and smooth over that encounter with tom. you would rather not have the next nine months with him be awkward and tense.
the first idea that comes to your head is chocolate. everyone loves chocolate! you have a few extra tins that you have stashed away from muggle london. they were intended for yourself, but you suppose losing one chocolate bar is worth gaining a friendship
you decide to wait until lunch to find tom, you still have a few library duties to attend to - the restricted section still needs some fixing, there are quite a few dark tombs that need enhanced warding.
you push open the library doors, waving your wand to ignite all the candles. you toss your satchel on your librarian desk and head towards the restricted section, which has seemed to grow in size since your time in hogwarts.
a gasp slips your lips when you see someone already there - tom - knelt over near the bottommost shelf.
“what are you doing here?” you choke out, pressing a hand to your chest.
tom looks up at you, lips lightly parted. he looks rather flushed as he stands up to his full height, wiping his palms against his robes.
“i teach defence against the dark arts, it is only right i research what i will be teaching.” he smiles at you like he thinks you are a stupid little child - and you are not.
“yes, i know what you teach, professor riddle. i’m wondering how you got into the library in general. the wards aren’t there for no reason, and there’s a very obvious ‘closed’ sign on the door.”
“i apologize, i assumed that the library was open to everyone?”
“well, yes, of course it’s open to everyone during regular hours, but it’s five in the morning.” you say incredulously.
“that is my mistake then. i guess i am just adjusting to the new rules. . . with the new librarian.” he gestures at yourself.
“i don’t think dismantling wards in the castle has ever been allowed.”
“the wards on the door were you?” tom looks surprised, folding his hands in front of him.
“no, just the sign. . . the wards were left intact by the previous librarian. i guess i thought they would be enough to restrict students. i just hadn’t thought about the professors.”
tom looks almost sheepish as he lets out a breath. “i sincerely apologize. it has just been so long since i had stepped into this castle. i suppose with the new perspective of being a professor, i had just gotten excited with the prospect of new additions to the library.” he swallows, adam's apple bobbing against his throat. “for what it is worth, the wards on the restricted section are truly advanced, i assume those were done by yourself.”
you nod slowly, “yes, thank you, professor riddle.”
tom shakes his head, “you do not need to call me that. we are peers, ‘tom’, will do just fine.”
“then, thank you, tom.”
“excellent. though i do have to say as amazing as your wards are, they were still quite easy to dismantle,”
“yes, i noticed. . .” you respond. he clearly already proved that.
“but, that is a good thing. you should make them a little weaker and disillusioned, allowing for some students to get through. it would make them let their guard down if they thought the books were unprotected, then a quick incarcerous and caterwauling charm would do the trick.”
you hum in thought, considering it, before you realize that would be ineffective. “though, who would want to get up in the middle of the night to hand out detentions? it would be much simpler if the wards were obvious, but impenetrable, that way students wouldn’t even attempt to bypass them.”
“though that would only be possible if you were capable of casting impenetrable wards.”
your jaw drops, how rude. “i beg your pardon?”
“no, no, i did not mean it as an insult, simply as a form of guidance. you are clearly able to do sufficient wards, but you are capable of doing excellent wards. that is all i meant.” tom raises his hands in defence. “in fact, i would be happy to help you, only if you wish.”
“i’m quite alright. i’m sure i’ll manage just fine on my own.” you say. “so, was there a book i could help you find?” you squint at the bottom shelf, attempting to see which titles he was looking at.
his jaw clenches ever so slightly, but he complies, crouching down and plucking a book from the general area. “moste potente positions,” tom says, showing you the worn cover. “professor slughorn recommended it. defence against venom based hexes and jinxes is in the curriculum for sixth years, i thought this would assist me. you have to understand what you are fighting after all.”
“that is right,” you nod, “i hope you find it enlightening.”
you take a step back, checking the time on your wristwatch. it’s nearing the time when you should be opening the library. though, you doubt anyone would be coming here this early and especially so soon in the term, you still need to fix the wards tom dismantled - and there is another challenge you have:
the hidden basement section of the restricted section. you didn't even know it existed. dippet had showed you the entrance and explained what it was during the summer. it holds some of the darkest magical books in the wizarding world. he told you that it was already protected by hogwarts’ magic, but it was still your responsibility to upkeep and maintain the books: they were to always be concealed and protected.
you did not understand the point of having all that knowledge and nobody knowing of it. but, he explained that though nobody knew of the hidden basement, some professors and outsiders were able to request the banned titles for research, they just couldn’t know where the books were.
the ground level restricted section that is in the library is mild compared to the basement. when you browsed the titles out of curiosity, you were shocked. the deeper and deeper you got into the restricted section, the darker and more insidious it got. it was nearing the last layer of the inferno: treacherous.
you really do understand the severity of the situation and concealing such dark material. it would be truly terrible if it got into the wrong hands.
“thank you, i should be on my way now.” tom tucks the book into his coat pocket and heads towards the door.
you are about to simply wish him a farewell, but you cannot stop yourself from rushing to your satchel and pulling out the small box of chocolates.
“wait, tom!” you catch up to him and extend the treats, “here. it’s a beginning of the term gift. i’m not sure if you’re a fan of chocolates, but i thought you’d might enjoy these.”
he simply stares at the box for a moment, a crease between his brows. you begin to worry that you have overstepped but he finally takes it from you.
“that is very kind of you,” your first name slips off his tongue like honey. tom gives you one final smile before departing.
baby steps. . .
☆
throughout september, you and tom develop what could be called a. . . friendship.
tom finds you during early mornings in the library - always with two steaming hot cups of tea. it only took him three days to figure out your preference of milk and sugar.
you tell him about the students who spill ink on century old tombs, and he tells you about students who have thrown bombardas instead of protection shields.
you hate to admit it, but your ‘friendship’ is actually quite nice. you truly don’t ever think you have ever met someone that could challenge you like tom. some people think it’s funny or endearing to question your opinion on a certain topic - but it actually ends up being quite annoying because nearly all of the time they have no idea what they are talking about.
but tom, he’s different. he questions your opinions because he really is interested in them. and somehow he manages to be well read and informed in every single subject you debate - which only gives you another thing to envy him for.
“do you think a wizard could be born evil?” you question.
you and tom are sitting across from each other in a corner of the library, both reading separate books and snacking on chocolate frogs. technically you two are not allowed to be out past curfew - but you are technically in your workspace, and he is a professor.
tom slowly looks up over his book, a brow raised. “where is this coming from?”
you show him the card you got with your chocolate frog: herpo the foul.
“ah, i see.” he says, setting his book down. “well, that is a difficult question to answer.”
you smile as you take another bite of the chocolate, “it seems i’ve finally stumped tom riddle.”
“i said difficult, not impossible,” he corrects, “i simply need to think about it for a moment.”
“well, i already have an answer,” you say.
his eyes flick up to yours immediately. tom’s eye contact is always intense and entrancing; you don’t think you could look away even if you wanted to.
“tell me,” he says softly.
“i think nobody is born evil.” you say firmly, “not herpo, not even grinderwald. it’s nature versus nurture. there’s no genetic predisposition that would cause a wizard to be an - evil psychopath. it’s nearly always because of the way they’ve been raised, or something terrible that has happened in their youth. humans are most mentally vulnerable in their adolescent years - a singular traumatic memory would be enough to permanently offset their brain chemistry. it is suffering that is truly the root of all evil.”
“people suffer all the time,” tom counteracts, “how many people are starved, abused, and neglected, yet still have compassion in their hearts? others are born into generational wealth with loving families, yet they still wish to see the world burn.” he shakes his head.
“well, i do agree it’s possible for individuals who have suffered to break the cycle. but still, no matter how positive and loving a persons upbringing looks, there’s still nearly always a traumatic event that has happened that would have caused them to become evil. just because they don’t look like they have suffered doesn’t mean they haven’t.”
“even if they did suffer: suffering does not excuse wickedness,” tom tells you.
“so what could?”
tom stares at you, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. the shadows in the library flicker across his face. his lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet them, and you don’t even realize it, but you are so anxious to hear his answer. you are nearly at the edge of your seat, hands folded under your chin as you lean forward.
“tell me, tom.” you whisper.
in response, he simply shrugs a shoulder and leans back in his chair.
“you don’t know?” you ask, annoyed.
he nods his head, “i do not.”
“i thought you knew everything.”
“well, it seems you finally stumped me.” he leans over to your side of the table to pick up the herpo card. “do you have an answer?” he looks up at you through his lashes.
you bite your lip as you look down. “maybe, but. . .” your voice trails off, “i don’t have a solid opinion, just a few ideas.”
“then do not hesitate to share something with me.” tom says, “we are friends, aren’t we?”
you let out a small laugh, “yes, we are.”
“go on,” he beckons.
