#spring.. spring... spring.. pipe..cleaner

But here you are, burnt coffee in hand, fake smile plastered on, trapped in the sacred hellscape of the faculty lounge. Surrounded by crusty relics in crocheted cardigans who quote Plato like it's a kink.

The worst part? You're one of them now. A professor. A fucking academic.

The university, though? Disgustingly prestigious. The kind of place that gets whispered about in overpriced cafés and college admissions horror stories.

State-of-the-art everything. A three-story library that's still expanding. Gyms that smell like money and ambition. Dorms so cushy they might as well be hotel suites.

With that kind of setup, it’s no wonder people assume you slept your way into the position.

Would’ve been easier if that were true.

But no. You didn’t climb the ladder by seduction. You clawed your way up fueled by childhood trauma, hatred, and a PhD’s worth of spite.

Now you’ve got two jobs, more money than you know what to do with, and just enough friends to keep from being labeled a total psychopathic freak.

A poetic little fuck-you to your dead mother who said literature was a waste of time.

You’re on your third cup of disappointment, pretending that bitter caffeine will buffer you from the social agony of the faculty lounge. It doesn’t. The couch springs are older than you. The conversation stinks of tenure, arrogance and ego.

At least your office is far enough from these fossils. Shame they won’t let you bring your own coffee machine, something about “budget regulations” and “fire hazards,” as if anyone here had enough energy to spontaneously combust.

“Professor Sunshine!”

Your eye twitches.

The nickname is less about warmth and more about fallout. You burn too bright. Students flee like they’ve looked directly at you for too long, and sometimes, they have.

You don’t mind. You get paid whether they cry or not.

“It’s Doctor Sunshine to you, Mr. Maximoff,” you say flatly, turning to the walking sports drink in khakis.

Pietro Maximoff grins like a frat boy who never quite grew out of hazing rituals.

“I see the sun’s shining less today,” he quips, snatching your mug and taking a bold swig. He grimaces. Good.

“Let me treat you to something better.”

“I make more money than you,” you shoot back.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then I’m a miracle.”

He snorts. “Okay, hot stuff. Heard you’ve got two world-class historians in your class.” He wiggles his eyebrows like a cheap sitcom extra.

“And?” You're used to having famous people in your class, you wonder why Pietro even mentioned such a thing.

“Nothing… Just betting five bucks you can’t make them drop.”

“What are you? A college frat boy?” You scoffed at him, raising an unimpressed brow

“He was,” a silken voice interrupts, light and amused.

Wanda Maximoff appears beside him, graceful as ever, red hair tucked behind one ear like she’s the muse in a painting no one’s allowed to touch. She taps Pietro’s head with her ring-heavy hand before turning her attention to you with that knowing smile she always wears; soft, maternal, quietly terrifying.

The siblings were opposites. Complete opposites.

Sokovian History professor. Faculty darling. Her evaluations read like love letters. Where Pietro was all sweat and chaos, Wanda moved like silk in a summer breeze; graceful, calm, but with an undeniable weight to her presence. She was the kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. When she walked into a room, conversations hushed, not out of intimidation, but reverence. Her voice, laced with a gentle Sokovian lilt, wrapped around every word like a spell cast with scarlet gloves.

Students clung to her every word, enchanted by her quiet brilliance. She didn’t lecture; she wove narratives. In her class, history wasn’t a timeline, it was a living, breathing creature, resurrected by the soft cadence of her voice and the stories that lived in her gaze. She taught with the care of someone handling old wounds, her fingers gentle on the past, her eyes sharp enough to see through it.

And there was something ethereal about her, something in the way her rings caught the light as she gestured mid-thought, or the way she always seemed to know more than she let on. A mother to her students, yes, but a terrifyingly perceptive one. She noticed everything. Remembered everything.

Even now, she was looking at you as if she already knew where your story ends.

Meanwhile, Pietro teaches Sports Science and gets fan mail from student-athletes and wide-eyed girls auditing his class. Last year, he lost the “Hottest Male Professor” poll to Professor Rogers and sulked for weeks.

“Fifty bucks,” Pietro says, doubling down.

You flash him a predatory grin. “Deal.”

Wanda sighs, long-suffering and elegant. “One day, you two will outgrow your pissing contests.”

You doubt it.

You brush off Pietro’s smugness, but his words stick like a dare. You don’t believe in omens, but something about today feels off.

You were right.

And fuck Pietro. You're never taking another bet from him ever again.

You enter the lecture hall like always: bored, bitter, buzzing on burnt caffeine. The room smells like old textbooks and anticipation. You’ve locked the door behind you; your usual ritual of academic sadism. No latecomers. No mercy.

But something’s off.

There’s a weight in the air, heat, almost. Not temperature, exactly. Just the kind of heat that coils down your spine, instinctive and ancient. You feel it before you even meet their eyes.

When you scan the room, your gaze skips past the sleepy freshmen and hungover upperclassmen until it snaps, front row, dead center.

Two women.

They sit like they own the space. Not trying to. Knowing they do. Confidence was oozing out from them in beautiful waves, they seemed like the embodiment of professional arrogance. Their eyes, although different in color, stare at you the same way. It felt heavy, yet not suffocating. It felt strangely comforting, and that thought alone sent shivers down your spine.

The one on the left has dark eyes like bruised velvet and a mouth made for ruin. The other leans back with a legal pad and the posture of a queen at court; unbothered, unreadable, untouchable.

Their gazes land on you with perfect stillness. No blinking. No flinching. Just that weight again.

And in that exact moment, you know.

You’re fucked. Deeply. Profoundly. Existentially.

They don’t look like students. They don’t look like anything you’ve ever taught.

You grip the podium like it’ll anchor you to reality.

You cleared your throat, breaking eye contact like it burned.

“If you're here because you thought this class would be easy. Get the hell out.”

The words came out flat, practiced. You always open this way, your voice is steady. Cold. Scripted. It’s the same line you give every year. It usually works. The scared ones scatter. The cocky ones get humbled after the first exam.

But not them.

They don’t even blink.

The tension didn’t lift. It coiled.

Like they were waiting for something.

Like you were the one being tested.

“If you’re still sitting here in five minutes, you’re agreeing to read the blood and bones of every civilization that ever wrote a word. You’ll write essays that rewrite your brain. You’ll drown in dead languages and sleep with metaphors under your pillow.”

You click the remote. The first slide glows behind you.

No one moves.

Especially not them.

