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mysunshinetemptress · 1 day ago

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Taste of Heaven

Tex Universe

You feel so out of place amongst the jerseys, your hat placed firmly on your head even as different passerby stare at you. You're used to rodeos, the smell of dirt and unruly animals, muck-covered boots, and dust-covered faces, not seats with backs on them, concrete floors and big green pitches.

You're decked out in your boots and hat, while people run around you in jerseys and shorts, flags covering their bodys and scarfs with who you can only presume are players faces on them, face paint covering their cheeks.

Mitch looks just as lost as he hands you a hot dog "Why are they dressed like that." He asks as a teenage girl walks past eyeing you suspiciously, "I think they are thinking the same thing." You decide finding your seats would be a better option then standing amongst the crowd.

At the rodeo, the focus was on the animals, the skill of the riders, the raw power of the competition. Here, the focus seemed to be on… everything else. The noise was deafening – a cacophony of cheers, chants, and the constant blare of music from the stadium speakers. It was a far cry from the low rumble of the livestock, the sharp crack of the starting gate, the announcer’s booming voice echoing across the arena.

You tugged on the brim of your hat a nervous habit you usually reserved for the moments Mitch or your brothers would burst from the chute on top of a bucking bull.

Finding your seat you can't help but stare at the pitch infront of you, it was an unnatural green, perfectly manicured and impossibly smooth, a stark contrast to the dusty, uneven ground of the rodeo arena. There were no bucking broncos, no charging bulls, no cowboys risking life and limb. Instead, small figures in brightly colored uniforms ran back and forth, chasing a small white ball. It seemed… tame.

"Wheres Leah." Mitch asks as he leans into you but you're already looking right at her, your eyes track her every move as she runs back and forth, you simply point at her.

The game unfolds in a flurry of movement. The crowd roars with every near miss, every close call. You still don’t quite understand the rules, but you’re starting to grasp the rhythm of the game. It’s a dance of strategy and athleticism, a constant push and pull between two opposing forces. It's not the raw, untamed energy of the rodeo, but it has its own kind of intensity.

Mitch, ever the pragmatist, is now fully engrossed in the game, asking you questions about the players, the score, the purpose of certain plays. You shrug most of them off, your attention fixed on Leah. You see her intercept a pass, her tall frame weaving through two her opponents. The crowd beside you erupts as she kicks the ball down the field, a collective groan echoing through the stadium as it’s blocked by the opposing goalie.

“She’s fast,” Mitch comments, nudging you with his elbow. You turn nod going to agree before you feel a tap on your shoulder. "I can't see."

You turn to find a small boy, maybe eight or nine years old, peering up at you from behind a bright blue jersey that dwarfed his small frame. He was clutching a foam finger almost as big as his arm. “I can’t see,” he repeated, his voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. "Your hat, its in my way." You laugh letting out a small sorry before taking it off and placing it on your leg.

The boy beamed, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Thanks!" he chirped, immediately turning back to the field, his eyes glued to the action. You glanced down at your hat, feeling strangely bare without it. It felt like shedding a layer of skin, exposing a vulnerability you weren't used to displaying in public. You were so accustomed to the familiar weight of it, the way it shielded your eyes from the sun and the judging stares of strangers.

The game continued, and you found yourself getting more invested than you expected. You started to understand the flow of the game, the way the players moved as a unit, anticipating each other’s actions. It was a different kind of teamwork than you were used to seeing at the rodeo, where it was often man against beast. Here, it was a collective effort, a synchronized dance of skill and strategy.

You watched Leah closely, admiring her athleticism and determination. She moved with a grace and power that reminded you of a wild mustang, untamed and free. You could see the fire in her eyes, the burning desire to win. It was a familiar fire, one that burned within you too, whether you were on horseback or simply watching from the sidelines.

During a break in the game, Leah jogged towards the sidelines, catching sight of you and Mitch as you slip your hat back on standing up to make use of halftime. A wide smile spread across her face as she waved. You gave her a small wave back, feeling a surge of pride. She was thriving in this environment, embracing the energy and excitement of the game.

The little boy behind you tapped your shoulder again. "She's good," he said, pointing at Leah. "She's gonna score next time."

You nodded in agreement. "I think you're right."

“Are you a real cowboy?” the boy asked, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. You glanced down at your boots, worn leather scuffed from years of riding and ranch work, then up at your jeans, faded and patched in places. You were a walking, talking testament to a life lived outdoors, a stark contrast to the sea of brightly colored jerseys and painted faces surrounding you.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I reckon I am,” you replied, your voice a low drawl that seemed to amplify the difference between you and the rest of the crowd.

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Wow,” he breathed, as if you’d just revealed some great, hidden secret. “Do you… do you ride bulls?”

“Used to,” you said, a flicker of memory – the adrenaline, the fear, the sheer exhilaration – passing through your mind. “Mostly horses now. And work the ranch.”

“Cool!” he exclaimed. He paused for a moment, then added in a hushed tone, “My dad says cowboys are tough.”

“They have to be,” you agreed, thinking of the long days, the unpredictable weather, the stubborn animals. It wasn’t a glamorous life, but it was a life you loved.

“Did you ever get bucked off?” the boy asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

You chuckled. “More times than I can count,” you admitted. “It’s part of the job.”

The boy giggled, clearly delighted by this admission. He seemed to have forgotten all about the game for the moment, his attention completely focused on you.

Mitch, who had been listening to the conversation with amusement, leaned in and ruffled the boy’s hair. "She's the best cowgirl out there, don't let her tell you otherwise."

You shook your head, a grin spreading across your face. “Just a cowgirl” you corrected him gently.

Just then, the whistle blew, signaling the start of the second half. The crowd erupted once again, the noise washing over you in a wave of sound. The boy turned back to the field, his foam finger raised high in the air.

You watched Leah as she sprinted down the field, her eyes fixed on the ball. You saw the determination in her face, the same fire that burned within you. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that she was going to make something happen.

And then, it happened. Leah received a pass, deftly maneuvering around two defenders. The crowd held its breath as she approached the goal. With a powerful kick, she sent the ball soaring through the air, past the outstretched hands of the goalie, and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of pure joy and excitement. You jumped to your feet, clapping and cheering along with everyone else. The little boy behind you was jumping up and down, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“I told you!” he yelled, turning to you with a triumphant grin. “She scored! She’s the best!”

You laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You were right,” you admitted.

The match ends shortly after and you can't help but stand there awkwardly, what happens now, is that it, is that the only glimpse of Leah you get.

You watch as she flutters around people hugging them, chatting excitdly but mitch digs you in the back pulling your attention, "What now." You shrug "leave i guess she-she never said anything about after so i guess that was it." Mitch can tell your upset, its weird the connection you and Leah have, for people who spend such little time together.

Mitch gives you a knowing look, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Come on, you really think that's it?" he asks, nudging you with his elbow. "She wouldn't have invited us if she didn't want to hang out."

You shift uncomfortably, tugging at the brim of your hat again, a habit you thought you really wish you would kick. "I don't know, Mitch. It's… different. This whole thing is different." You gesture vaguely around at the emptying stadium, the lingering echoes of the crowd's roar. "I doubt I'm exactly her type, am I?"

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Since when do you care about types? You two clearly hit it off. Just give it a chance." He claps you on the shoulder.

You shake your head your eyes searching for the blonde once more "Let's just go." sighing Mitch follows you as you head towards the steps.

"Oye Texas, where do you think you're going?" a voice called out, cutting through the dispersing crowd. You froze, your hand tightening on the brim of your hat. That voice, laced with a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation, belonged to Leah.

You turned, your heart doing a funny little skip in your chest. Leah was jogging towards you, her teammates trailing behind her, offering her high fives and words of congratulations. Her face was flushed with exertion and excitement, but her smile was bright as she approached.