“so. . . i’m not saying any of this is morally correct - it's obviously terrible and wrong, but. . . nearly every dark wizard was initially in pursuit of one thing before they went mad: knowledge. they were all intelligent, i mean even grindelwald was called a prodigy as a child. but, at some point, it’s starts being not enough for them. they outgrow all the basic books and curriculum - it’s not enough to satisfy. and eventually they learn more and get deeper, but the deeper you get into anything - the darker it gets. and you know there’s this certain hunger when it comes to learning, a hunger that cannot be satisfied, and then those dark books aren’t enough anymore. so then they need to start experimenting their own darker spells and potions and rituals, not because it’s the intent to kill anyone, but because it’s a just the collateral to learning. grindelwald got in trouble for experimenting, and so did herpo. they weren’t searching for wickedness, they were searching for knowledge. they just took it too far and then. . . evil found them.”
you are nearly breathless when you finish, and when you look up tom’s eyes are so bright, they are nearly glowing.
“sorry.” you shake your head, sitting back in your chair.
“sorry for what?”
“nothing. . . maybe that was too much. sometimes i get too into these things.” you let out a deep breath, keeping your eyes down.
tom’s hands slide across the table, softly grasping yours. his skin is so cold, but you find it refreshing under the heat of his gaze. he nearly looks angry, “do not ever apologize for having an inquisitive mind.”
that brings out a small smile, “thank you, tom.”
“of course.” he replies, retracting his hands. he frowns for a moment as he stares at the table “i think you are the first person that has ever changed my mind.”
you raise a brow.
“i was going to say power.” he clarifies. “that is what could excuse wickedness. but, you are right, perhaps it is knowledge.”
“well, maybe our answers aren’t too different, knowledge is power, afterall.”
☆
a few days later, you come into the library extra early to retrieve a dark tomb requested by dumbledore: secrets of the darkest arts. it’s located in the basement section, so you try to be inconspicuous as you sneak into the library, and into the hidden doorway that led to the staircase.
however, when you return to the ground floor restricted section you frown. the wards have been tampered with. you sigh as you wave your wand to cast a diagnostic charm: someone has removed the wards, then re-did them with their own magic once more. though, they tried to mimic your spell-casting, the actual magical signature does not match yours.
you glance around slowly, looking for anything amiss, when you finally see it: magick moste evile is missing.
your brows crease as you try to guess who could have done this. you know no student - not even seventh years - could have possibly possessed to the magic needed to dismantle your wards.
the first culprit that comes to your mind is tom. of course it would be tom, who else could it have been? he had already done it once before and of course he would do it again.
your mind fumbles at the why, though. why would tom do this? he, himself, said that two of you were friends, he could have simply asked you to borrow the book, it’s not like you would have said no.
unless he didn't want anyone knowing he wanted to read it, but why. he’s a defence against the dark arts professor, of course he would have to read a book like magick moste evile.
you let out an annoyed huff - just as you were beginning to enjoy tom’s company, he does something to ruin it.
with the book for dumbledore retrieved, you decide to fix the mess tom made. though, you have not yet proven it to be him - you think the answer is quite obvious.
☆
by the time you are done fixing the wards: you abandoned your robes, removed your tie, opened the first few buttons on your blouse, and completely destroyed the hairstyle you had done before you left your quarters. there are no mirrors in the library but you are sure there is sweat sticking to your forehead, and you look entirely too disheveled for work.
you check your wrist watch and sigh when you see it’s almost breakfast. ideally, you hope to run to your quarters to freshen up, but tom interrupts your idea when he steps into the library - a steaming cup of tea in his hands.
a quizzical look graces his face as his eyes trail from your head to your toes. you flush when you realize how indecent you must look.
“sorry,” you murmur. then you get upset at yourself because you should not be sorry, he should be. you snatch your robes which were discarded on the floor, covering yourself.
tom places the cup of tea on your desk. “no, i apologize. i did not realize you were busy.”
“yeah i didn’t realize i would be busy either.” you mutter, attempting to adjust your tie.
“i am sorry to hear that. what happened?” tom steps closer to you, pulling the tie from your grasp and within seconds he has it neatly tied against your neck.
it all happens so fast you don’t have the time to react. you wish you were quicker, you should have stepped back.
you bite your lip as you look down, “i have a question, tom.”
he looks slightly surprised as he stares at you, “i thought our debates were reserved for evenings?”
so he’s deciding to play stupid. very well then.
“you know what i’m talking about.” you say firmly, “you dismantled my wards, again.”
you refrain on mentioning the book. there is a slim possibility that tom simply removed the wards, and a student else took the opportunity to steal it.
tom lets out a huff of a laugh, “i beg your pardon?”
“oh, don’t play coy now. my wards were completely dismantled, who else could have done it? or who else would do that?”
tom looks at you pitifully then shrugs, “i don’t know. that sounds terrible. though, i did warn you that your idea would not the most effective at protecting the books. next time, please do not be afraid to accept my help.”
you scoff shaking your head, “no, no, i know my wards, riddle, no student could have possibly dismantled them.”
“you said yourself that grinderwald was a child prodigy. would it be a surprise that child geniuses walk around this castle every year?”
“that is not possible. . . and don’t say stuff like that!” you cross your arms over your chest.
“so, you think i am responsible, then?”
“i know you are!”
tom slightly frowns, “we are friends; i would never do that to you. the restricted section holds such dark, powerful books, if the wards on them were insufficient and the wrong person gained access to them, that would certainly jeopardize your job. i enjoy your company too much to see you terminated.” he looks up at you and smiles.
your jaw slowly drops as you simply stare at him.
“i left you tea,” he points at the mug on your desk, “i wish you the best of luck. and, again, do not be afraid to ask for help.”
tom gives you a small wave as he turns to leave. though, you feel like you have just been hit with an immobulus charm, your feet are cemented to floor and the only thing you can move is your face as you scowl at his retreating back.
☆
you step out the bathroom in your quarters, cozied up in your pajamas as you just had a shower that was entirely too hot. it was the only thing you could think of doing to relax your mind.
you have not yet told dippet about the missing book. as annoyed as you were with tom, his words truly did scare you because he was right. the books in the library were your responsibility, and technically a missing book would be your fault. if you were fired from hogwarts within the first term of being here, it would ruin your reputation and crush the closest opportunity you had to your teaching dream.
you let out a yawn as you sit down at your desk, detangling your hair before bed.
to be fair, tom's response to your accusation had made you slightly doubt yourself. he had come across as so genuine. but either way, why would he admit to it? your reaction to him sneaking in the library the first time certainly was not pleasant, and this time he had actually stolen. of course he would play innocent.
the only thing you can do now is rest. it had been such a stressful day, and you would presumably have another stressful one tomorrow as well as you would have to find that book. the only thing that could make your life slightly more tolerable was a good night’s rest.
you pull back your comforter and lay down, shimmying until you find a comfortable position. you freeze. you shift for another minute, thinking that your mind is playing tricks on you.
there is something very hard moving under your head.
you sit up, grabbing your wand to cast a lumos. you grip the corner of your pillow and yank it off the bed, and. . .
there it is sitting on your bedsheets. . .
a snake.
you scream.
☆
tom is not your friend.
you decide that very firmly.
after discovering that he had managed to sneak into your living space, you barely got any sleep last night.
you debate on telling dippet what he has done. although you have no proof, you could still simply mention your suspicions. but, you would look so silly. everyone adores tom. you were not the only person he was becoming friendly with, nearly every other faculty member considers him a confidant - and even the students are obsessed with him.
and of course everyone is. tom smiles when is supposed to, says the smartest things that are different, but not too obscure, always perfectly intelligent. he always compliments the women, converses with the men, and . . . steals dark books when he thinks nobody is looking.
you don't go to the library that morning.
you have grown slightly afraid of tom, and you would rather not drink the next cup of tea he brings you.
instead, you go to the greenhouse where mary is. she has dozens of puffapod plants that need harvesting - and she insists that it cannot be done magically - only by hand, otherwise it disrupts the growth cycle.
“it’s been awhile, my friend. how has the beginning of the term been for you?” mary asks, harvesting a pod.
you watch her do it, trying to mimic her movements on your own plant that you have been harvesting. “it’s been. . . fine.” you really don’t want to get into it. you doubt mary would even believe you, she seems to be another victim to tom’s trance. “so, what about you?”
“oh, don’t be silly! i heard it’s been a lot more than fine.” mary smirks at you, throwing a wink
you flush and start sputtering before you can form a response. “what are you talking about?”
“you and tom, of course! what a lucky girl you are. . .” she sighs wistfully.
“me and tom?” you say incredulously.
she nods as though it is obvious, “you two seem awfully friendly.”
you snort, plucking another pod off the plant. “tom is friendly with everyone.”
“well, yeah, but he’s very. . . surface level with everyone. of course, he is so polite and such a gentleman, but he’s also a tough shell to crack. but, with you, he’s different.”
you try to hold in a laugh - tom is certainly different with you in one way. you doubt he breaks into other faculty quarters. “i don’t know if i would even call tom and i friends.”
“well, he certainly would. he was looking for you a bit ago, said he couldn’t find you in the library.”
“good.” you mutter under your breath.
mary giggles, poking your side. “playing hard to get, atta girl.”
“something like that. . .”