The woman with dark brown yet silver-streaked hair leans back in her seat, languid. Deliberate. Her fingers trace something into the spine of her notebook, though you’re too far to see what. Her gaze flickers to you—sharp, ancient. Not tired, but measured. Like you’re a puzzle she's already halfway through solving.

Beside her, the one with a jaw like carved stone and a stare like a held knife to your throat doesn’t even try to pretend she’s paying attention to the slides. She only watches you as she nibbles on her pencil in a playful and annoyingly seductive way.

Then it hits you, like a brick that fell from 15 stories high.

You do know who they are. Everyone on campus does.

You mentally kick yourself for not realizing it sooner.

Dr. Agatha Harkness, expert in ancient texts, dead languages, and cryptic footnotes that even seasoned scholars refuse to touch.

Dr. Rio Vidal, historian of legal theory and the laws no longer written. To make it easier, she's a historian of law, but not the kind written in dusty textbooks. The kind etched in blood, carved in stone, whispered across centuries.

They’re legends in academia. The kind of people who give guest lectures that make other professors take notes. The kind of names that carry weight, and bite. Both with credentials that make your curriculum vitae look like a high school résumé.

They’ve taken classes before. Rumor has it that they're working on a PhD that you're pretty sure they already have. Wanda, in particular, had thoughts. She blabbered for an hour straight in your apartment once, her voice shifting from frustration to reverence and back again like she couldn’t decide whether to curse them or canonize them. You’d laughed at her, teasing her for being so dramatic.

Stress, admiration, annoyance, arousal, she cycled through all of it in a single paragraph.

You remember thinking she was overreacting.

Now, standing in front of them, you’re not so sure.

You didn’t look at your roster. You never do on the first day.

And maybe that was a mistake.

Because you didn’t know they’d be here.

You didn’t know they’d be like this.

You didn’t expect the air to shift with their gaze. You didn’t expect to feel watched. Studied. Hunted.

You turn back to the projector screen like it’s armor. Like it can block the way their eyes follow your every movement.

You speak. Words about Gilgamesh and Sumerian cuneiform fill the room. You’ve said them a hundred times before.

But your voice feels foreign in your mouth. Your pacing is off. You almost trip over a quote from an Epic because-

You can feel them.

Not in the way students usually feel. Not in the twitchy, distracted, too-online way. They’re quiet. Still. Intent.

Like they’re dissecting you. Or worse, understanding you.

Your pulse skips a beat. You’re hyper-aware of your throat. Your instincts whisper one word: run.

You clear your throat again. You’re not nervous. You’ve taught this class for years. You've spoken at conferences with stricter crowds and colder rooms.

You’re not nervous.

Your hand tightens around the remote. It was an attempt to keep composure, to stay strong.

“Attendance is irrelevant,” you say, voice clipped. You make yourself sound bored. Detached. Like you’re above this.

“This class will not cater to your schedules, your feelings, or your GPAs. You’ll pass if you earn it. You’ll fail if you don’t. I don’t do second chances.”

It comes out clean. Sharp. You're good at this.

You move through the next slide, keeping your eyes away from them. You’re aware of their presence like you’re aware of gravity; constant, invisible, undeniable.

“This is not a course in reading comprehension. We’ll be dissecting context, subtext, and cultural memory. We’ll read what was said, what wasn’t said, and what was forbidden to say.” You continue

You hear the faintest sound, a slight rustle of fabric followed by the soft creaking of university issued plastic chairs, and maybe a breath caught at the wrong moment. It’s quiet, but your brain latches onto it like a warning.

Still, you push forward. You have to.

So you did. Despite the magnetic pull they seem to both have, you managed to keep yourself together until the end of your orientation and the short discussion of your syllabus. You might be cruel, but you're not a monster to immediately begin a lesson on the first day.

The class ends like any other. You dismiss them. They rise.

And yet they don’t rush. In fact, they stay behind, the last students to ever walk out your doors.

Agatha meets your gaze for a breath too long. She doesn’t smile, not really. But her mouth moves like she might.

Rio tilts her head slightly, like she’s filing you away in a mental drawer.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Professor,” one of them murmurs.

You don’t remember which.

You stay frozen long after they’re gone. Only whispers of their presence remain.

You’re used to narrating the room like a well-worn novel; predictable, underlined, annotated. But now, the chapters are being rewritten without your consent, and for the first time, you don’t know if you’re the author… or just a footnote in someone else’s story

You'd been meaning to reorganise the junk drawer all week.

It was a task that nags at you every time you fish for a pen and come up with nothing but dried-out pens and a handful of foreign coins. Today, the mess had reached critical mass when you'd been searching for the spare key to your place and instead unearthed three dead AA batteries and what might have been a receipt from 2019.

So at 2 PM on Sunday, with golden afternoon light pooling across the kitchen tiles, you'd upended the entire drawer onto the counter. The contents formed a sad little monument to domestic chaos: twisted phone chargers, a single cufflink, half a dozen IKEA Allen wrenches, and at least three pens that definitely didn't work.

Will had watched this from his throne in the living room armchair, one eyebrow arched over the top of his novel. "Spring cleaning?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"It's making me itchy just looking at it," you'd grumbled, aggressively untangling a knot of cables. "How do we even accumulate this much crap?”

That was an hour ago.

Now you're kneeling on the kitchen floor, elbow-deep under the sink, fingers brushing against the cold pipe as you search for the trash bags you could have sworn you bought last week. The cabinet smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something metallic, and you're fairly certain your jumper is collecting dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds.

"Will," you call, voice slightly muffled by the cabinet, "did you move the—"

The only response is the soft whisper of a page turning. You twist to see him through the doorway, still curled in the armchair with his book propped against his knees. Afternoon light gilds the curve of his shoulders, catching in his hair where it's fallen across his forehead. His thumb moves absently along the edge of the page, but his eyes never leave the text.

"Will?" You try again, louder this time, knocking your knuckles against the cabinet door for emphasis.

"Hm?" It's the kind of distracted noise people make when they're only physically present, their mind still wrapped around a plot twist or character's fate.

You give up with a huff, the cabinet door swinging shut with a hollow thud as you rock back on your heels. The floor had left angry red impressions on your knees, and your shoulders ached from being hunched in that cramped space for so long. When you finally straighten up, your spine cracks in three distinct places—the kind of satisfying pops that make you feel both ancient and temporarily relieved. The clock above the stove reads 3:07—if you leave now, you can make it before everything closes at 4.

"I'm running to the shop before it closes," you announce, brushing dust from your clothes. "Need to grab milk anyway. I'll pick you up a snack for work tomorrow—want anything specific? Those protein bars you like, or should I see if they have more of those weird spicy nuts?"