"We were just… leaving," you mumbled, feeling suddenly awkward under her gaze. You glanced at Mitch, who was grinning at you like a Cheshire cat.

"I've got to be back in Montana soon, you know where i'm from not Texas."

Leah stopped in front of you, her smile widening. "Leaving? The party's just getting started!" She gestured to her teammates, who had now caught up and were looking at you with curious smiles. "Guys, this is my friend, uh…" she trailed off, looking at you expectantly.

"Y/n" you supplied quickly, feeling your cheeks flush.

"Right, this is Texas, and this is Mitch. They came to watch the game."

"It was a great game," one of Leah's teammates, a girl with a different coloured, jersey and a mischievous glint in her eyes, said. "You guys brought us good luck."

"Yeah, especially when you took your hat off," another teammate teased, nudging the first girl playfully.

You felt your face heat up even more at the mention of the hat. You glanced down at it, clutched in your hand.

Leah laughed, putting a hand on your arm. "Don't mind them," she said. "They're just messing with you. So," she continued, turning her attention back to you, "we're going out to celebrate. You guys wanna come?"

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. You glanced at Mitch, who was practically bouncing with excitement. You looked back at Leah, her eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm.

"I…" you started, then hesitated. You were still feeling out of place, still unsure of yourself in this unfamiliar environment. But there was something about Leah's open and welcoming demeanor that made you want to say yes.

"Come on," Leah urged, her smile infectious. "It'll be fun. We can talk about… well, anything but football, if you want." She winked.

You took a deep breath, pushing down your lingering doubts. "Alright," you said, a small smile finally spreading across your own face. "We'll come."

A cheer erupted from Leah's teammates, and you couldn't help but laugh. You looked at Mitch, who gave you a thumbs-up. You looked back at Leah, whose eyes were shining with excitement.

You wait kicking your boot into the ground impatiently for the girls to finish getting ready freezing as you feel your hat being pulled off your head.

Leah laughs "Can I try it on." You stutter to answer "I-eh-i" Mitch snatches it out of the England captains hand "Only if you plan on sleeping with her."

The air crackled with a sudden tension. The playful atmosphere shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something you couldn't quite place rippling through the group. Leah’s hand, which had been reaching for the hat, froze mid-air. Her eyes flicked from the hat in Mitch’s grasp to your face, a flicker of surprise, then something akin to… amusement?

Mitch, oblivious to the change in the air, grinned, holding the hat just out of Leah’s reach. “Only if you plan on sleeping with her,” he repeated, his tone light and teasing. But the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

You felt your stomach drop. You shot Mitch a warning glare, a silent plea to drop it. This wasn't the time, this wasn't the place, and certainly not in front of Leah's teammates. You could feel your face burning, a blush creeping up your neck. You weren't used to this kind of open flirtation, especially not directed at you.

Leah, however, surprised you. Instead of recoiling or getting offended, a slow smile spread across her face. She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with a playful challenge. “Is that how it works in Montana?” she asked, her voice smooth and teasing, a hint of a British accent coloring her words. “Hats as a pre-requisite for… companionship?”

The other girls erupted in giggles, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Mitch, finally realizing he might have overstepped, lowered the hat slightly, a sheepish grin replacing his earlier bravado.

“Nah, I just… didn’t want you to mess up your hair,” he mumbled, offering the hat to Leah. He shot you an apologetic glance, a silent promise to explain later.

Leah took the hat, her fingers brushing against Mitch’s as she did so. She placed it carefully on her head, tilting the brim at a jaunty angle. She looked at you, a playful glint in her eyes. “How do I look?”

You couldn't help but smile. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, Leah handled it with grace and humor. She looked… surprisingly good in your hat. The worn leather and dusty brim contrasted sharply with her bright, athletic appearance, but somehow, it worked.

“Like you’re about to ride a bull,” you said, your voice a little rougher than you intended.

Leah laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made your chest feel tight. “Is that a good thing?”

“Depends on if you can stay on,” you replied, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Leah winked. “I’m a quick learner,” she said, adjusting the hat slightly. She turned to her teammates, striking a pose. “Right, ladies? Let’s show these cowboys how we do it in England.”

The girls cheered, their earlier curiosity replaced with genuine excitement. The atmosphere was light and playful again, the awkward moment forgotten.

As they finally headed out, Leah handed your hat back, her fingers lingering on yours for a brief moment. “Thanks for letting me borrow it, Texas,” she said, her voice soft.

“Anytime,” you mumbled, your eyes meeting hers. There was a moment of quiet understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the strange little dance that had just taken place.

As you walked towards the restaurant, Mitch clapped you on the back. "See? I told you she liked you."

You shoved him playfully, still processing everything that had just happened. "Shut up," you mumbled, but a small smile played on your lips.

The evening that followed was a whirlwind of laughter, good food, and surprisingly engaging conversation. You found yourself relaxing more and more as the night went on, the initial awkwardness fading into the background. You talked to Leah about everything and nothing – her passion for football, your life on the ranch, the differences between Montana and England, the similarities between rodeos and football matches.

You're so lost in converstation that you don't notice the skeeming going on around you until Millie Bright wraps her arms around you both "To the club."

The declaration hung in the air, thick with the promise of more noise, more people, and more unfamiliar territory. You blinked, momentarily stunned. A club? This was escalating quickly. You glanced at Mitch, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, then at Leah, whose eyes sparkled with mischief.

“A club?” you echoed, your voice laced with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. You weren’t exactly a stranger to bars – you’d frequented your fair share of honky-tonks back home – but a “club” sounded different. Louder. More… intense.

Millie, oblivious to your internal debate, tightened her grip on your arms, pulling you and Leah closer. “Yeah! It’s just down the street. They play great music, and it’s the perfect place to celebrate a win.”

Leah nodded in agreement. “It’ll be fun,” she reassured you, her smile warm and inviting. “You can show us some of those cowboy dance moves I’ve heard so much about.”

You chuckled, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Cowboy dance moves? You weren’t sure if the two-step you occasionally did at the local bar qualified as “cowboy dance moves.”

“I don’t know…” you began, your gaze shifting between Leah and Millie. “I’m not really dressed for…” you gestured down at your jeans and boots, feeling acutely aware of how out of place you looked compared to the other girls, who were dressed in stylish casual wear.

“Nonsense!” Millie exclaimed, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s a casual place. Besides,” she added with a wink, “you look great.”

Leah echoed Millie's sentiment. "You look fine, besides, it'll be a laugh, it's not like we're going to Buckingham Palace."

Before you could protest further, you were being swept along by the group, a tide of laughter and chatter carrying you towards the dimly lit entrance of the club. The bass thumped through the closed doors, a rhythmic pulse that vibrated in your chest.

Inside, the club was a sensory overload. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and sweat, the music was deafening, and the flashing lights created a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. The space was packed with people, all moving to the beat of the music. You felt a wave of disorientation wash over you, a sudden longing for the wide-open spaces of Montana.

Leah, sensing your discomfort, placed a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s a bit much at first,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “But you’ll get used to it.”

She led you and Mitch towards a quieter corner of the club, near the bar. The dim lighting cast long shadows, creating a sense of intimacy despite the crowded surroundings.

As you settled into a booth, a waitress approached, taking your drink orders. You opted for a simple beer, something familiar to hold onto in this unfamiliar environment.

The conversation flowed easily, fueled by the music and the celebratory atmosphere. You found yourself relaxing more and more, even managing to crack a few jokes that earned you genuine laughs from the group. You even found yourself dancing, albeit awkwardly, when a particularly catchy song came on. Leah, thankfully, was a patient and forgiving dance partner.

As the night wore on, the club grew even more crowded. People danced closer, the music grew louder, and the conversations became more animated. You found yourself drawn into the energy of the place, the collective euphoria of the crowd.