☆
you think you have successfully evaded tom for the whole day. unfortunately to your utter dismay, when you exit the great hall after dinner, tom is standing right there.
“there you are,” tom smiles at you like everything is normal. like he didn't steal a dark arts book from the library, then leave a snake in your personal quarters.
“riddle.” you say with a nod.
“if i am not mistaken, it seems as though you have been avoiding me today.”
you hum in response, unsure what to say.
“why is that?” he questions, folding his hands in front of him.
you let out a huff, throwing your hands in the air, “you know why, riddle.”
he frowns at you. “that is quite unfair then. you still believe that i have dismantled your wards?”
you nod slowly, “well then, if you’ll please excuse me, i need to head back to my quarters early now. i have to make sure nobody is leaving snakes in there.”
“someone left a snake in your quarters?” tom asks, pretending to look shocked. “let me go with you now, i can cast a few wards of my own to keep you safe - or we can go speak to dippet together.”
you scoff loudly. you truly don’t know what tom is trying to do. he does terrible, heinous things, then denys them and tries to be some sort of saviour - but he knows that you know, so what is the point? trying to figure out tom riddle is going to drive you mad, and it simply isn’t worth it to you.
“have a good night.” you mutter, brushing past him.
“wait a minute.” he catches up to you quickly, “the fifth years are going to hogsmade this weekend.”
“i’ve heard.”
“they still need an extra chaperone,” he tucks his hands into his pockets. for a second, he looks nervous, almost bashful. “you should volunteer - i already did. that way, we can both go, perhaps enjoy a few butterbeers together.”
you narrow your eyes, “no.” you say, perhaps a bit too harshly, “no, thank you. i have a few books to look after.” it comes off bitter, and you hope tom understands what you are insinuating.
he clenches his jaw as he looks down at you, “okay, that is no worry at all. good luck with your books.”
☆
you can almost breathe easier during the weekend knowing that tom is not in the castle. there is no possibility of him ruining your day, today.
though, you still decide to avoid the library despite how much you like reading, because there is too much of a connotation between library and work - you would rather not think about working on a saturday.
instead, you decide to go for a walk by the great lake, it was something you used to do a lot as a teenager during your time at hogwarts.
the weather is in that perfect autumn transition, a shining beautiful sun, but a nice, gentle, refreshing breeze to accompany it. it truly is serene and beautiful. you finally feel calm for the first time this week.
you do debate going to spend time with mary, she’s sweet and hilarious - but she’s not tom. tom who brought you tea and challenged your mind, but tom, who also jeopardized your job and broke into your room, leaving you a poisonous snake as a present.
you find a tree near the water, and sit down, leaning your back against it. the warm sun feels cozy against your skin, and you feel your eyes slowly shut as you begin to relax.
of course, a shadow falls across your face.
you open your eyes, squinting, to see tom standing in front of you.
what you want to do is groan loudly and ask him what he wants now, but that would be unprofessional, so you cross your legs and remain silent.
“i am sorry to interrupt. i just-”
“no, i’m sorry to interrupt, i really wish to be alone right now.”
“i truly apologize if i have said or done something to upset you. i do wish to repair our friendship. but, at the moment, i have come to speak to you regarding professional matters.”
“it’s outside my working hours; you can ask me on monday morning.” you give him a tight smile, strained at the edges as you try to prevent yourself from scowling.
he sighs, and it’s the first time you have seen tom look annoyed. “i need a book, please.”
why don’t you just steal it again? you want to ask.
you clear your throat, “okay, i’ll see you monday morning.”
his eye twitches. “but, i need it-”
“no, riddle!” you snap. “it doesn’t matter what you need, because you have proven that every time you want something, you just take it. what you have done is completely unacceptable according to the schools standards, and mine. i believed that we were friends, and it’s a shame because i truly did enjoy your company.”
you push yourself off the ground, grabbing your belongings before storming off.
☆
halloween at hogwarts is truly magical.
you cannot believe that majority of the world - muggles - will never be able to witness this.
instead of floating candles in the great hall ceiling, there’s floating jack o'lanterns. and though, it is more of a muggle tradition to wear a costume, you still decided to participate slightly. you hope that it would make some of the other muggleborn students feel more at home.
you transfigure a quill into a small pair of realistic bunny ears, that twitch and fold like real ears would. you enjoy how much the students find it funny. it brings a little magic to your life and it reminds you of why you wanted to teach in the first place.
during the special feast you find yourself sitting near the edge of the table with mary to your right, unfortunately there’s an empty seat to your left. you can only hope tom won’t show up to fill it.
“you look amazing,” mary smiles at you, popping a piece of chicken into her mouth. “such a shame we’re stuck at hogwarts, london nightlife would be all over you.”
“oh, stop it, you look lovely as well.”
“why thank you.” mary’s skin has animated vines running all over it - like a tattoo. she’s been quizzing students all day over it, asking them which plant she is meant to be.
“so,” she continues, “i haven’t seen you and tom together, lately. did something happen between you two?”
you bite your lip as you shake your head, “no, not at all, i have just been incredibly busy with work, you know.”
mary gives you a look, “whatever you say. . .”
you raise your brows as you stare at her. “i’m being serious, i have no idea why you are so insistent on believing that think me and tom are in a relationship.”
mary looks above your head and smirks into her glass, “speak of the devil.”
the devil indeed: tom.
he truly did not even need a costume, because the waves of evil already radiated off of him effortlessly.
“hi, tom,” mary gives him a sweet smile.
“mary.”
you can feel tom stare at you for a second, before he pulls out the chair beside you.
as soon as he sits down, mary is standing up. “oh, would you look that! i actually have some plants that need attending to, enjoy your night!” she giggles as she leaves.
there are now five seats between you and the next professor.
you grumble to yourself as you debate getting up and following her. but, you are so hungry, and the food tonight is exceptionally delicious - you really don’t want to miss it. you reluctantly pick up your fork, beginning to eat. the sooner you finish your food, the sooner you can leave.
“i like the ears,” tom says, “very impressive magic.”
you hate that the compliment causes your heart rate to increase rapidly, “thank you. . .”
“though, i should say you look quite nice, in general. not just the ears.”
you turn to look at him, your fork halfway to your mouth. his mouth opens, and words come out. his lungs expand when he breathes, and his heart is always beating. but, his eyes, his eyes are always empty. you know tom means nothing he says.
you drop your fork back onto your plate, letting it clatter. tom, surprisingly flinches at the sound. then, you push your chair back, brushing your robes as you stand up and exit the great hall.
as soon as you exit, you hear footsteps trailing behind you, he is not even trying be discrete.
you are immediately furious, you turn around to face him. you can feel your anger flowing through every part of your body, as you step closer to him.
“i really don’t know what is wrong with you. you dismantle my wards, twice. left a snake in my bed - i had to wake up hagrid in the middle of the night to get rid of it - and it was poisonous. but, yet you wont leave me alone. why is that, riddle? what do you want?”
“i am afraid i do not know what you are talking about.” tom replies simply.
you take another step closer, this time, your chest is pressing against his. “except you do.” he looks perfectly serene as he stares at you, not a single hair astray. “you do this thing where you lie a lot, which i hate because i enjoyed your company so much.”
“you enjoy my company?” he looks so stupid to you.
“enjoyed.” you emphasize. “but, yes, i did. quite a lot.” you look up at him, a softer look in your eyes. you place a palm against his chest. he is wearing so many layers of fabric, you cannot even gauge how his body feels. “why did you have to dismantle my wards, tom?”
“i did not,” he shakes his head.
“don’t lie to me.”
“i’m not.”
“but you are,” you sigh, “i just want to know, why.”
he stays quiet as he looks at you.
“tell me,” you say once more, softly.
his eyes meet yours, and you watch as he swallows a breath. “i. . .”
“you what?”
all of a sudden, the atmosphere changes, and so do his eyes as they harden. when he stares down at you, you nearly flinch, he looks absolutely furious. you don’t know what you have done, but you don’t care to prod any longer.
tom doesn’t say a word as he pushes past you, knocking your shoulder.
you watch as he stalks down the corridor, robes billowing behind him. perhaps, he has finally learnt his place when it comes to you.
☆
the next morning you are finally confident enough to resume going to the library early again. you know that tom is upset at you for some reason, and he would not dare to bother you.
you flick your wand to ignite all the candles, and when everything is lit, you let out a horrified gasp.
nearly every single book in the library - including the books in the restricted section - have been knocked off their shelves. they are strewn across the library like confetti.
the tables and chairs look as though they have been hit with a reducto, they are simply reduced to bits and pieces of wood.
everything - everything is absolutely destroyed.
you clutch your wand and fight the urge to cry.
you think of complaining to dippet, but that would just prove that you are incapable of doing your job and cannot do what is asked of you.
so you clean - everything. you are thankful that magic exists as you fix everything. but it is still extremely tiring and tedious, and for each book you reorganize you gain more hatred for tom - and more fear.
fear of what he is capable of.
it takes you hours to finish, and by the time you are done, your magic is burnt out.
you are about to leave for a much needed nap when you see one book placed neatly - intentionally, on your desk. it’s a book on dark curses, flipped open to a random page.
though, once you get closer, you realize it is not a random page at all - it’s opened to a page about an internal organ boiling curse.
a curse invented by herpo the foul.
you truly don’t know what you have done to cause tom to react like this.
all you know is you have finally angered the beast.