Will makes a noncommittal noise, but you’re already heading for the hallway, stripping off your dust-streaked jumper as you go.

In the bedroom, you tug on a fresh top and pause, eyeing the little glass bottle on your dresser. The perfume was a gift from a friend last month—“It’s so you,” they’d insisted—but you’d barely used it. Today feels as good a time to use it for the first time. You spritz it on, the scent blooming: vanilla, bright and sweet at first, then something deeper, spicier, like amber melting into skin.

You give your wrist an absentminded sniff. Nice. Maybe your friend was right, it does suit you. Leaving your bedroom, you walk to the door and grab your tote from the hook, digging through its depths for your keys. They jangle somewhere near the bottom, buried under crumpled receipts and a pack of gum.

That’s when you notice it.

The silence.

No rustling pages. No absent tap of Will’s fingers against the armrest. Just the weight of someone’s gaze, like a touch between your shoulder blades.

You turn.

Will hasn’t moved from his chair, but his book lies forgotten in his lap, spine bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes lock onto yours, then drop—slow, deliberate—to the curve of your neck. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Going out?” Will asks again, his voice gravel-dipped. It’s not really a question. There’s an edge to it, a tension that makes your pulse skip. You finally fish out your keys with a triumphant jingle. "Yes, Sherlock," you say, shooting him an amused look over your shoulder. "Like I said five minutes ago when you were too busy with your book to listen."

His abandoned novel lies splayed on the armrest like a wounded bird, pages crumpled under his restless fingers. The sight gives you pause, Will never treats books this way. “Want anything else?”

His answer comes in movement rather than words. He rises with sudden purpose, the book tumbling to the rug as he crosses the space between you in three long strides. Before you can react, he's shrugging into his coat with uncharacteristic haste, the wool collar sitting askew, his hair mussed from where he'd raked an impatient hand through it.

"I'm coming with you," he says, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You blink. "Since when do you volunteer for grocery runs?" The tease in your voice falters as he steps closer, shrinking the hallway with his presence. The heat of him radiates through the scant space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back as he reaches past you for the door. His touch lingers just a beat too long, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

The intensity in his storm-grey eyes betrays his usual calm—something restless simmers beneath the surface. You notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he holds the door open, the taut line of his forearm muscles as he gestures you through.

Outside, the evening is crisp, the streetlamps casting honeyed pools of light on the pavement. Will walks closer than usual, his shoulder bumping yours whenever you round a corner. You catch him staring again, his gaze snagging on your throat, your wrists, and the pulse point behind your ear. When the wind tosses your hair, he inhales sharply, as if stealing a secret.

“You’re quiet today,” you say, half-turning to face him.

He stops short, his eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something—do something—his breath warm against your cheek. But then he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just thinking,” he says, the words rough, like they’ve been dragged through gravel.

What’s got into him?

The shop's sign buzzes louder as you approach, flickering in the gathering dusk. Will lingers by the door just long enough to hold it open for you, his arm brushing yours as you pass through. The warmth of his body lingers where he touched you, even as he falls into step beside you.

You grab a plastic basket from the stack near the entrance, its handle creaking in your grip. Will reaches for the same one too, his fingers briefly overlapping yours before you both pull away. There's a charged moment where neither of you move—just stand there in the harsh light, baskets in hand, breathing the same air.

You tug one free, its grip creaking under your fingers. Behind you, Will shifts closer than necessary—his chest nearly grazing your shoulder—as if drawn by some magnetic pull. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his hand twitch forward, fingertips skimming the air just above yours before curling into a fist.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the linoleum into a sterile white. You can feel the heat of him against your back, smell the faint cedar of his shampoo mixed with something sharper, almost feral.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat, pivoting toward the dairy aisle, "Milk first."

The aisles are narrow enough that Will has to walk behind you, his presence a constant warmth at your back. When you stop to examine expiration dates on the milk cartons, he crowds closer than necessary, reaching past you to grab one. His chest brushes against your shoulder, solid and warm.

"Got it," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at your temple. The milk carton drops into your basket with a dull thud, but neither of you move away immediately.

At the coffee display, the rich, roasted scent wraps around you both as you survey the options. You reach for your usual blend at the same moment Will does, his hand covering yours completely. His skin is warm, his fingers slightly rough against yours. Instead of pulling away, his thumb strokes once—slow, deliberate—across your inner wrist where your pulse jumps.

"Sorry," he says, though his voice is anything but apologetic. His eyes drop to your mouth for a heartbeat too long before he finally steps back, leaving your skin tingling where he touched you.

You swallow hard, focusing on the coffee labels with sudden intensity. "S'alright," you manage, dropping a bag into your basket with slightly unsteady hands. When you glance up, Will's watching you with that same dark intensity, his fingers flexing at his sides like he's resisting the urge to reach for you again.

The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken, until Will clears his throat and reaches past you for the sugar. His arm brushes against yours, his chest nearly pressing into your shoulder as he leans in. His breath ghosts warm over the shell of your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Forgot we were out of this," he says, voice pitched low just for you. The words vibrate through you, and you're suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between you.

At the checkout, the cashier—an old woman with a knowing smirk—watches with undisguised interest as Will crowds into your space while you unload the basket. His fingers keep brushing yours as you both reach for items, each accidental (or not-so-accidental) touch sending little electric jolts up your arms.

When your hand trembles slightly while handing over cash, Will's fingers cover yours again, ostensibly to help but really just another excuse to touch. "I've got it." he says, his deep voice resonating in your chest as he stands close enough that you can smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Will.

The cashier arches an eyebrow as she hands back your change, her eyes flicking between you two with amusement. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse hammering in your throat, as Will's hand finds the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.

Outside, the cool evening air does little to calm your racing heart, especially when Will's fingers slide down to tangle briefly with yours before he seems to think better of it and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. The charged silence between you is louder than any words could be.

The walk home stretches taut between you, the grocery bag’s handles digging into Will’s palm as he walks just a half-step too close. His sleeve brushes your arm with every other stride—cotton whispering against cotton—and each incidental contact lingers like a brand. The city sounds fade into background static: a distant ambulance siren, the click-clack of a dog’s nails on pavement, the hum of a faulty neon sign above a shuttered laundromat. All of it feels muffled, drowned out by the rhythm of Will’s restless energy.

When you pass beneath a flickering streetlamp, its sickly yellow light catches the sheen of sweat at his temples. His gaze flicks to your neck again, lingering on the damp tendril of hair clinging to your skin. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw flexing like he’s biting back words.