At one point, as you were talking to Leah about the differences between rodeos and football matches, she leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear. “You know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I never thought I’d meet a real cowgirl."

You chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “And I never thought I’d find myself an England soccer player,” you replied, your eyes meeting hers.

The music pulsed, a rhythmic heartbeat that vibrated through the floor and into your very bones. The flashing lights painted the room in shifting hues of red, blue, and purple, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. You were surrounded by a sea of bodies, all moving to the same infectious beat. It was a far cry from the quiet nights on the ranch, the vast expanse of the Montana sky stretching overhead. But here, in this crowded, pulsating club, you felt a strange sense of belonging.

Leah’s hand was warm in yours, guiding you through the throng of dancers. She moved with a natural grace, her body swaying to the music with effortless rhythm. You, on the other hand, felt a little more… awkward. Your boots weren’t exactly designed for dancing on a crowded dance floor, and your usual two-step felt out of place amidst the more modern moves on display.

But Leah didn’t seem to mind. She laughed as you stumbled slightly, her hand tightening on yours, pulling you closer. “Just feel the music,” she shouted over the din, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Don’t think too much.”

You took her advice, letting the music wash over you, letting your body move instinctively. You loosened up, the tension in your shoulders easing as you started to find a rhythm of your own. Leah’s presence was a comforting anchor, her laughter and encouragement pushing you to let go of your inhibitions.

As the song reached its crescendo, Leah spun you around, her hand sliding down your arm to rest on your waist. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on her shoulder. For a brief moment, you were close, your faces inches apart. You could feel her breath on your lips, the scent of her perfume filling your senses.

The world seemed to fade away, the music softening, the crowd blurring into a background hum. It was just you and Leah.

As the song reached its end, Leah leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear. “I’m glad you came,” she shouts, her voice barely audible above the music.

"I-I didn't think you would." she shouts again her grip on your waist tightening slightly pulling you impossibly closer, "I wouldn't miss this for anything" you shout back your hands resting on the back of her neck.

The world seems to disappear, the bass no longer thumps in your ears and the bodys that crash into you don't bother you anymore as your eyes flick between Leah's eyes and her lips.

You leaned in, drawn by an invisible force, your breath catching in your throat as leah rushes forward knocking your hat slightly.

Her lips were soft, warm, and hesitant at first, then they pressed a little firmer against yours. It was a brief kiss, a stolen moment in the chaos of the club, but it held a depth that surprised you.

When she pulled back, her eyes met yours, a mixture of nervousness and excitement shining in their depths. A faint blush dusted her cheeks, making her even more beautiful in the dim light. You felt your own face flush, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the club.

Her eyes don't leave yours as her hand reachs pulling the hat of your head and placing it on her own again. You smile unaware of leahs intentions "I'm wearing your hat." she shouts you laugh "I already told you you look good in it." Leah shakes her head "No I'm wearing your hat." You tilit your head in confusion before Leah pulls you into another kiss "Take me home Texas."

The request hung in the air, a potent invitation. You looked at Leah, really looked at her, and saw a vulnerability beneath the playful exterior, a genuine desire that mirrored your own. The initial shock of her boldness gave way to a surge of exhilaration. This wasn’t just a fleeting connection, a drunken kiss in a crowded club. This was something more.

“I’m from Montana,” you corrected gently, a smile playing on your lips.

Leah laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the noise. “Details, details,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Just… take me home.”

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thewizardingpost · 2 days ago

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The Sting of Jealousy

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary �� dating them comes with rewards and consequences, one of which is dealing with your jealous roommate. warnings ⌇ 1.8k, estblashed relationship, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, bullying, injuries (r receiving, bruises), Marauder's coat described as loose on reader, this is my post (I just got a new account)

Whenever you felt like you were taking two steps forward, there would always be a day when you had to take one step back. It was life’s way of reminding you that things aren’t always fair—that for every ounce of happiness, a bad day lurks nearby to keep you humble.

Since you’d started dating the Marauders, it was like you’d been placed center stage with a spotlight shining directly on you. You weren’t completely invisible anymore—their reputations had eclipsed your own. Being friends with them was one thing, but dating them was another—and it had brought a lot of negative attention. You had “crossed the line” for many onlookers. Those who had fantasized about being with the three of them before bed and during classes weren’t happy to discover that you’d taken the place they’d only dreamed of.

They just couldn’t understand why they’d open up their circle for someone like you.

Your roommate—after witnessing a kiss placed on your cheek—felt her heart drop. The door had barely shut before she was moving off her bed.

“Did James Potter just kiss your cheek?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you waved her off, moving to your bed to remove a coat that your roommate immediately recognized as too loose on you.

“That’s not nothing,” she slid over to sit beside you. “How long have you been with James?”

You fiddled with the coat. “And Remus and Sirius. I’ve been with them for a month now.”

She nodded, biting her cheek and looking away. “So the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

You watched her stand, eyes following her as she wandered back to her side of the room. The prolonged silence made your heart race just a little faster.

“That you’re a whore for dating three men.”

You felt as if you stopped breathing, your breaths short and shallow.

“What?”

“Others are saying wild things, suggesting you’ve cast spells to get them to date you,” she added, looking at you almost playfully. “Have you?”

“No. Never.”

“Hm. Not sure why that’s hard for me to believe. Anyway, goodnight.”

She climbed into her bed, turning her back toward yours. The weight of her words affected you both differently. It brought a smile to her face, knowing she’d made yours drop.

The next day, you noticed people staring, others whispering behind their hands as they looked in your direction. With the knowledge of what people were saying, you felt self-conscious—walking with your mind tumbling in all directions. Two hands appeared in front of you, gripping your forearms.

“G’morning,” James smiled down at you. You attempted to return the smile, but it felt forced. “You nearly ran into me. Everything alright?”

“I’m alright,” you lied, “I just didn’t sleep well. Sorry.”

He didn’t seem to fully believe you, but he pulled you into a hug anyway. In his mind, he hoped it would help like it always had before, but this time was different. The affectionate gesture caught the attention of nearby students. The glares you received made you pull away from him. You were sure there was confusion and hurt on his face, but you intentionally avoided looking at him.

It was like someone else was controlling your body. You didn’t want to hurt him or push him away, but out in public, it felt like your eyes glazed over. Your focus shifted from the guys to anyone else that passed by. It did nothing but worry them. You noticed the way they exchanged looks across the dining table, but they brushed it off that night—trusting your word that you were just tired.

Back in your room that evening, you found your roommate and a few of her friends lounging on her bed. You offered them a polite smile, but it did nothing to thaw their cold expressions.

“Where are your boyfriends?”

“Back in their room. I can go get them if you—”

“No need,” she interrupted, patting the sheets beside her. “We just wanted to talk to you. Can you come over here, please?”

As you stepped toward them, you found yourself stumbling backward instead. You collided with the edge of her desk, your arm taking the brunt of the fall. The impact made you wince.

The girls smiled, not caring at all that you had just injured yourself on their behalf. You’d been sure the rug had been beneath you, but when you looked down, you saw it had been pulled into a different section of the room. It was almost as if they’d moved it on purpose.

“Oops,” your roommate whispered, wand raised. “Sorry. Just trying to prepare you for when the boys inevitably ‘pull the rug out from under you.’ By that, I mean they’ll dump you.”

You blinked back tears, rushing out of the room. With your room occupied, you were thankful there was one place you could go—their room. Even before you’d started dating them, they’d always welcomed you to stay.

James opened the door when you knocked, his wide smile faltering when he saw your expression.

“Who’s at the door?” Sirius asked from inside. James opened the door wider so Sirius could see.

“Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?”

“Of course, you’re always welcome,” James said, stepping aside so you could slip through. He sent a glance to the other two as you did. You settled at the edge of the bed, Remus sitting closest to you, a book on his lap. James flopped back on the ruffled sheets near Remus.