☆
it has been weeks since you have interacted with tom, and you cannot say it has been unpleasant. you were expecting him to destroy the library once more, or poison your breakfast, but it has thankfully been - quiet.
you have gotten closer to a lot of the other faculty, often doing favours for each other. tonight, dumbledore found you, asking you to cover patrols as a prefect fell terribly ill and there was nobody else available. of course you said yes.
with your lumos floating above your head, you continue down the corridors, thankfully, finding no lingering students. it actually proves to be a peaceful night - except for when you pass by tom’s office. you already feel uneasy.
there is such dark energy radiating from it, and you simply wish to breeze past it.
as soon as it is behind you, you feel like you’re able to breathe again, though that reprieve does not last for long because the door clicks open and you feel someone spin your shoulder around and push you against the wall.
of course.
he narrows his eyes as he stares at you. he looks uncharacteristically unwell - as in he looks haggard almost. he places both hands on either side of your face and leans down towards you.
his lips get so close to your ear, you can feel the brush of them against your skin as he speaks. “you think i don’t know who you are?” his voice is dangerously low, a dark tremor that causes your spine to involuntarily straighten. “or more accurately: what you are?”
your eyes narrow in confusion.
“i don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, riddle.” you spit out, but you quickly lose all venom at the end of your sentence when his hand moves from the wall to your neck.
tom simply rests his hand there, and you know what he is doing. he is prodding for a reaction. a flinch, a gasp, an increased pulse beating under his finger tips - or perhaps a confession - one that doesn’t exist because what he is accusing you of is nonsensical. you will yourself to calm down, he cannot hurt you in the castle. you are sure of that fact. it gives you the confidence to continue speaking.
“you believe that just because i am immune to your charm and chivalry i must be a some creature, some thing. i don’t even know what you’re insinuating. i thought you were smarter than that.” your face is so close to his, you can smell his aftershave and the peppermint from his toothpaste. you try to take a step back, startled at the intimacy of knowing tom’s preference in toothpaste, unfortunately your back meets the wall.
“you take me as a fool. you really expected i would not learn of your veela ancestry?”
you almost burst out laughing.
“what?” you are so flabbergasted your voice comes out shrill.
his hand drops from your neck and he takes a step back. he looks so certain, so boastful, so positive he had just figured you out. but there really was nothing to figure out. you weren’t anything special, you didn't even have any wizarding ancestry let alone veela ancestry. you were simply a young adult working at hogwarts - not even as a professor, simply a librarian.
you look down, brushing your hands against your robes. “you are far mistaken, riddle. i come from a muggle family - not anything special, even for muggle standards. that’s all there is to me. i’m magically adept because i work just as hard as you. i don’t need to be a creature to be good.”
his eyes narrow in suspicion. “you are muggle-born?”
“yes.” you says proudly, “are you surprised that salazar’s notions were as foolish as him, and i don’t need to be born from wizards to be advanced in magic?” you scoff. “i don’t need to hear your supremacist rubbish on how i am unworthy of something i was born with. if you think i’m so undeserving of magic, then come try and take it.”
you stare him down. it’s a challenge, a shove - a dip into the mirky waters of tom riddle, anxious to see how far he could be pushed before he snapped.
his expression is unreadable, but he doesn’t look away.
tom then clears his throat. “my apologies, i was simply looking out for the safety of the school.”
you are baffled.
tom riddle had just accused you of something, had been wrong, then apologized.
though, you now know better than to consider any word from him to be genuine.
you bring both of your hands towards his chest and shove him away, a now respectable distance between you both.
much better.
“then you better think again before you decide to corner me.” you sneer, “i’m not too sure headmaster dippet would be pleased to hear what type of books his star professor has been stealing from the library.”
anger flashes across tom’s face like lightning. you swear you see his ebony eyes flash ember. the look on his face is enough to make you feel as though you had pushed to far, you had broken down his sheepskin, pulling and ripping and finally the gruesome wolf was visible. this was tom riddle.
you fucked up.
“what books?” he grits out.
you feel your throat bob against your throat and your eyes go wide.
“nothing,” it is barely audible. “have a good night, tom.” you mutter, before turning down the corridor. your footsteps echo across the walls, and it’s a startling reminder that it is far past curfew and the castle is barren. it is just you and tom.
you don’t know why, but you feel like you should be running.
☆
your feet trip over one another as you sprint down the corridor. your mind is made up: there is no more waiting, you are going straight to dippet’s quarters and reporting tom. you were going to wait, but you have a terrible feeling that something bad will happen to you if you do.
the stupid anti-apparation wards irritate you more than they usually would. you are wasting previous time by having to physically run. if you could apparate, tom would already be in azkaban by now.
you are nearly out of breath when you reach one of the moving staircases - you hold onto the railings so tight, you lose feeling in your hands.
almost there. . .
you nearly wipe out trying to step off the stairs, landing on your knees with a painful fall. you just barely, gain your footing when a spell flashes beside you.
it catches you so off guard, you don’t even remember you have a wand. you spin around, trying to see where it came from, but another spell flashes, a green one, this time it is far too close to your face.
what the hell is tom casting at you? you turn a corner, remembering you are a witch, and throw a protection shield up.
that is when it really starts. second after second, a myriad of spells come flying towards you. judging by the colours, they are all very dark.
both your hands tremble as your grip your wand, perspiration gathering on your forehead as you fight to keep your shield up.
if you could see tom, that would be helpful, but he’s disillusioned somewhere. you cannot even hear him which means he is casting everything nonverbally.
then you see it - a shimmer of something across the hall from you. before you can think, you throw a confringo in the general direction. your suspicions are right, because tom’s disillusion spell falls, though, unfortunately that is the only damage you do.
“fucking dammit,” tom yells, throwing another spell at you, dark purple, the infamous a organ boiling curse. lovely.
you dodge it physically, ducking to your left before throwing a stupefy. tom deflects it easily.
there is a slight disadvantage considering that your goal is to simply apprehend tom, while his goal seems to be attempting to kill you.
he throws a slicing spell, and this time instead of dodging it, you repel it back to him. it works in your favour, and it nicks his hand.
whatever slicing spell tom used must have been modified with some type of dark magic, because the cut begins to turn into a disgusting dark colour - it looks like the skin is dead.
and that was what he just tried to hit you with?
the injury to his hand causes him to falter slightly, it was on his wand dominant hand after all.
you are so baffled that he had just cast that towards you, you cannot help but respond with a dark spell of your own: an obscure curse that liquifies the eyes of the victim.
well, that shocks him.
you can see the surprise on his face, and though he manages to dodge it, you can tell he is still caught off guard. you take that as an opportunity to throw another spell: expelliarmus. such an easy spell, taught to second years, yet it works. his wand comes flying into your hand.
“you can cast non-verbally, but you cannot cast wandlessly.”
you cast another spell, binding him in ropes.
you slowly approach tom, his eyes are furious and his breathing is ragged.
“what are you?” he through gritted teeth.
“a witch,” you reply with a saccharine smile, “i just beat you in a duel.” you are so stunned, you almost let out a giggle. you knew you would have made a better defence professor.
you cautiously go closer, kneeling down to his level. “i have proven to you that i can beat you in a duel, so now you know you can’t use magic to hurt me. i am warning you, riddle, stay the hell away from me. for good. you know what i have on you, don’t make me go to dippet.” you stand up, staring down at him. a small smirk finds your lips, “it would be a shame to see you terminated of your position.”
☆
exams conclude, snow falls instead of rain, everything changes as the winter deepens - but one thing remains the same: you and tom are both insistent on avoiding each other.
and slowly, it’s almost like you forget he exists. when you were aware of his presence, it was like you saw him everywhere. but now, he is just another professor you don’t know.
it’s finally the christmas holidays, and most professors and students have already taken the train back to kingscross, though, you don’t have anyone to go home to, so you decide to remain at hogwarts.
thankfully, it’s not as though the castle is barren, slughorn decided to throw a christmas party for the remaining students and faculty.
“there you are!” slughorn opens his arms as you step into the decorated classroom.
he is most definitely already intoxicated. you give him and awkward hug, and engage in small talk.
“so, how has your christmas been?” you smile, gratefully accepting the glass of champagne he offers you.
“oh just lovely!” he beams, his plump cheeks turning rosy, “i’m so happy, my boy tommy is here tonight, did you say hello yet?”
you take a large sip of champagne, you are sure you will need it. “i’ll definitely make my rounds throughout the night.”
“yes, yes, yes! let us make them right now.” slughorn places a hand on your back as he begins to guide you to a small group of wizards before you can decline.
“oh, no, perhaps not yet,”
“nonsense! come, come, i want to introduce you to a few friends. they are interested in a couple books in the library.”
slughorn tells the group your name and you extend your hand to the each of them - though your hand begins to shake when you see tom standing right there. you did not even see him come over.
in an attempt to not come off as impolite in front of everyone, you still shake his hand. “tom.”