“You’re being weirdly intense today,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. The gesture aims for lightness, but your voice betrays you—it comes out breathier than intended, almost a challenge.

Will’s laugh is a rough scrape of sound. “Am I?” He shifts the grocery bag to his other hand, plastic crinkling like cellophane fire. His free arm swings briefly toward yours, fingers grazing your knuckles before he shoves both hands into his coat pockets. The fleeting touch leaves your skin buzzing.

You slow your pace, studying him. Moonlight bleeds through the clouds, silvering the tension in his shoulders, the way his collar sits crooked against his throat. There’s something feral in his profile—the dilated pupils, the slight flare of his nostrils as the wind shifts—that makes your stomach swoop. For a heartbeat, you think he might press you against the graffiti-tagged brick wall to your left, his body caging yours in the shadows.

But he keeps walking.

Three more steps, then he stops dead. You nearly collide with him, catching yourself on his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve jumps at your touch.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, head bowed, breathing audibly through his nose. The grocery bag hangs forgotten at his side, a litre of milk threatening to slip free. When he finally speaks, his voice is ground glass. “You should’ve worn a jacket.”

You blink. “It’s not that cold.”

A beat. Then his coat hits your shoulders before you can protest, his hands linger at your collarbones, adjusting the lapels with unnecessary focus. His thumbs brush the hollow of your throat, once, twice, before he steps back.

“Better,” he mutters, already striding ahead like he can outpace whatever’s clawing at his ribs.

You hurry to catch up, the coat sleeves swallowing your hands whole. Up close, you notice what you missed before—the tremor in his left hand, the way his pulse thunders visibly at his neck. When he catches you staring, he angles his body away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

The remaining blocks pass in a fever dream. Every rustle of fabric, every shared glance, every time his shoulder bumps yours feels amplified. By the time your building comes into view, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, though neither of you will admit it.

At the front door, Will fumbles the keys twice before managing the lock. His hand covers yours on the doorknob, pressing down hard enough to feel the ridges bite into your palm.

“After you,” he says, but doesn’t move aside—just crowds you through the doorway, his chest grazing your back, his breath hot on your nape.

You tell yourself it’s relief that makes your knees weak when he finally retreats to the kitchen, the grocery bag abandoned on the counter. But as you hang up his coat, you press your shoulder to hide the wide grin on your face.

Dinner unfolds in a series of fractured moments. Will stands at the counter, chopping carrots, each thwack echoing off the tiled walls. You sit at the kitchen table, sorting through the junk drawer’s survivors: paperclips glinting like insect legs and rubber bands coiled tight as nerves.

The air smells of ginger and soy sauce. Every time you glance up, his eyes snap back to the cutting board, shoulders rigid. He’s wearing that grey Henley with the stretched collar, the one that exposes the hollow of his throat when he leans forward. You notice sweat dampening the fabric between his shoulder blades.

“You’re hovering,” you say, louder than intended.

He doesn’t answer. Just sets down the knife with exaggerated care and reaches for the kettle. You track his movements—the flex of his forearms as he fills it, the way his thumb rubs compulsively over the handle’s curve. Steam rises as he pours boiling water into two mugs.

The tea appears at your elbow without warning, Earl Grey swirling amber in your favourite mug he’d bought for you last winter. His pinky grazes yours as he withdraws, a spark of contact that lingers.

“Movie tonight?” he asks, leaning back against the sink. His arms cross over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. Will leans back against the sink, the edge of the counter biting into his hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The sleeves of his Henley strain against his biceps, fabric pulling taut where his muscles flex unconsciously. A droplet of water slides down his wrist, tracing the ropy veins of his forearm before disappearing under his rolled cuff. You track its path, hypnotised by the way it catches the flickering kitchen light, until his throat bobs with a hard swallow.

He clears his throat. The sound is sandpaper-rough, startlingly loud in the cramped kitchen. You drag your gaze upward, past the smudge of flour on his collarbone and the damp hair curling at his nape, to find him watching you through his lashes. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, casting sickly shadows under his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looks almost feral—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, the pulse at his temple throbbing visibly. Then he blinks, and the illusion shatters.

“Sure. Your pick.”

He nods but makes no move to leave the kitchen. His gaze burns a hole through the back of your head as you resume sorting. Rubber bands snap into a jar. Paperclips clink like loose change. The silence stretches, taut and humming, until—

“Casablanca”, he says abruptly.

You blink. “Since when do you like old movies?”

“Since never.” He pushes off the counter, mug abandoned. “But you do.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile as the steam still curling from your tea.

The couch has never felt this small.

Will’s usual sprawl—all loose limbs and careless angles—has been replaced by a coiled tension that makes the cushions dip dangerously toward him. His left arm rests along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the heat of him bleeds through your thin jumper anyway. On screen, a spaceship disintegrates in silence. Neither of you registered the title when he queued it up, too busy pretending not to track each other’s movements.

His fingers find your hair first.

It starts as a graze—the rough pad of his thumb brushing the nape of your neck as he tucks a stray strand behind your ear. You stiffen, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he twirls the lock around his index finger, the motion hypnotically slow. His breathing hitches, audible even over the movie’s sudden explosion of gunfire.

“Will?” you whisper, turning your head just enough to see his profile.

He freezes. Moonlight from the half-open blinds stripes his face, sharpening the hunger in his expression before he can school it into something neutral. His thumb presses harder against your neck, a silent plea for you to stay still.

Then he sniffs.

A slow, deliberate inhale, his nose dragging along your temple. His breath fans hot over your skin, uneven and shallow, as if he’s been running. You feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheekbone when he blinks.

“You smell different,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear. The words vibrate through you, low and frayed at the edges.

Your heart stutters. “I—what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your hair, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind your ear with a low groan that makes your thighs clench. His free hand grips the couch cushion, fabric tearing under his fingernails.

“Your perfume,” he mutters, voice thick. “It’s… new.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a gasp. “Since when do you notice my perfume?”

His teeth graze your earlobe—a split-second scrape that might’ve been accidental. “Since it’s this one.” The hand in your hair tightens, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. His other palm lands heavy on your knee, fingers digging into the denim. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t—vanilla? Amber?” You’re babbling, hyperaware of his thumb tracing circles on your inner thigh. “Why?”

Will huffs a laugh against your skin, his arms tightening around you. “Been driving me fucking mental all day.” His voice rumbles through your chest where you’re pressed together, warm and honey-thick with confession.

Heat floods your cheeks. “You—” You twist to face him, but he catches your chin, calloused fingers tilting your head up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and gleaming, the blue-grey irises gone stormy at the edges.