Usually, when you came over, you were greeted with hugs and kisses all over your face. You missed the teasing and planning for the next day. Now, the room was silent, and all their attention was fixed on you.

“Are you okay, dove?” Remus’s voice was soft.

“Yeah.”

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Sirius swung his chair around, dropping the front legs to the floor as he leaned in. “We can all tell something’s bothering you. You keep looking off like there’s a ghost in the room.”

“I’m fine. Honest.”

“Like hell, you’re fine.”

Remus shot Sirius a look, and he threw his arms up in exasperation. James moved closer, sitting beside you and rubbing sweet circles on your back. When his fingers brushed over your left side, where you’d collided with the desk, you couldn’t help but flinch.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed James flinch too.

The room went still. The tension was palpable, freezing everyone in place. You heard Remus stand up behind you.

“Can I lift your shirt?”

You nodded, allowing him to pull up the side of your sweater. He examined the spot where you’d winced earlier. The welt was just beginning to form, but there was enough swelling and color to worry them.

“Is this why you’ve been distant lately?”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked into Remus’s gentle gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you cried. “I didn’t mean to hide anything from you.”

He shushed you gently. “Don’t apologize. Can you tell us how you got this?”

“I swear to Merlin, if anyone else caused this injury…” Sirius began, but he stopped when James placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s let her explain first before we jump to conclusions,” Remus said, his thumb gently brushing over your hand, urging you to speak.

“The other night when you dropped me off, my roommate saw you kiss me goodnight. For some reason, she brought up the rumors people have been saying about us, about me. And… I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have pushed you all away over a few rumors.” You glanced at James. “And just now, at my room, I think she pulled the rug out from under me—like a cruel prank. She said she wanted to prepare me for when you’d do the same.”

James’s grip on Sirius’s shoulders tightened as he tried to stand. “Really, James? You’re going to stand there while her roommate is in the room right now? Perfect timing, don’t you think?”

“I know,” James replied, holding Sirius back. “But it’s better to deal with this now. Look,” he nodded toward you, seeing you weeping into your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “I should’ve told you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Remus asked gently.

“I didn’t want to be a bother. I thought you’d all dealt with stuff like this before.”

“We have,” James chimed in. “But we had each other. We learned to tune them out.”

Sirius threw his hands up. “I’m only coming to talk to her. Calm down.” He turned to you, his expression softening. “Look, gorgeous, I’m sorry for what she said and did. None of it was warranted. My only regret is that you didn’t come to us sooner. If you’d told us what she said right after, she never would’ve done what she did just now. I can promise you that.”

You smiled through

your tears, and the sight made his lips twitch upward.

“You’re right,” Sirius continued. “Even if you told us, it wouldn’t stop people from being arseholes. But it would’ve meant we could care for each other. You don’t have to go through that alone, alright? Promise you’ll talk to us next time?”

“Promise.”

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poisonf0rest · 2 days ago

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So, I may have gotten a little invested and begun writing this fic...

Just a draft of the beginning half but gods was it fun to write the banter between Sylus and Raf, especially once I figured out their dynamic for later on~

The damned N109 Zone never changes.

Different venues, different gang names, different “world ending” weapons. But even after several millennia, the greed and stupidity of humankind remains forever stagnant, and forever their greatest weakness.

That, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and whiskey.

It all makes Rafayel’s stomach roll, and he thumbs at his tie, slacking against his neck before he snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter. Unsurprisingly he does recognize a handful of faces, some from his own gallery exhibitions, others as past targets, or grandchildren of someone he used to know. Not that any of them mattered.

He walked down a hallway filled with Protocores leading up to the banquet hall, and yet strangely enough every last one was bought, even the smallest fragment that barely emitted any kind of energy. What kind of moron…

Rafayel’s frown deepens, and he shoots down yet another glass down, moving from champagne to whiskey as he winces from the burn.

Then, Rafayel spots you.

You’re alive.

You’ve alive and you look absolutely fucking gorgeous, prowling across the auction in a cocktail dress, fabric dark enough that it only shimmers red when you dance from spotlight to spotlight.

Before he even realizes it, he’s running. Trying and failing for it to look as natural as possible, slamming into a waiter and mumbling out an apology as he rushes to your side, nearly dashing onto the dance floor when the shadows seem to lunge– growing and shifting and laughing in an ancient language Rafayel can barely understand as something else steps out from them. And wraps a clawed hand around your waist.

Another man, infuriatingly tall and reeking of the sky and ashes, his hair bleached the same pale color, leans down to whisper something into your ear as you laugh. Laugh.

And gods new and old, Rafayel sees red.

Rafayel’s breath catches, chest tightening with a fury so raw it feels like it might crack him open. The din of laughter and clinking glasses becomes a dull roar in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He barely registers the heat raging down his veins, a warning that his restraint is fraying faster than he can piece it together.

An uproar of murmuring and gasps steal your attention away from Sylus, and you finally allow your fake smile to drop. Only for your jaw to fall entirely as you see Rafayel standing only a couple of meters away, violent white flames licking against his fingertips as other guests begin to gather.

What the fuck is he doing here.

“Rafayel.” Your voice cuts through the tension like a blade, sharp and warning. But the sound of it— alive, steady, and wholly unimpressed— does nothing to soothe him. If anything, it stokes the fire.

Sylus turns slowly, his lips curling into a lazy smile as if the entire confrontation is nothing more than an amusing side-show. When his eyes land on Rafayel, something flickers in the depths of his right pupil. “Oh?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement. “Looks like you picked up a stray, kitten.”

The nickname grates against your nerves, but it’s nothing compared to the way Rafayel reacts. His flames flare brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room as his fists clench. “Take your hand off her.”

More patrons are beginning to notice.

Sylus’s grip on your waist doesn’t waver. Instead, he tilts his head, “Her? Oh, you must mean my companion for tonight.” He shifts slightly, leaning down as if to make a point, his hands brushing against the small of your back, right where the silk meets bare skin. “I think you have it mistaken though, she’s the one who practically dragged me here. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through you. You force yourself to step between them, planting a hand firmly against Rafayel’s chest before he can close the distance. Thankfully, it makes the flames sputter down to a dull glow in his palms.

“Stop,” you hiss. “What the hell are you doing here, Rafayel?”

His eyes lock onto yours, wild and burning with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “I came for you,” he snaps, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, congratulations,” you snort under your breath, “Now everyone in this room knows exactly who you are.” You glance over your shoulder, catching the glint of recognition in the eyes of more than a few guests. “And who I am.”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch, his gaze darting briefly to Sylus before returning to you. “I don’t care about them,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I care about you. I never should have left you, let you go. Come back with me.”

Before you can even respond a deep chuckle cuts through, Sylus stepping forward as he tucks you into his side and reaches around to place a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder. Pinning you between them.

“Touching. But you should know better than to interrupt our business, artist.”

Rafayel’s flames reignite instantly, searing white-hot as he shoves Sylus’s hand off his shoulder. “I said, get your hands off her,” he growls, stepping forward, entire body radiating heat as he’s mere inches from Sylus’s face.

“Or what?” Sylus replies smoothly, something in his eye flashing with amusement once again. “You’ll set this whole place on fire? Very subtle. I can see why you’re such a popular target.”

Target? You linger on it longer than you should've, pieces about Rafayel’s surprising knowledge about the N109 Zone and Sylus’s insistence on resonating as your partner begins to swirl around again. That is, until you physically feel the heat from Rafayel’s flames begin to char into the wooden floorboards.

“Stop it, both of you!” Snapping, both of their heads whip down to you as you struggle to shove them apart. “You’re drawing attention. Do you want to blow this mission completely?”