“it is nice to see you, again,” he replies, not meeting your eye.
slughorn laughs as he glances between the both of you, “you two have not had enough drinks, you are still both so tense!” he picks up two glasses of an amber liquid, “this an elf made whiskey. naturally aged for a century - you cannot find this anywhere.”
he pushes the drinks into both of your hands. “drink! don’t get all shy, and don’t make me waste my galleons.” he wags a finger in front of your face playfully.
you let out an awkward laugh, swallowing the drink in one go. that was definitely quite strong.
“wow, professor, that certainly is strong.” you mutter, attempting to hold in a cough.
“you enjoyed it, right?” he asks, taking both you and tom’s empty glasses. you didn’t even notice tom finished it - that is a surprise.
“so much so, thank you. though, i need to use the lavatory, i will be right back.”
slughorn smiles at you, already getting distracted by professor kettleburn who was showing off a niffler.
you glance at tom quickly, making sure he isn’t looking at you before slipping out the door.
thank goodness, you let out a shaky breath, walking towards a large window.
you press your cheek against it, allowing the cold glass to cool your heated cheeks. it feels strange being in tom’s presence again, but it seems as though he is just as intent on leaving you alone.
a small frown pulls at your lips as you look outside, watching the fluffy snowflakes dwindle down. there’s a magical glow around christmas time. . .
“i have a confession.”
tom.
you flinch at the sound of his voice. it has been so long since you have spoken, he sounds unfamiliar to you, it’s like it's your first time hearing him speak again.
“i already warned you, riddle,” you reply, not turning to meet his eye.
“i recall,” he whispers. “i have a scar to remind me.”
you scoff, “technically, that was your own doing.”
he lets out a small laugh, “perhaps. though, i simply wanted to be honest with you for once.”
that catches your attention. you turn to face him and raise a brow. “go on.”
“i really did believe you were veela. not because i questioned your ability to be talented,” his vowels drag, and he is speaking in a weird cadence. he really is drunk. “on halloween, when you asked me to be honest about the wards - i hated you, i wanted to throw every curse i knew, but still, i found myself behaving - differently. i felt myself bending to your will, even though i fought against it. i thought no witch could have done that to me, not unless you slipped me a love potion, but i am very thorough with what i ingest. so the only possibility in my mind was that you had to have veela magic.”
he shakes his head, wiping a hand across his face, “i do not even know what to call what i feel.”
tom comes closer to you, you have the opportunity to walk away, or even push him again - but you stay.
“do you feel it, too?” he asks, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath.
“the hatred?” you question, looking up at him. “the urge to kill you?”
he confirms with a nod.
“yes,” you swallow.
his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. a few moments ago, you could simply smell the whiskey on his breath, but now you can nearly taste it.
tom tilts his head down, brushing his lips against yours. “you have been quite mean to me lately. i am not sure you deserve a kiss.”
you let out a breathy laugh. “you tried to kill me.”
“you’re right.” he leans down and places his lips over yours.
it’s firm, soft, gentle kiss, the complete opposite of how you feel towards him. you sigh against his mouth, and he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue across your bottom lip as his free hand moves to rest against your waist.
your hands come to grip his collar as you kiss him harder, it begins to turn sloppy. you are still so angry, and you hate him, but still you do this. you know he is a wicked man, you have seen the types of curses he uses, but you want this.
you pull away, breathless.
“tell me where the entrance to the basement restricted section is,” he whispers against your throat, nipping your skin with his teeth when you shake your head, no.
you tense for a moment - he’s not even supposed to know it exists. “maybe if you tell me why you’re stealing dark books.”
he lets out a genuine laugh, kissing his way back up your throat and placing a firm kiss against your mouth once more.
“i’m not that drunk.”
“maybe you need a nightcap in my room, then.”
tom raises a brow as he stares at you. you both know what you are implying.
“lead the way.”
☆
you lay against tom’s bare chest, dragging your fingers across his skin.
your latest orgasm has done quite a lot to sober you. you expect to feel some form of regret - you had just slept with tom riddle, after he spent the past four months basically psychologically torturing you. . . but you don’t care. you hate him just as much as you want him - he is like another book you are trying to figure out, one that frustrates you as you try to understand it, but you can never put it down.
you move your head up to stare at him, when he notices, he brushes a piece of hair away from your face, so tenderly.
“so,” you start, a smile already forming on your lips, “now will you tell me about what you’re researching.”
his lips twitch into a smile, he leans down to place a soft kiss to your hairline. “horcruxes.” the words are whispered against your skin.
a/n: thank you for sticking around this long! i hope you guys enjoyed, but feedback is still always appreciated. i’d also be interested in writing requests, so if you have any, feel free to send them!
part 1 of ? of blurbs based off of this post. not proof read im writing from the heart….. gn!reader, fluff, banter, canon does not exist
65 doesn’t make a big deal out of not getting a kiss before you hit the sack. in fact, he’s definitely the least disruptive in how he responds to your inaction — which isn’t to say he’s not petty, but he won’t make the problem known to everyone in the lab.
no, his thought process is surprisingly mature for one of ill dottore’s segments. if you forget to see him off with a smooch, he’ll visit you in the morning with a tray of delicious, mouth-watering breakfast food. still-hot pancakes under butter actively melting onto the stack, a bowl of fresh fruit, something meaty to satiate any sodium cravings, a nice, cold glass of juice and some vitamin capsules.
as the segment with the most care for your human needs, he sneaks into your chambers carefully and quietly, making sure not to disrupt your precious sleep (which isn’t to say he’s doesn’t wake you up, because the enticing smell of breakfast pulls you out of unconsciousness with comical speed).
“apologies for rousing you, my beloved. i thought you’d do well to have a hearty breakfast this morning.” he chuckles quietly, brushing back your bedhead with one gloved hand. you grumble, rubbing the sleep out of your puffy eyes.
“didja make all of this?” you reach for the drink as you sit up straight while 65 sets the feet of the tray on each side of you, breakfast on your lap. he shakes his head, soft gaze never leaving your face.
“my contributions lie solely within the fruit and the vitamins. i had 8 cook the pancakes.” you choose to interpret the latter statement as the child segment offering to help with your breakfast himself, that he wasn’t forced to slave away whisking the thick batter with his poor little arms. you hum, sighing happily when the cold liquid soothes your dry throat.
“i’ll make sure to thank him well, in that case-“ a hand appears over your pancakes, shielding them from a stabbing by fork.
“…huh.”
65 clicks his tongue.
“what of my thank?” you look at him, befuddled.
“…and yesterday’s good night kiss?”
a metaphorical lightbulb shines bright over your head.
“OH.”
immediately, you lean up as much as you physically can with the tray still in your lap and leave a gentle kiss on the side of his beak, smiling. “i’m sorry, i was so tired it completely slipped my mind!” you muse with an airy laugh. “i’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, i promise.” it would happen again.
his hand stays hovering on top of the pancakes.
he turns his head, facing you properly.
“not good enough.”
with a blink, you lean to the right and press a kiss on the other side of his beak.
“no.”
you halt, in thought. pondering. you set the glass of juice down on your nightstand as to have the least amount of obstacles in your way of this mission, grab his face to angle it downwards so it’s in proximity of your lips, and you give him a peck on the forehead.
no sound comes from the segment. you’re not even sure he’s breathing, actually.
you hear a quiet, baritone “not good enough” from under the mask.
slightly fed up but mostly just hungry and impatient, your hands dart behind his head and fiddle with the belt clasps attached to that damn plague doctor mask and loosen them enough to yank the whole thing down, peppering his face with kisses — the apple of his left cheek, his hooked nose, above his right eyebrow, on his right cheek, and finally, a loud, obnoxious MMMWAH! on his awaiting lips.
you stare at each other for a second. you, with a twitch in your right eye. him, with an indecipherable expression.
a second second.
“another o-“
your stomach rumbles obnoxiously loud and you hear the ding! of a side quest complete along with it.
🍓So for this fic I’m writing I’m trying to break down how I categorize the segments I’m using (25.35.45.65), so I thought I’d just write down my notes and give them to the world lol. No eight for obvious reasons and no eighteen because I don’t think you understand how difficult it is to write a scene with six characters as is.
NSFW MDNI; 6.6 spoilers? I guess?
TW: Nsfw; sadism; violence in alignment to regular dottore violence; he’s mean as hell; marking; blood kink; doctor kink; problematic age-gap king(?)
General Thoughts on the Collective
-They’re all inarguably sadists, and they’re all inarguably selfish as hell.
-They don’t like to share with each other pretty much anything, and that would extend to a partner as well. They’d be vying for their attention and sabotaging one another non stop, yet, they also don’t care enough to forcibly isolate them from the other segments.
-The only person who does would be Zandik himself, and his reasoning for doing so is vague and obtuse. It’s easy to chalk it up to insecurity, since his segments are younger, more vigorous versions of himself. Yet, you’ll never be able to tell lol.