“Yeah,” he admits, unashamed. “Full stalker mode. Followed you around the shop like a starving dog.” His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, daring you to scold him. “Pathetic, really. Nearly growled at that old lady for smirking at us.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.” He nuzzles your jaw, scruff catching on delicate skin as his earlier intensity melts into something softer, sweeter. “Should’ve warned me. That perfume’s a biological weapon.” His nose trails down your neck, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff that sends you into giggles.

“Oh, please,” you snort, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Will nips your earlobe, gentle this time. “You leaned over the milk cartons. Practically waved your neck under my nose.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs. “Sabotage.”

“I was checking expiration dates!”

“Cruel.” He kisses the offended pout off your lips, slow and lingering. He groans, flopping back against the cushions and dragging you with him in a tangle of limbs. “Going to have words with your friend,” he grumbles, even as his hands settle possessively at your waist. “Gifting chemical warfare disguised as perfume. Criminal negligence.”

“Hey!” You pinch his side, laughing as he jerks away with a yelp. “She has excellent taste!”

“Taste?” Will rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “That stuff’s lethal. Bet she’s cackling in her evil lair right now.” He tugs your wrist to his nose, breathing deep with a mock-agonised sigh. “Probably spiked it with pheromones.”

You prop yourself up on his chest, smirking down at his ridiculous pout. “Jealous she found my signature scent first?”

“Devastated.” His hands slide up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. For once, there’s no humour in his stormy gaze—just raw, disarming honesty. “Should’ve been me.”

The kiss starts soft, a barely-there press of lips that quickly deepens when your fingers find his hair. Somewhere in the apartment, the forgotten movie’s credits music swells dramatically. Will breaks away first, forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“For the record,” he murmurs, nose bumping yours, “you’re banned from wearing that to Ikea. Or libraries. Or—”

The protest dies in his throat as you kiss him—really kiss him—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips part instinctively, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating between you as he tilts his head to deepen the angle. There’s nothing tentative about it now: his hands slide up your back, anchoring you against him with a possessiveness that steals your breath.

He tastes like Earl Grey and the dark chocolate bar he’d pocketed at the shop—bitter-sweet, addictive. His stubble scrapes your cheek as he breathes you in, but neither of you care enough to pull away. When your teeth graze his bottom lip, he lets out a ragged groan, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, the word more prayer than curse. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, coaxing you to open for him again, and you do—gladly—melding together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. The couch creaks as he shifts, pressing you into the cushions until there’s no space left between hips, between heartbeats.

Before you can protest, his arms lock around your waist like steel bands, dragging you sideways into his lap. His legs loop over yours, pinning you to the couch in a tangle of limbs. A shudder runs through him as he buries his face in the junction of your neck, nose pressed to your pulse point.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin. Slowly, you relax into the vice of his embrace. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He lets out a sound, half groan, half sigh, and nuzzles deeper into your neck. The tension bleeds from his shoulders incrementally, his death grip on your waist softening to something almost reverent.

“You’re clingy tonight,” you murmur, smoothing the rumpled hair at his temple.

“M’not,” he mumbles into your collarbone, though his legs immediately tangle with yours, pinning you to the couch. His nose nudges the hollow of your throat, inhaling deeply, as if memorising the scent. “S’your fault. Drugged me.”

You snort, fingertips tracing idle patterns down his spine. “Dramatic to the end.”

He hums, noncommittal, his lips brushing your pulse point. The credits still roll, bathing the room in shifting blue light, but Will’s breathing already slows—deep, even pulls of air that stir the neckline of your shirt. His grip loosens incrementally, heavy limbs going lax as sleep claims him.

You don’t dare move. Not when his lashes flutter against your skin, not when his fingers twitch against your hip in some dream. The weight of him is solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath your palm.

“Will?” you whisper.

A soft snore answers, his exhale warming the hollow of your throat. You stretch carefully, fingertips grazing the crumpled throw blanket at the foot of the couch. The fabric whispers as you drag it upward, dust motes swirling gold in the TV’s dying light.

He stirs when the blanket settles—a grumpy murmur vibrating against your collarbone. His arms tighten reflexively, legs cinching around yours like living rope. “Nuh,” he slurs, half-asleep, protest muffled in your skin.

“Octopus”, you accuse under your breath, laughter softening the word.

His only reply is to nuzzle deeper, lips brushing your pulse in unconscious affection. You let your hand drift back to his hair, carding through the messy strands. His sigh is a quiet surrender, breath evening out as he sinks deeper into dreams.

The credits fade to black. In the sudden dark, his heartbeat becomes your compass—steady thuds beneath your palm, syncing with yours until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. His legs stay stubbornly tangled with yours, a human anchor keeping you grounded.

──────────────────────

Caitlyn was the first to stir, her low grunts and muttered curses breaking through the muffled haze.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she groaned, tugging weakly at the ties binding her wrists.

When you came back to yourself, your head throbbing, you let out a dry laugh that held no humor. “I told you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Your voice was hoarse, tired. Honestly, you were exhausted with this entire day—it felt like you’d lived a lifetime in less than twenty-four hours.

“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted Vi,” Caitlyn muttered bitterly.

“Oh, this is not on her,” you snapped back. “I told you this was dangerous. You knew what you were walking into when you dragged your ass to Stillwater.”

The three of you were tied against a row of rusted pipes, bags over your heads, the scratchy cloth clinging to your face with every shallow breath. Claustrophobia crawled in your chest like a living thing.

“Why are you defending her?” Caitlyn’s voice was sharp, frustrated. She jerked at her bindings again, the sound of rope straining filling the air. “She’s the one who didn’t tell me her sister was Jinx. And you—” she turned her anger on you now, “you knew.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” You rolled your head back against the pipe with a thud. “Lies of omission are the least of our problems right now.”

As the words left your mouth, a sharp gasp split the silence—followed by a grunt of pain. From behind you.

“Vi!?” You thrashed against your ropes, panic surging in your veins. “Vi, are you okay?”

Caitlyn sighed loudly beside you, exasperation bleeding from her every breath. You could practically feel her eyes rolling through the bag.

After a beat, Vi’s voice came, shaky but trying to sound steady. “Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t convincing. Her tone was too small, too thin, as though even speaking cost her.

“I knew it was a mistake trusting you,” Caitlyn shot, venom in her voice as she struggled with her cuffs again.

“You’ve been a real picnic yourself,” Vi rasped back, and despite everything, she sounded a little more alive—more like her.