“Mission?” Rafayel scoffs, his gaze snapping back to you. “If this was a mission why would you agree to work with him?” He tilts his chin to Sylus, who simply shrugs, shadows flickering and growing at his back. Shit.

“Her choice, really,” Sylus interjects, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Not that I blame her. All bark and no bite, aren’t you, puppy?”

Rafayel goes deathly still.

So Sylus allows himself to step closer, chest now pressing up against your bare back, the gesture irritatingly casual. “It must be exhausting,” he continues, “Running around, chasing after scraps of attention. Does she even notice? Or is this just another case of unrequited devotion?”

“Say that again,” he growls.

Sylus grins wider, clearly enjoying every second. Enjoying his reactions. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? You must be used to following orders by now, so tell me, does she ever let you off leash, or do you only bark when commanded?”

“Sylus,” you snap again, cutting off whatever retort Rafayel has ready. You glance around, realizing the murmuring crowd has turned into a full-fledged audience, their gazes sharp and curious. “You’re both acting like children. The target—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts you off.

You whip your head around, just in time to see a hooded figure perched atop an overturned table. A small, cylindrical case glints in their hand, and your blood turns cold as you feel the overwhelming pulse of the Aether Core.

“Duck!”

The word barely leaves your mouth before the world explodes.

A deafening roar shatters through the venue, blast wave throwing you backward. The force knocks the air from your lungs, glass and debris raining down like jagged confetti. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting through your side as the heat of the explosion sears your skin.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing in your ears, you catch fragmented images: chandeliers crashing to the floor, tables splintered, and guests scrambling for cover and weapons as gunshots ring out.

Sylus is a blur of movement, his shadows coiling and slashing through the chaos. Rafayel, flames erupting instinctively to shield the both you, looks down with wide eyes.

“Follow—” you try to shout, but another wave of the Protocore's energy squeezes your heart, and your vision blurs as you heave and gasp for breath.

The last thing you see is Sylus stepping over Rafayel’s crumpled form, hauling him over one shoulder before beginning to lift you, too.

Then, nothing.

Then, BAM they wake up in a bed. Together. Naked.

I swear I'll finish the rest of it sometime this week hehe

"Let's get sandwiched between Sylus and Zayne"

"Let's get sandwiched between Rafayel and Xavier"

WHAT ABOUT GETTING SANDWICHED BETWEEN SYLUS AND RAFAYEL.

Like can you imagine Sylus being so smug and teasing Raf and Rafayel completely losing it And take it out on you. LIKE GAHHHHH DAMN.

Someone write about it

@poisonf0rest

#sylus smut #rafayel smut #love and deepspace #lnds smut #lnds sylus #lnds rafayel #sylus x reader x rafayel

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skvaderarts · 24 hours ago

Text

After several delays (sorry, everyone) chapter one of Various Storms and Saints is done!

AKA the "Jayce accidentally ends up in a good timeline where he and Viktor are together" fic I said I would write.

Summary: Word count 4.7k

After meeting Wizard Viktor and the bad timeline, Jayce takes up the grim task of heading back to his own timeline and setting things right the only way he knows how. But along the way, something goes awry and he ends up in an alternate version of Piltover and Zaun where things appear to have gone very differently, especially between him and Viktor. But after experiencing firsthand the life that could have been between him and Viktor, will he be able to go back and fulfill his promise? After knowing the love that could still be there can he bring himself to destroy it forever?

(If there is smut later, it will be in stand-alone skippable chapters in case that's not your thing. Tags will be periodically updated to reflect the plot.)

A03 Link

Chapter 1: St. Jude

Notes: Hi, everyone! Thanks for checking this out! I hope you enjoy it!

—

“St Jude, the patron saint of the lost causes.

St Jude, we were lost before she started.

St Jude, we lay in bed as she whipped around us.

St Jude, maybe I've always been more comfortable in chaos.”

—

In truth, he’d started to think he’d go mad down there.

The top of the Hexgate loomed over the wasteland that had once been Piltover and Zaun like a lighthouse in a storm, as tantalizing as food to the starving; like a distant thunderstorm in the scorching heat. He had simply known that he needed to scale it. To stand at its zenith and behold the ruined world below him.

A world ruined by Hextech. By his dream. The culmination of their dream.

The culmination of his obsession and love for magic and his desire to better the world with it. The end of their shared brilliance and friendship. The fallible flame of Prometheus passed to him by the man cloaked in frozen, biting winds that had burned him nonetheless.

He’d been as compelled to climb up there as he had been to escape that forsaken cave. That pit where every ounce of despair held deep within him had manifested. That interminable oubliette composed entirely from his nightmares and the hell of his physical reality. As inescapable as the truth.

He’d crawled from the lowest pits of the Undercity to the very tallest structure to ever stand in the clouds of Piltover, a metaphorical journey that he wasn’t the first to make. But it had given him a sense of understanding he’d only once thought he possessed and a clarity only bitter suffering could provide.

They’d both been through so much. And it had created this.

How fitting that it should mark the spot of their shared grave. The Hexgate. A monument to what they could achieve together standing as the last bastion in a dead world. The only life left within it sequestered atop its one gleaming crest. Everything else scurried below, barely alive anymore. Mutated beyond recognition. Nothing untouched by the corruption of the Arcane.

They were both still living in a way, but equality dead all the same. One motionless in solitude, the other rooted to the spot, physically able to leave but unwilling to, trapped in their perpetual state of mourning A terminus of boundless misery, both forever alone despite being so close that the flowers that adorned one had started to spread across the clothing worn by the other as they remained by their side.

How did it come to this? It was unfathomable.

But as he stood there and took in the words that this version of Viktor had told him, he knew it to be the truth. He could not run from it even if he’d had the will to. He’d delivered the weight of Atlas to his shoulders so gently, so knowingly, and yet with such haunting regret. With such a look of profound knowing in his time-worn eyes.

He’d always known Viktor. He just hadn’t known it until that moment. From the first spark of magic to the birth of Hextech. The man who had saved the lives of his mother and himself. He’d once told Viktor he knew that he had no idea how beautiful magic was when he’d been the very one to bestow it upon him. Oh, how little they’d both know at the time. How small the universe had been despite how open they were to all it had to offer.

“We lost ourselves. Lost our dream. In the pursuit of great, we failed to do good. We have to make it right.”

Viktor’s words that day scraped across his frontal lobe like a razor's edge. He was right. He’d been right all along, in fact. He’d said then that the Hexcore needed to be destroyed. Once upon a time, so had their mentor. It was clearer now than ever that for the sake of everyone and everything there was only one course of action to take. One path to walk that only he could tread.

But how could he bear that weight? How could he pick up that hammer? Knowing what he was destined to do with it. When the time came would his conviction alone be enough to make him go through with it? He had never been more sure and uncertain about anything. Sure in the steadfast nature of his promise and uncertain as to whether or not that would be enough. If his will alone would be enough.

Even knowing this he took a breath and looked the man who had saved him as a child in the eye. Perhaps not even a man now. More of a divine being of such terrible power that he knew not what to call him. Not what to make of him. But regardless, as he kneeled there, his resolve strengthened even as pained reality set in. This was the only way. In his heart, he knew it to be the only truth available to him.

“Send me back.”

A hand once obscured by the fabric of the older mage’s robe lowered itself to the skeletal structure that kneeled before it, barely grazing the surface that was as much petal and moss now as it was metal, the cosmos eternally entangled with it. The silence from it was absolute all but for the brief movement of its vacant eyes. His own looking back at him for a place beyond his comprehension. What remained of himself uncurled its fingers, some of them breaking apart at the tips and remaining on the handle. There was no blood. It had been subsumed long ago. But the handle was as much a part of it as the warped base of the hammer it clutched was the structure they stood upon. A limb more than a weapon.