-I think, at the end of the day, the thing that keeps them behaving is the mutual agreement that it would be better to share amongst themselves than have you running of with someone of less… worth?
-They all think you’re incredibly stupid, by the way, even if you’re not. Even if you’re considered a genius on the level of the god of wisdom, Dottore and his segments hardly bat an eye to it. His ego is too big, and he quite prefers making you feel ashamed.
-Why, precisely, they keep you around is beyond them. (They know, of course they know, but to acknowledge that would break their understanding of themselves). But they do! Lucky you.
25
-The younger you go the meaner this guy gets. The only exception to this rule is 8, and that’s because he’s literally 8, but the kid has bite too.
-25 is in this stage where he’s arrogant with the intelligence to back it up, but he’s only just been able to remove the roadblocks in his path, so he’s a bit overeager?
-Other than 35, he’s the most sadistic, and enjoys more… vile things? His experiments are teeming with less than savory tactics, even for Dottore, and he’s kind of speed running through every idea that he’s been denied by the akademia.
-He’s more temperamental, though I’m not sure if that’s the right word. He just gets more irritated faster than the others do when he experiences a setback or a failure.
-He tends to be the flattest with you of them all, just blatantly mean for no reason other than to be mean. He enjoys the way you shrivel at it, but will get irritated and seethe quietly to himself if you walk away or don’t engage how he likes.
-Understands why you don’t seek him out, gets pissed off about it anyway. No one can tell him how to behave around you either, you have to adjust because he’s not changing.
-If he ever gets you in bed, because let’s be honest, why would you ever say yes to this asshole? He’s incredibly sadistic with very little care of your pleasure.
-Very much the last guy you’d ever want to have sex with. He’s mean with no remorse, talking down to you in the tone you’d talk to a petulant child while you whimper and squirm.
-He’s either milking you until your dry and then some, or he’s torturing you and never allowing you to cum at all. No matter what, you’re a helpless, needy little thing that he’s simply unable to satisfy properly.
-Also very much the type to mark you up and make you bleed. Not enough to kill you (unfortunately, everyone else would have something to say on that), but enough that you need a lot of time to recover after he’s finished with you.
-He’ll draw little hearts on your skin with your own blood, perhaps the sweetest thing he does, then mock you for thinking it’s charming even if you’re too fucked out to say a word.
-No aftercare, either. It’s up to you to clean up, or to whoever finds you in a heap on the floor. Usually one of the older segments who’d rather not deal with the fallout of your death from serious infection or injury. Sometimes it’s even Pantalone, who has it in that cold heart of his to feel pity enough to help you out.
35
-This guy fucking stinks, bro, oh my god. He’s got the brains, the arrogance, and the means. He’s at his prime, and he knows it. Flaunts it in his own subtle way, taking control of situations with an ease that no one seems to catch on to.
-It’s that attitude of his that makes him positively insufferable, but he’s not as horrible as 25 can be. He’s not mean without reason, he doesn’t do just because, he’s controlled. Logical. Irritating.
-He treats you more like a pet than a person, but at least there’s a level of affection there, though it’s not exactly a humanizing feeling. You’re not with Dottore to feel “human” though, so it’s fine.
-He’s got an incredible control on himself and an even better control on you. He knows how to sweet talk, knows how to manipulate you into whatever state he likes you in. It’s to a point you’ll come to him — cold calculating 35 — for comfort when others upset you.
-And why wouldn’t you? He’s built himself up to be your savior of sorts, the one segment you can easily predict and rely on. Is it manipulation? Of course, and he’s sure you’re aware of that. Do either of you care? No, not really.
-He likes control, and that’s very present in the bedroom. Though, you’re not often in the bedroom with him. He likes to set you in the lab, when he can, or somewhere makeshift like one.
-He enjoys setting it up like it’s all an experiment. How will you react to this? How will he react? If you changed this variable, would you like it less or more? He takes notes in the middle of your little “appointments,” and likely has a whole file dedicated to your sexual preferences and activities.
-Don’t think he’s concerned with your pleasure, though. Most, if not all, of it is observational. He really is just documenting your reactions, you’re not even sure if he enjoys anything he does for himself. (He must, since he does it so often).
-He’ll get really annoyed if he sees evidence of the other segments “activities” with you, and will find a way to brand you as his own where he can.
-This guy does so much to you it’s hard to really list it all. Think it, and he’s probably tried it at least once just to see if he liked it.
-Big one with him is dumbification though, have fun with that one lol.
45
-Think 35 with the penchant to tease.
-45 is a bit more loose with himself, more relaxed now that he’s been established and feared in the science world. I think he tends to act as Dottore’s face politically more than the others because he’s just a bit more charming and charismatic in comparison.
-Now, he’s not friendly at all, but he’s more enjoyable to talk to than you’d imagine. He’s got the mean bit from 25 with the knowledge of application that 35 has. Meaning, he knows how to make you fluster, and he likes to do it a lot.
-He still treats you like a pet in a similar way to 35, but it’s less condescending because he delivers it smoothly, rather than objectively.
-But he can be awful to you, and his teasing can lean too far into insult, and that’s when you run back to 35. Who takes great pride in his role as your “protector” from the others. It irritates 45 to no end, because he’d rather be your go to, but he’s not going to try and argue with the oh so arrogant 35.
-45 is the most fun to have sex with, because he doesn’t see a need to “experiment” on you too much. Yes the two of you have your fun, but that’s what it is: fun.
-Give it to his experience in living, or give it to his charm, he also tends to just enjoy things to enjoy them so long as he sees the benefit. The benefit of sex with you is that it feels great, and he gets to have you to himself.
-I think he also likes dumbification quite a bit, and he’s most likely to push you to orgasm the most. Overstimulating you is a quick way to get you in that idiotic state of mind, after all.
-He likes the babbling, makes fun of you for it, but enjoys how you rely on him so much in that mental state. Coos at you in an almost sweet kind of way, if only his intentions were the same.
-Also one of the only segments who gives a shit about after care. He’ll actually take the time to clean you up and ensure you’re resting after the fact. No cuddles or things like that, but he’s gentler than you’d expect him to be.
65
-As the oldest segment, he’s probably the most impassive of them all. The young ones have their fun, his research is more refined and detailed.
-He’s not much of a talker, either, though he will speak when spoken to. You’re not sure if it’s because he sees others as beneath him, or if he thinks talking isn’t worth the energy.
-He’s surprisingly comfortable to be around though. He rarely shoos at you, and if you ask him questions on his research he’ll answer curtly, but tell you regardless.
-He finds you… pleasant? Watching the other segments stumble over themselves for your approval is amusing, which is why he allows you to come to him when you like.
-It is affection that he feels in his later years for you, though he’s not going to admit that out loud. Particularly because the younger ones will have a fit if he did, because it obviously implies their own affections they are so ashamed of.
-He’s also not very sexual with you, because he has little sexual desire left at this point. He simply likes your company, and he doesn’t mind how the others feel about it.
-If you show sexual interest he will indulge you, and it’s likely the most intimate of the segments.
-He’s not quite soft with you, but there is a consideration for your pleasure that doesn’t exist within any of the other segments. You will leave satisfied, and so will he, that’s how it is.
-He finds no extra delight in experimentation and torture, it is only you and he, and that is all it needs to be.
-He even holds you after, allows you to be physically affectionate in a way the other versions of himself do not.
-While 35 may laud himself as your protector and your favorite, 65 is the one who takes the role naturally. If you really need something, all you need is ask, and he will comply quickly and efficiently.
-Perhaps it is a bit out of character for him, but in his later years, he finds himself seeking some kind of connection. Perhaps that is why the original Zandik is so smitten with you…
🍓So for this fic I’m writing I’m trying to break down how I categorize the segments I’m using (25.35.45.65), so I thought I’d just write down my notes and give them to the world lol. No eight for obvious reasons and no eighteen because I don’t think you understand how difficult it is to write a scene with six characters as is.
NSFW MDNI; 6.6 spoilers? I guess?
TW: Nsfw; sadism; violence in alignment to regular dottore violence; he’s mean as hell; marking; blood kink; doctor kink; problematic age-gap king(?)
General Thoughts on the Collective
-They’re all inarguably sadists, and they’re all inarguably selfish as hell.
-They don’t like to share with each other pretty much anything, and that would extend to a partner as well. They’d be vying for their attention and sabotaging one another non stop, yet, they also don’t care enough to forcibly isolate them from the other segments.
-The only person who does would be Zandik himself, and his reasoning for doing so is vague and obtuse. It’s easy to chalk it up to insecurity, since his segments are younger, more vigorous versions of himself. Yet, you’ll never be able to tell lol.
-I think, at the end of the day, the thing that keeps them behaving is the mutual agreement that it would be better to share amongst themselves than have you running of with someone of less… worth?
-They all think you’re incredibly stupid, by the way, even if you’re not. Even if you’re considered a genius on the level of the god of wisdom, Dottore and his segments hardly bat an eye to it. His ego is too big, and he quite prefers making you feel ashamed.