“I’m not the one who walked us into two of Silco’s traps,” Caitlyn bit back.

“This isn’t Silco,” you interrupted firmly, sensing where this was heading. The way these people moved, the way they handled you—it didn’t fit Silco’s brand of chaos. It was colder, cleaner. “It’s someone else.”

“How would you know that?” Caitlyn asked, suspicion dripping from her words.

“Because we’d already be dead if it was him,” Vi said flatly.

“Oh, wonderful,” Caitlyn huffed, her sarcasm cutting sharp through the darkness. “And when exactly were you planning to tell me that your lunatic sister works for him?”

You groaned, pinching your eyes shut under the suffocating bag. “Here we go…”

“Just as soon as you came clean about what the hell you’re really doing down here,” Vi shot back, her own sarcasm biting.

“I told you the truth,” Caitlyn said defensively.

“Bullshit,” Vi spat, the word like venom.

“She wasn’t lying, Vi,” you cut in quietly, but with enough steel to be heard. Your wrists burned from twisting against the ropes, raw skin stinging. They’d taken your knife; you were defenseless. All that was left to do was sit there and wait—wait for whatever came next.

“What was that glowing stone?” Vi demanded suddenly.

Caitlyn sighed but didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Vi muttered darkly.

The pipes around you groaned as metal shifted. A sliver of light leaked through the rough cloth over your head. Shadows moved. Someone was dragging something heavy across the floor.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, voice sharp with fear.

Caitlyn grunted at your side, but before she could answer, Vi’s voice rang out, furious. “Hey! Stop! Get your hands off me!”

“Leave her alone!” you shouted, yanking at your restraints until your wrists screamed in pain. You didn’t care. You couldn’t let them take her again.

“Let me go!” Vi’s voice strained—and then the sound of a heavy door slamming shut cut through the air, leaving the room echoing with silence.

“Vi!” you screamed, your voice breaking as it tore from your throat.

Panic rushed over you in waves. The bag on your head suddenly felt too tight, too heavy—like it was collapsing around your face. Every breath came shallow and ragged, your chest heaving as the edges of your vision darkened.

“Y/N!” Caitlyn’s voice broke through the haze, sharp at first, then softening. “Y/N, listen to me. You need to breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The panic was louder, crashing over her words like waves.

“Y/N, please—focus on my voice.” Her tone wavered, her usual steel cracking under the strain. “Vi’s strong. She’s not gone. She’s… she’s fine. You’ll see her again, I promise.”

Her words barely registered through the suffocating cloth and your hammering heart.

“You can’t promise me that,” you croaked, the words escaping in a trembling whisper. Your eyes were squeezed shut, tears prickling hot behind your lids. Your chest rose and fell too fast, every inhale shallow and sharp like you were drowning inside the bag.

“The three of us—we’re going to get out of this. Together.” Caitlyn’s voice pressed closer, thick with desperation. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re not alone. I’m right here. And Vi—Vi wouldn’t want you to lose yourself like this. You know that.”

You shook your head weakly, breath hitching as panic clawed at you.

“You don’t know that! You don’t know her like I do—you don’t know what they could do to her.” Your voice cracked on the last word, breaking apart.

“Please, Y/N.” Caitlyn’s voice softened, breaking in a way you’d never heard from her before. She was always so composed, so sharp. Now she sounded raw, almost pleading. “Breathe with me. Just… just breathe. For her. For me.”

You felt movement against the pipes, the scrape of metal as Caitlyn dragged herself closer until the warmth of her body pressed against your side. The sudden contact grounded you, a solid weight holding you steady in the storm. If your hands weren’t tied, you would have clung to her just to anchor yourself.

“Focus on me,” she whispered, slowing her own breaths deliberately, letting the rhythm fill the space between you. “In and out. Match me. That’s it… just listen to me.”

You tried. Gods, you tried. Each inhale burned, each exhale shook, but slowly you forced yourself to follow her. You counted in your head, clinging to the sound of her measured breaths and the faint tremor in her voice.

You stayed pressed against each other for what felt like an eternity, until the jagged edges of your panic dulled just enough to let air seep into your lungs.

“Are you better?” Caitlyn asked at last, her voice hushed but steady, still right by your side as though she refused to move until you answered.

“A little…” you whispered back, afraid that if you spoke louder, all the fragile air in your lungs would shatter and leave you gasping again.

“A little is better than nothing.” She let out a small, tired sigh. There was a beat of silence before she added, gently, “For the little I know of Vi, she’s… resilient. Hell, she’s nearly gotten herself killed three times since I’ve met her, and she’s still standing. She’ll be fine.”

Her attempt at comfort made your throat tighten. You wanted to believe her, wanted to hold on to that image of Vi as unbreakable, but the worst-case scenarios still spun relentlessly through your head.

The sound of a door creaking open jolted you like a shock. Dread filled your lungs, undoing what little calm Caitlyn had helped you find.

Footsteps echoed. You heard Caitlyn’s breathing hitch beside you, then a harsh noise.

“What is going on?” you demanded, your voice sharp, desperate. Before you could process it, something hit the floor, followed by the splash of water.

“What have you done with Vi?” Caitlyn demanded, her voice icy steel despite the fear beneath it.

“Can you get this fucking bag off my head?” you cried out, panic surging again. The cloth clung to your damp skin, suffocating you all over again.

“Listen, let her go!” Caitlyn’s voice cracked now, fraying at the edges. “I brought her here. It’s me you want. Leave her out of this!”

“Caitlyn—what is going on?” you asked again, panic bleeding into every syllable. Your throat was tight, air sharp in your lungs. Before she could answer, hands yanked the bag off your head.

Light stabbed at your eyes. You blinked rapidly, adjusting to the sudden brightness, shapes and colors slowly sharpening into focus.

“My hero,” came a playful voice. Your heart lurched before your eyes even found her.

“Vi…”

You turned sharply, but your attention snapped when you saw the boy standing in front of you, the rough cloth that had suffocated you dangling from his hand.

“Ekko?” you breathed, disbelief cutting through the haze.

“You’re—” Caitlyn’s voice faltered in open shock. “But I thought you… I thought they were hurting you!”

“Vi tells me I can trust you.” Ekko’s sharp gaze shifted to Caitlyn, then softened just slightly. “You get a pass back topside. That’s it. No more.” ────────────────────── The transition from the suffocating room to where Ekko had brought you felt unreal, like stepping between worlds. You blinked against the sudden brightness, lungs expanding with air that didn’t smell of mold and rust.

Above you, a massive tree stretched its branches, leaves catching the light in dappled shades of green.