Jayce was as entranced as he was utterly disquieted, the fleeting thought of what it must be like to be this version of himself fluttering through his subconscious for all but a moment before he leaned forward and gripped the handle. Resolute, he met the eyes of this version of Viktor one last time before readying himself.

For all their sakes, he could never find out.

“I won’t fail.”

He felt the band he'd worn upon his wrist for what felt like a lifetime change, disappearing in a flash of light. The rune that had started all of this embedded itself into his very flesh and marked it with the permeance of a brand. A vow. Prof of the unshakable commitment he now carried by his own volition.

He'd escaped the very depths of hell crawling on a broken leg, and yet he knew with unyielding certainty that this would be the hardest thing that he would ever do.

He had to stop Viktor. And every aching fiber of his broken being knew what that meant.

And he hated it. Like nothing he'd ever felt before. So much that it frightened him.

It seethed within him like rolling magma from the depths of Tartarus, ready to erupt and disfigure the bedrock itself. To tear the earth asunder beneath him. Not a hate towards him but a hate for him. On his behalf. For everything that he meant and had become. Because of them both. Because of him. For everything he meant and had always meant to Jayce and the brilliance that would be snuffed out when he watched the light leave his eyes. For everything that he'd done to him even though he'd never meant to hurt him. Every wound he'd inflicted had been out of nothing but love. And that was why it was so corrosive; so volatile.

The worst thing a person could do to someone was love them the way he loved Viktor.

And yet, even knowing that, even as that truth gripped him, some part of him that he despised knew he'd still do it again because he couldn't do nothing when the life of someone he cared about was at stake. That was his foil. The chink in his armor. He saw that now. If only he’d seen it before it had led him down this path. The path, it seemed, that he was always destined to follow.

He would be saved as a child. He would meet Viktor. And they would destroy the world together.

The depths of such betrayal. It wouldn’t be the first time he'd betrayed someone he loved, but it would be the first time he did it on purpose. With the explicit purpose of harming them. That just wasn’t who he was. It went against every atom of his being; against his unfalteringly loyal spirit.

He couldn't hate Viktor for what he’d become. He didn’t want to. But he could hate himself for what he’d done to him. What he was about to do to him. Later.

“I swear it.”

The anomaly reappeared and engulfed them. A fleshy, almost tendon-like conglomeration of round inorganic shapes with little rhyme or reason to them. Visually little more than a mass of shifting rainbow hews and refracting circular portholes punctuated only by its webbed internal structure. Its surface structured and rigid despite its ever-rippling nature. It warped and sputtered, swelling and expanding before contracting and shrinking in pulses and variable waves. It seemed unstable to Jayce, but it was impossible to tell. The amalgamation was as unknowable to him as the depths of the ocean. He would not question how it worked. He knew its purpose. It would send him back.

And then he would set about his grim task.

Jayce shared one final parting glance with the older version of the man he’d once called his closest friend before he felt himself pulled backward, tumbling through the depths of the Arcane. It was a blinding and disorienting experience, channels of light to either side of him rippling through dark, cool hues punctuated by the occasional reds and golds as runic symbols blazed past him at light speed. What appeared to be the night sky loomed over him, stars sparkling in distant, vacant galaxies in the far-off cosmos he was sent along the path that had been purpose-carved explicitly for him. It was beautiful in a frightening way.

Gripping the handle of the Mercury Hammer tightly, he felt himself speed up, approaching velocities that he dared not consider. The implications of how hard his upcoming landing would be would start to eat away at his already raw nerves. He didn’t need that.

His head cascaded through memories and fractured visions, threatening to tear his mind apart. He presumed that he was nearly there. He would hold together for as long as it took. He would finish the job and then his mind could unravel. Perhaps that would spare him some of the inevitable guilt. Some merciful madness to provide him with a thoughtless reprieve.

But as he approached the end of the path, a thought occurred to him. The Arcane. He’d touched it back at the base of the Hexgate and it had felt strange. Alien. Unpleasant. But this was another facet of it. More focused and less untamed. It looked like he could reach out and touch it, skim over its surface just like a hand skimming through silent waters. He’d wanted to do as much during his childhood in the moment that he’d been whisked away to safety. Perhaps a bit of harmless indulgence amidst the madness of it all?

Cautiously, he reached out his hand, extending just his middle, ring, and index fingers. That would be all he needed to-.

He saw his body go one way as he went the other as if he had been snatched from it. It passed him as he lingered behind, time almost seeming to stand still as his mind failed to process the level of horror that he should be experiencing upon seeing something of that nature. And then he was yanked sideways, wrenched through the walls of the Arcane itself.

A fractal, almost psychedelic series of refracting reflections of his own body and mind encircling him and then spreading out in long waves, sending his body through a void of bright white light. He saw the back of himself, row after row repeating the same motions in a slightly delayed sequence as he closed his eyes, only to find that doing so did nothing to stop him from seeing. He felt his heart leap in his chest, his blood pounding as he tried to steady himself.

Curse his foolish curiosity. If he’d only kept his hands to himself…

Suddenly, he felt his body drop. Slamming downward as everything around him went completely white save for the infinite rows of rainbow light that encircled the black, bottomless cosmic hole that he now found himself plummeting into. He opened his mouth to cry out in fear but found that little more than a frightened yelp escaped his parted lips as he plunged into the depths. Jayce closed his eyes, unwilling to look. If this was to be his end then he didn’t want to see what would take him from existence.

Jayce felt his knees buckle and slam downward as his hands caught him and he came to a sudden, bone-crunching stop. He gritted his teeth from sheer instinct, waiting with dread for the inevitable pain that would make its unwelcome appearance in his left leg. But as he opened his eyes he was met with confusion as nothing happened, the only discomfort coming from his palms making contact with the ground beneath him, and even that was nominal at best. His knees tingled a bit, but hardly in a way that he’d consider painful. Slowly his eyes began to adjust.

Light flooded through the trees around him. The smell of crisp waterside air and the gentle flutter of the wings of birds as they soared from the treetops overhead, startled by his sudden stop. The feeling of a comfortingly cool breeze grasping at the fabric that he wore, ghosting over his skin with all the gentleness of a kiss. The sun shone overhead in a bright blue sky barely touched by the paltry smattering of clouds that dared try to impede the light from above, warm but not stifling as leaves blew past him on the paved path that he occupied.

He was looking down at the pavement. There was pavement.

Startled, he scrambled backward onto his feet, instantly thrown off by how unburdened his movement was. He ran a hand over his visibly shocked face, shaking his head back and forth a few times as his palm made contact with the top of his head. There was no hair to brush out of his eyes. It was shorter. He had no beard. No stubble, even.

He looked down and, to his further confusion, he wore something completely different than what he’d just had on. Gone were the muddied and soiled whites and golds that he’d once worn and in their stead was a much more approachable set of clothing. He wore dark pants with a vest and a long-sleeved shirt underneath, the sleeves neatly rolled up to just over the elbow. The garments were complimenting shades of dark blue and that shade of Talis red that he was oh so accustomed to. Familiar but something he was almost certain he couldn’t remember ever wearing before. And yet, something he felt like he would’ve picked out in another lifetime. Certainly inoffensive to his personal tastes.

Taking a second to orient himself, he concluded that he was in a park or plaza of some sort. It had recently established trees. There were benches and what seemed to be a fountain of some sort a short distance away. Nothing noteworthy but it still felt that way.

The place was alive. So unlike what the place he’d just left had been like.

“Excuse me. Sir? You dropped these.”

Jayce turned in alarm towards the individual who had just approached him. An enforcer carrying what appeared to be a clipboard with several documents on it. There was a cover sheet covering the stack bearing a house single that looked reminiscent of his own, only with two hammers instead of the single one he was accustomed to. Everything else was the same from the style to the colors, aside from that notable difference. Odd.