-Why, precisely, they keep you around is beyond them. (They know, of course they know, but to acknowledge that would break their understanding of themselves). But they do! Lucky you.
25
-The younger you go the meaner this guy gets. The only exception to this rule is 8, and that’s because he’s literally 8, but the kid has bite too.
-25 is in this stage where he’s arrogant with the intelligence to back it up, but he’s only just been able to remove the roadblocks in his path, so he’s a bit overeager?
-Other than 35, he’s the most sadistic, and enjoys more… vile things? His experiments are teeming with less than savory tactics, even for Dottore, and he’s kind of speed running through every idea that he’s been denied by the akademia.
-He’s more temperamental, though I’m not sure if that’s the right word. He just gets more irritated faster than the others do when he experiences a setback or a failure.
-He tends to be the flattest with you of them all, just blatantly mean for no reason other than to be mean. He enjoys the way you shrivel at it, but will get irritated and seethe quietly to himself if you walk away or don’t engage how he likes.
-Understands why you don’t seek him out, gets pissed off about it anyway. No one can tell him how to behave around you either, you have to adjust because he’s not changing.
-If he ever gets you in bed, because let’s be honest, why would you ever say yes to this asshole? He’s incredibly sadistic with very little care of your pleasure.
-Very much the last guy you’d ever want to have sex with. He’s mean with no remorse, talking down to you in the tone you’d talk to a petulant child while you whimper and squirm.
-He’s either milking you until your dry and then some, or he’s torturing you and never allowing you to cum at all. No matter what, you’re a helpless, needy little thing that he’s simply unable to satisfy properly.
-Also very much the type to mark you up and make you bleed. Not enough to kill you (unfortunately, everyone else would have something to say on that), but enough that you need a lot of time to recover after he’s finished with you.
-He’ll draw little hearts on your skin with your own blood, perhaps the sweetest thing he does, then mock you for thinking it’s charming even if you’re too fucked out to say a word.
-No aftercare, either. It’s up to you to clean up, or to whoever finds you in a heap on the floor. Usually one of the older segments who’d rather not deal with the fallout of your death from serious infection or injury. Sometimes it’s even Pantalone, who has it in that cold heart of his to feel pity enough to help you out.
35
-This guy fucking stinks, bro, oh my god. He’s got the brains, the arrogance, and the means. He’s at his prime, and he knows it. Flaunts it in his own subtle way, taking control of situations with an ease that no one seems to catch on to.
-It’s that attitude of his that makes him positively insufferable, but he’s not as horrible as 25 can be. He’s not mean without reason, he doesn’t do just because, he’s controlled. Logical. Irritating.
-He treats you more like a pet than a person, but at least there’s a level of affection there, though it’s not exactly a humanizing feeling. You’re not with Dottore to feel “human” though, so it’s fine.
-He’s got an incredible control on himself and an even better control on you. He knows how to sweet talk, knows how to manipulate you into whatever state he likes you in. It’s to a point you’ll come to him — cold calculating 35 — for comfort when others upset you.
-And why wouldn’t you? He’s built himself up to be your savior of sorts, the one segment you can easily predict and rely on. Is it manipulation? Of course, and he’s sure you’re aware of that. Do either of you care? No, not really.
-He likes control, and that’s very present in the bedroom. Though, you’re not often in the bedroom with him. He likes to set you in the lab, when he can, or somewhere makeshift like one.
-He enjoys setting it up like it’s all an experiment. How will you react to this? How will he react? If you changed this variable, would you like it less or more? He takes notes in the middle of your little “appointments,” and likely has a whole file dedicated to your sexual preferences and activities.
-Don’t think he’s concerned with your pleasure, though. Most, if not all, of it is observational. He really is just documenting your reactions, you’re not even sure if he enjoys anything he does for himself. (He must, since he does it so often).
-He’ll get really annoyed if he sees evidence of the other segments “activities” with you, and will find a way to brand you as his own where he can.
-This guy does so much to you it’s hard to really list it all. Think it, and he’s probably tried it at least once just to see if he liked it.
-Big one with him is dumbification though, have fun with that one lol.
45
-Think 35 with the penchant to tease.
-45 is a bit more loose with himself, more relaxed now that he’s been established and feared in the science world. I think he tends to act as Dottore’s face politically more than the others because he’s just a bit more charming and charismatic in comparison.
-Now, he’s not friendly at all, but he’s more enjoyable to talk to than you’d imagine. He’s got the mean bit from 25 with the knowledge of application that 35 has. Meaning, he knows how to make you fluster, and he likes to do it a lot.
-He still treats you like a pet in a similar way to 35, but it’s less condescending because he delivers it smoothly, rather than objectively.
-But he can be awful to you, and his teasing can lean too far into insult, and that’s when you run back to 35. Who takes great pride in his role as your “protector” from the others. It irritates 45 to no end, because he’d rather be your go to, but he’s not going to try and argue with the oh so arrogant 35.
-45 is the most fun to have sex with, because he doesn’t see a need to “experiment” on you too much. Yes the two of you have your fun, but that’s what it is: fun.
-Give it to his experience in living, or give it to his charm, he also tends to just enjoy things to enjoy them so long as he sees the benefit. The benefit of sex with you is that it feels great, and he gets to have you to himself.
-I think he also likes dumbification quite a bit, and he’s most likely to push you to orgasm the most. Overstimulating you is a quick way to get you in that idiotic state of mind, after all.
-He likes the babbling, makes fun of you for it, but enjoys how you rely on him so much in that mental state. Coos at you in an almost sweet kind of way, if only his intentions were the same.
-Also one of the only segments who gives a shit about after care. He’ll actually take the time to clean you up and ensure you’re resting after the fact. No cuddles or things like that, but he’s gentler than you’d expect him to be.
65
-As the oldest segment, he’s probably the most impassive of them all. The young ones have their fun, his research is more refined and detailed.
-He’s not much of a talker, either, though he will speak when spoken to. You’re not sure if it’s because he sees others as beneath him, or if he thinks talking isn’t worth the energy.
-He’s surprisingly comfortable to be around though. He rarely shoos at you, and if you ask him questions on his research he’ll answer curtly, but tell you regardless.
-He finds you… pleasant? Watching the other segments stumble over themselves for your approval is amusing, which is why he allows you to come to him when you like.
-It is affection that he feels in his later years for you, though he’s not going to admit that out loud. Particularly because the younger ones will have a fit if he did, because it obviously implies their own affections they are so ashamed of.
-He’s also not very sexual with you, because he has little sexual desire left at this point. He simply likes your company, and he doesn’t mind how the others feel about it.
-If you show sexual interest he will indulge you, and it’s likely the most intimate of the segments.
-He’s not quite soft with you, but there is a consideration for your pleasure that doesn’t exist within any of the other segments. You will leave satisfied, and so will he, that’s how it is.
-He finds no extra delight in experimentation and torture, it is only you and he, and that is all it needs to be.
-He even holds you after, allows you to be physically affectionate in a way the other versions of himself do not.
-While 35 may laud himself as your protector and your favorite, 65 is the one who takes the role naturally. If you really need something, all you need is ask, and he will comply quickly and efficiently.
-Perhaps it is a bit out of character for him, but in his later years, he finds himself seeking some kind of connection. Perhaps that is why the original Zandik is so smitten with you…
"Did you kill him?" You appear behind the thirty-five year old Segment one day, tone oddly serious and firm despite the slight tremble in your voice. Omega studies you for a moment before one of his usual smiles curls on his face, as he turns to give you his attention.
"Well, you're going to need to be a bit more specific than that, darling. Who exactly do you believe met their end by my hands?"
"Zandik. The original Zandik, Omega." Your gaze is hard and cold, and yet the Segment just shakes his head and lets out a sigh.
"As I said before, the original 'me' died of-"
"You said that Zandik died by himself. Natural causes. Old age. I believed you. I had no reason not to, and your reasoning was sound, as disheartening as it was," you bitterly finished the sentence. In the beginning, when you had finally woken up from centuries-long rest, it was hard to accept that your Zandik, the original, had long since died. However, you had at least had some peace with the Segments he had left behind. They had treated you with care and respect. You could sense a bit of Zandik within each of them, and you grew to love them. But now...
"You didn't say that you watched him plead for help. You didn't say you could have saved him. You didn't say that you... watched him die."
"And how exactly did you come to this conclusion?" The Segment's hands are calmly folded behind his back as he observes you.
"I saw it, Omega." At that statement, the Segment's smile slightly fell, and it seemed like he was starting to understand what you were getting at. It appeared you had pried into something that was never meant for your eyes. "I saw what you did to Zandik."
"... Then tell me, what exactly did I do?" But Omega seems almost undisturbed by your response, which only makes you ball your hands up tighter.
"You recorded what you did, no, what all of you did. Both on paper and... visually." Your throat runs dry at the memory of the dissection, which you could hardly read and watch a few seconds of before turning away. To see your darling Zandik suffer such a fate... Your time with him may have been cut short, but there was nothing else you loved more than the boy you met in the Akademiya. "... Why... Why would you do that? Why would you lie to me? And- And how many other times have you lied to me?"