Children darted through the roots, laughter ringing out like music, and birds sang from their perches high above. The air was fresh, alive, carrying the faint sweetness of soil and blossoms.

“It’s beautiful…” Caitlyn whispered under her breath, her eyes wide with awe. For a moment she looked like a child seeing magic for the first time, like she’d stumbled into a fairytale she didn’t quite believe could exist.

You glanced at her, then at Vi. She was close—closer than you’d realized at first, her shoulder brushing yours, her presence buzzing in your chest. But something about her was different. Not wrong… just shifted.

Her body was tense, her posture tight, yet there was a softness in it too, as though she was fighting herself—like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should. And the way she looked at you… it wasn’t the indifferent, almost cold distance you had grown used to in the past day or so. No, this gaze was softer, careful, almost fragile. It reminded you of the way she used to look at you.

And suddenly, against all logic, hope bloomed in your chest.

“Can we talk?” she murmured, her fingers brushing your sleeve. The touch was so light it was almost nothing, but to you it felt like fire, pulling every nerve in your body taut.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking briefly to Caitlyn and Ekko. They were locked in a heated debate, voices low but sharp, neither willing to bend. You could barely make out the words, but you knew it was probably important. But Vi’s eyes never left you.

The way she looked at you—it ached. It was too familiar, too much like the Vi you remembered.

“Yeah,” you breathed, the word shaky on your lips. You let her tug you gently away.

She led you to a wall painted with faces. Dozens of them. Some you knew instantly—ghosts from your past, friends who never came back. Others you didn’t, but their presence was the same: loss, grief, remembrance etched in every brushstroke. A mural of loss and memory.

Vi stopped there, staring silently. You could see her jaw clench, her hands flexing at her sides as though she didn’t know what to do with them.

“I…” She faltered, lips parting and closing again, nerves written across her face. The last time you saw her this unsure, this nervous, was the night she officially asked you out. That memory hit you like a wave—her shifting from foot to foot, pretending to be cocky, but her eyes giving her away.

The similarity tugged a smile out of you before you could stop it.

“I remember,” she whispered at last, her voice catching like the words had to fight their way free.

Your breath hitched, the air thick in your lungs. For a moment, you didn’t know what to do with yourself—your lips opened and closed soundlessly, and you knew you probably looked ridiculous.

“You… you remember?” Your voice cracked, hope lacing every syllable. A smile broke across your face, unsteady but growing. “Everything?”

She nodded.

You couldn’t stop yourself—you threw yourself into her arms, holding her so tightly you felt the air rush from her chest. She froze for half a second, startled, then wrapped her arms around you, pulling you in like she never wanted to let go.

After a beat, her voice came muffled against your shoulder. “You’re not mad at me?”

You pulled back just enough to cup her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?”

Her eyes darted away, guilt flickering in them. “I left you alone… and when you finally found me, I treated you like shit. And then—” her jaw tightened— “I flirted with another girl right in front of you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, half exasperated, half relieved. “Oh my god, Violet,” you said, squeezing her face gently so she couldn’t look away. “I could never be mad at you. And you didn’t leave me. You were taken from me.”

Her eyes flicked back to yours, uncertain, searching.

“It’s not your fault” you told her firmly.

She dropped her gaze again, but you wouldn’t let her. You tilted her face back up, forcing her to meet your eyes.

“It’s not your fault” you repeated, this time with a seriousness that left no room for doubt. You knew how much she carried—Powder, the years lost, the guilt of leaving her behind. And you knew if you didn’t stop it now, she’d add you to the endless list of people she thought she’d failed.

“Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

Her eyes shimmered, the tough facade cracking just a little as she let your words sink in.

You lingered in Vi’s embrace a moment longer, reluctant to let go, but reality pressed in around you. The laughter of children echoed faintly, the hum of the Firelights’ sanctuary alive with movement and voices. For a second it felt almost normal, like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

But Vi drew in a sharp breath, pulling herself back together, and you both turned toward the sound of raised voices.

Caitlyn and Ekko stood only a few feet away, tension crackling between them like a live wire. Ekko’s arms were crossed tight over his chest, his stance closed-off, defensive, his expression sharpened into something that looked a lot like contempt. Caitlyn, on the other hand, was holding her ground, her posture rigid, voice calm but edged with urgency—pleading, but refusing to yield.

“You need to let me take that back,” Caitlyn said firmly, her gaze fixed on the blue gemstone in Ekko’s hand. The faint shimmer of the hexstone caught the light, almost taunting in its beauty.

Ekko curled his fingers around it, hiding it from view. “And what exactly is it?” he asked coldly.

“It’s a gemstone,” Caitlyn explained, trying to keep her tone even. “Jinx stole it during the attack. If the Enforcers are escalating, pushing harder into the Undercity, it’s probably because of this.”

You stepped forward before the tension could climb higher, your voice breaking through. “With that stone, anyone with the right knowledge could build hextech. Weapons. Bombs. Things that could level half a district.”

Vi shifted beside you, her voice rougher, steadier. “That’s not power you want floating around down here, Ekko. Not in Powder’s hands. Not in anyone’s.”

Ekko’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered with something—hesitation, calculation. “Or,” he countered, “with this, we could actually beat Silco. Turn the tables for once.”

Caitlyn shook her head quickly. “That won’t solve anything.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ekko shot back, his voice rising. “Your people aren’t dying all around you!”

His words landed heavy in the air. And he was right. Caitlyn had never seen the kind of death Ekko had. Neither had you, not really—not like this. You swallowed, the truth of it pressing against your ribs. The last twenty-four hours alone had proven what you had tried so hard not to admit: things had only grown worse since Vander’s death.

“Ekko,” Caitlyn said gently, her tone softening. “It’s wrong what’s been done to you. To all of you. And you’d be well within your rights to keep it—I couldn’t blame you. But if you do, the cycle never ends. You’ll just trade one tyrant for another. Please. Let me help you.”

Ekko’s stare lingered on her, guarded but not as sharp as before. “You got a plan?” he asked after a beat, voice losing some of its bite.

You took a breath and stepped in. “We do. We have a friend on the council. Someone we can actually trust.”

Caitlyn straightened, catching your thread. “Let me take the gemstone to him. He’ll listen. And if he does… your people wouldn’t have to hide anymore. This could change everything.”

Ekko didn’t reply right away. His gaze drifted to the children in the distance, their laughter faint but distinct, cutting through the tension like fragile birdsong. He rubbed his thumb over the gemstone, lost in thought.

Finally, he looked back at the three of you. “One condition,” he said flatly.