The enforcer handed over the documents, stopping to adjust his uniform. It had probably shifted when he’d reached over to pick up the documents off of the ground.

“T-thank you.” It took Jayce a moment to speak, his mouth and mind not quite in alignment just yet. He wasn’t sure why that had been so hard. What about it had felt so foreign to him? Perhaps spending an extended period in a realm nearly devoid of conversation partners had made him accustomed to other people just existing around him? There hadn’t been anyone to talk to down in that hole except for himself and the vaguely amphibious creatures he’d been feasting on. It was a humbling thought, one that made him uneasy. “Sorry for the trouble.”

The enforcer nodded cooperatively, seemingly taking notice of how off-kilter Jayce seemed. There was just something a bit off about him. Oh, if the man only knew. And yet, he seemed familiar. Like Jayce had seen him before…

It hit him like a bolt from the blue. He looked like that sheriff who had died on the bridge during that attack a while back, only slightly younger. Less hardened. What had his name been? Something with an M. Ah, that was right. Marcus. The same man who’d brought him the documents he’d requested during his second day as a Counselor. The day that they’d gone to check on the Hexgates.

Wait.

Oh no. He’d gone off course. Surely. It should have been obvious at first glance and yet… Was he in the past? Was this another timeline? He needed to find out. Fast.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” It was so strange, speaking to a man he knew to be dead. Or who would die? He didn’t have the foggiest idea just yet, but still. He hadn’t known him but he still felt a small pang of sadness remembering the sight of him laying there when he’d visited the bridge that day with Mel. It almost made him feel queasy again.

“Of course. How can I help?”

“I… “ He flipped through the documentation on the clipboard, looking for something to go off of. A starting place for his investigations. And then he found it: a set of addresses. One was listed as a professional address, a tempting lead to be sure, but the other caught his eye. It was a home address. Apparently, his personal address since it was listed under his house name. But it was not the one he was familiar with. “Could you point me in the right direction?”

Marcus leaned over to read the address and then eyed him questioningly, seemingly wondering something but not saying it. “That’s just a few blocks short of a mile from here. Across the bridge in Central Zaun. Near The Last Drop. Go straight. You won’t miss it.”

The notion that the address was not in Piltover didn’t surprise him. He’d never seen a street by that name there. But Zaun? Was that what the Undercity was called in this universe? Had something disastrous happened in his personal life to cause him to have to move there? Maybe he hadn’t gone back in time, then. This might be more complicated than he’d first imagined. Fantastic.

He thanked Markus and bid him farewell. At least now he had a lead to work with. To Zaun, then. He’d been to the center of the Undercity before. It felt like a lifetime ago now, but he was certain that he could find his way down to the bottom again.

Making his way through town, Jayce couldn’t hope but notice that things felt different. Everything felt brighter; warmer and more optimistic. There were balloons on the street poles and banners over roads. Street service workers were in the process of replacing the standard lights with colored ones and an electric sense of optimism and excitement seemed to flow from everyone he passed. They were all looking forward to something, that much was clear.

And then he reached the bridge.

The structure that once served as a point of separation between the two cities gleamed under the bright sky, bustling with activity and purpose. Children played and vendors showcased different products and purchasable, perishable, or otherwise. People talked and laughed together from all walks of life. There were no blockades. Only traces of where they’d once been. Everything was clean and well-kept. People were enjoying themselves in an environment devoid of tension.

It all felt like a surreal fever dream. A beautiful one.

In truth, it stole his breath away.

He’d always hoped that Hextech could pave the way to a better tomorrow for them all, but to see the Undercity flourishing, even at just the surface level? This place was everything he’d ever hoped it could be. Everything that they’d championed for, especially Viktor. So tirelessly, even at the expense of his own well-being. To see the home that his partner had hailed from brimming with hope and beauty seized him in a way that he struggled to shake as he moved through the streets toward his destination. He wished he could show Viktor this version of his home. He wished he’d had the chance to grow up in this version of his home. No polluted water and acidic air, no downtrodden infrastructure or blackened skies heavy with soot and brimstone from the factories and mines. Just fresh air, daylight, and opportunity around every corner. What they’d all disserved from the very start. What they’d been deprived of by the simple virtue of being born on the wrong side of the bridge.

Genuine tangible irrefutable progress. He wanted this for his Piltover. For their Piltover.

He hurried along, checking the addresses as he passed by what was undeniably the center of town. Past The Last Drop and down its open, winding roads that had once been so narrow and stifling. Down to a quiet but still active zone filled with a mixture of residences and small shops. Colorful, bright, and full of greenery, something unfamiliar to him in this place save for the smog. He rounded a corner and then stopped, suddenly hit by the realization that something just felt off all of a sudden.

It started as simple blurred vision, Jayce shaking his head as he ducked further back away from the street. But then his head shuttered and his legs nearly buckled, his chest heaving as he used one hand to steady himself against the brick wall of one of the shops and the other to grip his throbbing head. He saw colors and shapes in flashes too fast and aggressively to make out clearly. And then he felt his stomach knot and churn before he found himself on his knees for the second time since he’d arrived, emptying the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush.

Panting as the clarity returned to his watering eyes and the breath in his lungs was restored, he stood shakily, steadying himself. He wasn’t a fan of whatever that had been. But it was over. He would continue.

Stepping back out onto the main path he did a double take. He’d found the address. In his stupor, he’d nearly walked right past it.

It didn’t stand out from the other buildings it was attached to, a little two-story thing with a raised stoop that made it apparent that it had a basement with a window well. At the top of the eves was a round window that hinted at the possibility of an attic, but it was hard to be sure from the exterior. The roof was a tarnished copper like many of the others on the road, but in a way that was ornamental instead of the result of a lack of upkeep. The verdigris contrasted the rest of the structure in a way that almost seemed deliberate, with red brick and metal ornamentation that almost reminded him of what one would expect in the more common districts of Piltover but with a slightly different flare. It was… Nice. Easily one of the coziest-looking buildings on the lane. Strange. It even felt like home.

Jayce wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find when he’d imagined where he’d choose to live in the Undercity, but this was a far cry better than what he’d had in mind. Nothing opulent, but to be fair, that had never been the case for any place he’d lived aside from the Kiramman Penthouse during his studies. He dug through his waistcoat pocket and produced a set of keys as he approached the door. There were a few on the ring, in fact. Something else to look into later. If he was there that long.

It took a few keys before he found the right one, but eventually, the door opened and he stepped across the threshold, immediately hit by the comforting warmth of the space. If the outside had been quaint and cozy, then the inside was nothing short of welcoming. Instantly, it felt like a place he’d like to stay in. An archway made in the same art nouveau style with just a sprinkle of art deco that the rest of the building’s exterior had been crafted in opened up into what seemed to be a living area of some sort. Just ahead of him was a staircase leading to the upper level.

Even with the curtains partially drawn across the back window, he could see the wealth of plants in the back conservatory off to the side of the back of the building, accessible via the hallway that ran down past the staircase. An interesting choice. He’d never been the best at keeping those alive despite his best attempts. Perhaps they were specimens for some sort of study.

But as he considered this the same pain he’d felt in his skull returned from nowhere, only with no warning or build-up and with the vengeful spite of a curse set upon him by a wrathful god. He bumped into the wall as he dropped the papers he still carried onto a side table, nearly stumbling over it in the process as he reeled back and used both hands to clutch his aching head, digging his fingers into his scalp as though gouging through his flesh and excavating all the gray matter from his body was the only recourse from which he could hope to derive release.

Gasping soundlessly save for the sound of air parting ways with his lungs, he grounded himself as he clenched his eyes shut. It would pass. It had to. His worst moments always did for they were merely that: moments. He groaned shakily, panting like a shaking animal as his ears wrang, seeing only the flashes of color and fractal nonsense that were the hallmarks of the Arcane anomaly. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears and head as the ceaseless agony slowly subsided, pushing and pulling in tormenting waves until it became vaguely bearable again, coherence no longer simply a product of wishful yearning.