And yet the scholar only lets out another sigh as he abandons his work in favor of pacing toward you.
"The original Zandik was already near the end of his life. It was only thanks to the elixir that he managed to surpass the average life expectancy of a human." The click of his heels as Omega strolled toward you made your heart race. "He would have died sooner or later, with or without any intervention. So, there was little harm in speeding things up a bit." Before you could counter, he spoke again.
"You've long known of our nature, of the experiments. Surely you aren't too surprised we took the opportunity to dissect ourselves." But you were. Too much had happened while you were away. Maybe if you were with Zandik, things could have turned out differently, but you weren't. The selfishness and hatred had already taken root and could only dissipate with some drastic measure, like a great tree burning to the ground with the mightiest of fires.
"And as for the last question... I anticipated a reaction of this nature. I knew it wouldn't bode well with your condition. However, do rest assured that I have been truthful in many other matters." At last, Omega stood in front of you, looking at you with a smile that still carried fondness for you. He was selfish enough to think that he was protecting you by hiding the truth.
"Regardless, the outcome would have been the same. The original 'me' would not have survived to the present day to see you again. Do the details truly matter? What matters is that you now have-" He reached to caress your cheek, when-
Before Omega could finish the sentence, a resounding slap echoed in the room, with the clinking of his mask dropping on the floor.
"If you truly think that the details wouldn't matter to me, then you do not know as much about me as you think... Dottore." For once, the Segment seemed to be stunned into silence.
A part of you knew that the attention Omega gave you was real. You knew his affection was real, that he desired to help you break free of fate, too. But yet, in light of this revelation, it felt like all of that had shattered into pieces.
"You forget one thing. The one I first fell in love with was Zandik. The one who would bare his heart to me. You might call yourself Zandik, but you're not him... And you're certainly not mine. You are just... Dottore." The Segment remained quiet as he gazed at you. There was no fear in your eyes. Just anger, sadness, and... pity. Pity for a man who could never make peace with who he was.
As you left, you found solace in the fact that one day, you'd see your Zandik again.
⤷ Tags: Il Dottore/reader, Murder Mystery, Reader is in her 40s, slowburn, written after 6.6
(Minor 6.6 spoiler warning below!)
After another sigh, you opened the door and let a few snowflakes wander into the warmth of your workshop. The doorway seemed to split the world into two, one black and white, the other golden and colourful. The one that stood before you was someone you knew well already.
His blue locks were combed back, though the trek here certainly made a stray strand fall upon his forehead. His square glasses slid down his nose, sometimes making it harder to see how his red eyes danced from side to side ever so slightly. While the segments of Dottore were different in age, style and often attitude, nystagmus was something all of them shared. Some of them just hid it more than others.
“The outside blinds me,” the 25 year old segment said after a moment. Beta, he had been named. “Am I allowed in?”
Immediately, you stepped aside. His cold demeanour was familiar to you. Out of all of them, this one seemed to resemble a robot the most, competing even with Omega.
“It’s a long time since we’ve seen each other,” you greeted as you shut the door and watched him unbuckle his cloak. “Busy with work?”
“Naturally. I wouldn’t entertain myself with foolish affairs, unlike Omega,” he remarked with a hint of bitterness. Beta blinked, turning to her and adjusting his gloves. He was wearing a blue button up and a lighter, cyan tie. His outer lab coat was nowhere to be seen, which immediately made you suspect the reason for his visit.
“Omega? What has he been doing?”
Beta flicked his hand dismissively before pushing his glasses up with his index. “Whatever do you expect from him, apart from needless curiosity about outsiders and a superiority complex. I haven’t come here to gossip, madam.”
“Of course not.” You walked deeper into the workshop and let him follow. “I’ve noticed you aren’t wearing your usual lab coat. Is that the issue?”
“Yes. It tore. Kappa’s doing.”
A hint of a smile appeared on your face. You missed the eight year old version of the Doctor a lot. “Do you need me to mend it?”
“No. I’d prefer it if you made a new one, madam. I dislike imperfections.”
“Ah, complaining about the quality of my work, are you?” You said as your hands grazed over a roll of white cotton—it was usually Dottore’s preferred material. “That’s not very polite, sweetheart.”
Beta’s fingers curled around the folder he had procured from his coat, because of course he brought his work with him. “Not quite what I meant, madam. I will just know the tear was there, and that is enough to bother me.”
A laugh escaped you. You teasing was always in good will, yet you couldn’t help but enjoy the segments reactions. Some of them would get even more irritated, others would get stiff, and others would laugh. Omega, for example, always found it amusing when you said something witty in response to his arrogance.
“Mhm, sure. Come here, then. Would you like it loose?”
“No. The laboratory requires controlled amounts of material. Anything loose could accidentally catch a flame or get in the way.”
Your fingers wrapped around the measuring tape as you grabbed a spare notebook to note down everything you needed. As much as Beta liked to preach about nothing but efficiency and objectivity, all of Dottore’s versions enjoyed style. After all, it was you who designed the crow upon Omega’s shoulder and the intricate tailcoat Theta often wore (those two were as similar as twins, even though the logistics didn’t match up). You usually saw Beta with a surgical mask, but that was meant for the lab, and not your workshop. His hands were covered by long black gloves that almost reached his elbows, and nearly every inch of his white skin was covered. Perhaps that, along with the mask the others wore, was the reason some didn’t notice his albino features.
“Are you going to do that while I take measurements?” You asked as he flipped the report open. He nodded once, but raised his arms so you could work properly. “Even the others can put down their work when they’re here.”
⤷ Tags: Il Dottore/reader, Murder Mystery, Reader is in her 40s, slowburn, written after 6.6
(Minor 6.6 spoiler warning below!)
After another sigh, you opened the door and let a few snowflakes wander into the warmth of your workshop. The doorway seemed to split the world into two, one black and white, the other golden and colourful. The one that stood before you was someone you knew well already.
His blue locks were combed back, though the trek here certainly made a stray strand fall upon his forehead. His square glasses slid down his nose, sometimes making it harder to see how his red eyes danced from side to side ever so slightly. While the segments of Dottore were different in age, style and often attitude, nystagmus was something all of them shared. Some of them just hid it more than others.
“The outside blinds me,” the 25 year old segment said after a moment. Beta, he had been named. “Am I allowed in?”
Immediately, you stepped aside. His cold demeanour was familiar to you. Out of all of them, this one seemed to resemble a robot the most, competing even with Omega.
“It’s a long time since we’ve seen each other,” you greeted as you shut the door and watched him unbuckle his cloak. “Busy with work?”
“Naturally. I wouldn’t entertain myself with foolish affairs, unlike Omega,” he remarked with a hint of bitterness. Beta blinked, turning to her and adjusting his gloves. He was wearing a blue button up and a lighter, cyan tie. His outer lab coat was nowhere to be seen, which immediately made you suspect the reason for his visit.
“Omega? What has he been doing?”
Beta flicked his hand dismissively before pushing his glasses up with his index. “Whatever do you expect from him, apart from needless curiosity about outsiders and a superiority complex. I haven’t come here to gossip, madam.”
“Of course not.” You walked deeper into the workshop and let him follow. “I’ve noticed you aren’t wearing your usual lab coat. Is that the issue?”
“Yes. It tore. Kappa’s doing.”
A hint of a smile appeared on your face. You missed the eight year old version of the Doctor a lot. “Do you need me to mend it?”
“No. I’d prefer it if you made a new one, madam. I dislike imperfections.”
“Ah, complaining about the quality of my work, are you?” You said as your hands grazed over a roll of white cotton—it was usually Dottore’s preferred material. “That’s not very polite, sweetheart.”
Beta’s fingers curled around the folder he had procured from his coat, because of course he brought his work with him. “Not quite what I meant, madam. I will just know the tear was there, and that is enough to bother me.”
A laugh escaped you. You teasing was always in good will, yet you couldn’t help but enjoy the segments reactions. Some of them would get even more irritated, others would get stiff, and others would laugh. Omega, for example, always found it amusing when you said something witty in response to his arrogance.
“Mhm, sure. Come here, then. Would you like it loose?”
“No. The laboratory requires controlled amounts of material. Anything loose could accidentally catch a flame or get in the way.”
Your fingers wrapped around the measuring tape as you grabbed a spare notebook to note down everything you needed. As much as Beta liked to preach about nothing but efficiency and objectivity, all of Dottore’s versions enjoyed style. After all, it was you who designed the crow upon Omega’s shoulder and the intricate tailcoat Theta often wore (those two were as similar as twins, even though the logistics didn’t match up). You usually saw Beta with a surgical mask, but that was meant for the lab, and not your workshop. His hands were covered by long black gloves that almost reached his elbows, and nearly every inch of his white skin was covered. Perhaps that, along with the mask the others wore, was the reason some didn’t notice his albino features.
“Are you going to do that while I take measurements?” You asked as he flipped the report open. He nodded once, but raised his arms so you could work properly. “Even the others can put down their work when they’re here.”
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