“What condition?” Caitlyn asked, her voice low, already bracing for the answer.

Ekko’s eyes narrowed, but there was no hatred there now—only steel. “I’m the one who gives it to them.”

──────────────────────

So first thing's first, designing the arm! I chose some fabrics, took pics, and then made this "doodle" concept art for it! Since I hadnt done a colored version yet, I did that in the planning stage too. After I finally got around to cutting the fabric, I quickly realized I had no idea how to sew a glove together.

So I ended up making paper fingers, which turned out quite well! Those helped me figure out how to "spiral" the fabric around my fingers so the final version would have a pointed tip. From there, it was a complicated matter of finding the main points that hold it together, and sewing in a way that doesn't poke me nor leave lots of visible threads laying about. That was...complicated, for sure.

On Halloween I pulled a couple stitches on accident, they were fixable though. I might go back in and sew/glue on pink patches to cover some of those weak spots, and also just make it look cooler.

So one of the easiest parts was making the tail and antenna, mostly out of pipe cleaners and pompoms (and a sewing needle-). It was quite fun and I already had done a similar tail for Prof. Red last year. I used a notebook spring-binding thingy as a base for the antenna, and then sewed on a headband to wrap around my hair. It worked pretty well, the spring could stay in my hair but it did fall out regularly. It was also the reason for the pulled stitches, soooo not a big fan of that. But it works!

The tail I intentionally designed to be removable from the ribbon, so I can reuse the ribbon as a belt (alas I have no real belts rn). And also be able to swap tails out! I do wish I added more ✨️sparkle✨️ to the overall design, but eh it turned out pretty good, if a bit thin. The antenna is so heavy comparatively lol-

The maskkkkkk!! That was one of the first big portions I did, and boy was it a lot! I ended up painting it rather than using colored pencil or pen, so it looks really fancy now! Later I glued yarn to it to make the hair and some parts stand out more. I especially love Galaxy's eyelashes!! They look like the sun!!

Cutting out this mask was uhhhh- complicated in its own right- cuz I wanted to show more of my face and also make it a half mask since Galaxy Steve covers only half of Sabre's face. But the first time it was an actual half mask it was basically useless, eventually I found a middle ground. Though I still wish I could've cut the nose off and be able to wear my glasses better, that was the only way for it to be stable so I had to. During Halloween my glasses got sooooo fogged up, you wouldn't believe.

The shirt is one of the most basic yet vital parts of this, being where Rainbow's mouth is. I made the mouth out of paper, though I might remake it out of fabric/felt because it got superrrr folded up while trick or treating, and I'd like to be able to wear it more reasonably. Besides, I already glued on the cartoon heart. The mouth's a bit darker than I'd prefer, as it doesn't quite match Rainbow's arm. But it certainly looks cool as fuck! I had to use safety pins because it kept falling off, for the aforementioned paper folding problems.

Now!! A lil symbolism here!! The two hearts are a cartoony one and a realistic one (shoutout to the place I got that patch from). I was gonna have em on the same side, where my actual heart is, but I didn't have space. The two hearts are, of course, representative of Sabre's current state: as both a fictional and real person, a story and a life at the same time.

This part was last minute, as I didn't exactly do all the extra accessories ahead of time, but it worked out. So there's: one elf ear (on Sabre's side of the mask), purple crystal necklace, 2 white bandages, 1 skin-toned bandage (on Rainbow's arm), a rainbow bandanna and a rainbow bandage (left leg), an armor cuff on one ankle, two sword holders (one carrying a wooden sword), a fake flame in the other, a leafy bracelet (handmade) and a bead-based one, a green-pendant bracelet, a copper bracelet, a wrist bag thingy, a compass ring, and a glow-in-the-dark finger.

The bandages, of course, are because Sabre's always in peril (and for added color). The various bracelets and the necklace are representative of both Rainbow and Galaxy, with the green pendant specifically being Sabre's "connection" to the world. The armor, sword holders, fire, and single elf ear are all related to the obvious fantasy aspects of TWA and FMS series/Minecraft in general. The reason the ear's on Sabre's side is for visual balance mostly. The wrist bag is one of the many hcs I have for how the Trapped-in-VR-Minecraft works, with Sabre having several bags/pockets to work with. The armor being specifically on the ankle is partially because wearing it on my arm would cover too much, and it's representative of Sabre's unpreparedness for his adventure. The fuzzy purple by the fire is also representative of Galaxy and how Sabre can semi-weild his powers.

So finally: the arm itself! Since I headcanon Steve Labs!Rainbow to be a green-based Rainbow, he's got extra leaves and vines on him. In his normal form, he's a pickaxe with 3 fingers, an eye, and a sideways mouth, so all of those aspects are included here. His eye is on the shoulder since that just makes the most sense to me tbh. Which was annoying to sew, by the way, because it's like two layers of felt and then through two layers of fabric. But ehhh, it worked itself out.

With the foliage, most of it was cutting and drawing textures on the felt, then gluing and eventually sewing them on. I ended up using a two-thread system on the leaves, sewing a red yarn piece thru the leaf and then using regular thread to attach it to some visible stitches. Though one did eventually fall off during Halloween, it's definitely an idea I'll be using in the future. It was wayyyyy easier than having to fully sew them all on. They really enhanced the final version for sure!

With the base arm itself, there was a LOT of experiments, hehe!! For one, I had no idea how to sew much of anything, much less make a garment. But after the hand was done, it was quick work! I do wish I did a bit more planning when sewing the orange and red together, as it's not smooth at allllll 💀 but eh, maybe I'll cut those threads and try again sometime. Either way, it functions well enough.

Surprisingly, it wasn't that hot while wearing it! I tried attaching a piece of thread to go over my beck so it wouldn't fall off, but that just got caught in the antenna spring 😅 A proper ribbon or something would've been better. I managed to figure out how to make inside seams on the green, as well as doing patchwork for the indigo!! The indigo took awhileeeee, but it was totally worth it!!! It looks SO good with the eye!

Easily the hardest part was the hand, with how many parts I had to consider. Which ironically was my first sewing step. So the way I did the fingers, I basically rolled up a rectangle of cloth at a diagonal. Then trimmed it so it was the right shape. Incredibly tricky, but once I got the first stitch in, it was pretty easy! Of course, my first finger was a mess. Oh, also I had my right hand in it as I sewed. I had a lot of loose threads by the end, but I thankfully figured out how to use fabric glue. I initially used tape for that, so now there's still a few bits where I couldn't take the tape off. Kinda adds to the patchwork, though.