He didn’t hear the handle turn; he didn’t register the door swing open or the silence as it returned to the room. Jayce didn’t feel the presence of another person in the room with him whatsoever, so overtaken was he by the ordeal he’d just experienced. His ears felt like they’d never be useful again. And then he heard a voice. As clear as crystal. Like a chime ringing out in the utterly consuming darkness. He didn’t currently possess the faculties necessary to discern the topic of conversation, but he knew that voice anywhere.

Viktor.

(-~-)

After SEVERAL delays (sorry, everyone) chapter one is FINALLY out and I am over the moon. Seriously, I have so much that I want to do with this AU and so many little stories that I want to tell within it, so bear with me. Sometimes my brain just doesn't cooperate with my writing schedule, but the excitement is there, I promise. I want to know what you guys think! It’s been so long since I’ve started something like this. Was the writing okay?

I have a one-shot to write and then I’m going to start chapter two immediately so the plan is to get it out within the next day or two, if not sooner. Fingers crossed. Thanks again for checking this out! If you want to hear more I have info for the AU on my Bluesky and my Tumblr and they are both linked in my bio. I can provide links if you’d like them. Just let me know. I’d really like to know what you think of this so far. Do you want this to go in a more spicy direction in the future? Is that a no-go for you? I’m itching to hear your feedback. And I hope to see you in chapter 2. Take care and I’ll see you soon. Bye!

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jisokai · 3 days ago

Text

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 4: made of the same dust.

sero hanta x reader ch 4/6 | 13k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: the smut. it's mild and i kept it gn (no body descriptions for reader) notes: senorita by camila cabello and shawn mendes, nobody by hozier, ceilings by lizzie mcalpine

the time you finally reach back.

✰.

"The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye / Means we've already won

A necessity for apologies between you and me / Baby, there is none"

- Walking in the Wind, One Direction

The world slows while you stand and stare ahead, eyes boring into Hanta’s across the crowd. Your heart pounds in your chest, skin ablaze as your mind races. It’s fuzzy, too much passing through and slamming together as you try to understand the past few nights, entire days, years that have gone by. Your chest squeezes at the thought of Hanta watching you curiously, uncertainly as you wandered through his gifts, not yet understanding the magnitude of what he was trying to say.

And here he stands—still as a stone, unsure after baring his heart and his memory before you. A memory you forgot.

You run forwards.

“Hanta!” you shout as you weave through the crowd. His eyes widen, head jolting from shock before he breaks free and runs to meet you without hesitation.

You reach for him, hands grasping tightly at the front of his shirt. Your own panting sounds through your ears, pairing with a sting across your nose and eyes as your body threatens to sob.

“Hanta, was it really you this whole time?”

He’s nervous, eyes glazed with a mixture of fear and hope. His hands lift but they don’t make contact with your arms. When he speaks his voice is breathy. “Yeah, it was me. I mean, Momo helped—but they were my ideas. I wanted… I wanted to show you how I feel towards you.” There’s a pause as he surveys your face. “… Do you like them?”

Momo? Your head rushes at the thought that she was an orchestrator—Momo, who you haven’t had the chance to say a proper thank you to, to share with her all that this means to you. Momo was helping Hanta build tents and stories and magic? That alone could make you cry.

But you’re stunned further when you register Hanta’s question. Like them? That tent was full of your home, your memories, moments you didn’t even know were lost until now. And at the same time they were his confessions, love letters that have been looking for you, for years. Since Quito.

“Hanta… they’re everything I’ve been missing.”

… He’s everything you’ve been missing.

His hand is searing against your waist, fire burning through fabric to ignite the skin beneath your gown—a shock against the winter air. The touch is gentle, still cautious despite your affirmation, but you see relief wash over him, face softening into a hopeful stare. He swallows.

His arm curves to hold you firmly, forcing your body into his, the heat of him that seeps through his costume. You accept it greedily, pressing your face into his shoulder. Your cheeks burn, you can’t tell from your own blood rushing through you, or the radiance of his heat. As he guides you through the crowd—your feet stumbling along his—you try to calm yourself, only now feeling your erratic heart beats, the lump in your throat and stomach you can’t explain. But despite all this, you feel safe in his arms.

You don’t know where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. Words tumble from your lips before you can choose them carefully, just wanting to tell him anything. Everything.

“You were there? In Quito when I was in the parade?” Your voice is quiet, likely too soft to hear. But he releases a choked yeah that makes your body tighten.

You laugh breathily. “I remembered hating it. I was so scared to perform. But abuela thought it would be good for me. I… I didn’t remember having so much fun. Only falling at the end and hurting myself. I was never a performer, even if I love to dance. I—”

The air is quieter around you when Hanta comes to a stop, letting you break away partially to look at his face.

“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme.”

Thank you, Hanta. For showing me.

His face is unreadable, a mysterious shroud of darkness. You take in what your peripheral offers, tall looming shadows of palm trees. The silhouette of a banana leaf breezes behind him. They’re out of place in the temperate weather of Milan. You’re sandwiched between the festival and the street, in the strip of tropical plants outside the duomo. Isn’t there a fence to separate the vegetation from pedestrians? How did he bring you here?

You want to know everything about him—all this impossible magic, what he’s thinking, what he knows about you. Your heart reaches for him, yearns while watching with bated breath.

It quickens impossibly when his hand moves to your face. His touch is soft and ignites a buzz beneath your skin. His thumb presses your cheek, stroking under your eye. His tongue swipes through his lips, biting down on the lower one with a frown in thought. You watch him. Still waiting.

His face stretches into a grin, this one in disbelief, almost contorted with pain. “I never thought I’d… I just—” the words don’t amount to anything, only the beginnings of thoughts coming from his lips. You laugh gently in agreement.

“Eres tú,” he finally manages. It’s you. His Spanish is firm and deliberate. “Seeing you that day is the reason I’m here now. You were… you were beautiful. And you saw me.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, too far gone to read into his words. They hardly enter your brain. But you capture their essence, your body reacting on instinct to the sounds. Each word is a strike to your heart, a squeeze to your lungs, a burn across your face. You inspired him somehow—you with your clumsy enthusiasm that only lasted a moment. He saw it and wanted it too.

“Were you looking for me?” you ask. It’s not what you mean to say.

He shakes his head slowly. “I… I don’t know. I was just chasing that feeling you gave me, from the moment I felt it. And it led me here.”

He’s too beautiful, you think. Him and his earnest words and his devoted heart. You stare openly, at his face partly illuminated in the dim glow of the moon. His eyes are honest and wide, watching every detail of you carefully. But they’re also dark—mysterious, deep depths that hold impossibly more. Like his hair, soft against his forehead and cheeks, a blanket of uncertainty that you want to wrap yourself in.

But he’s also ridiculous, standing there in his jester’s costume, the amalgamation of Japanese and French and Persian attire. His hat is also dark, artificially so, a fuzzy felt that rains over his head. You can’t hold back your smile at the sight, this multitude of a man.

“You’re so beautiful,” is all you can say.

And suddenly he’s closer, pulling you in, pressing against you like you’ll meld together. His face is close, so close, searing forehead against yours as he stares into you with those large, hopeful eyes.

You don’t reject his advances, letting him take you and guide your head towards him with the hand against your cheek—to steal your lips for his own.

If touching Hanta is the heat of fire, the burning pain of flames against your skin, then kissing him is the heat of molten rock and stone, hot lava that pools in your body. You grab him greedily, clutching the hem of his robe with the intensity of claws. It eggs him on, hand firm as it slides to the back of your neck, releasing a wave of tingles down your spine. His other arm stretches further around you, to pull you impossibly closer. You’re dizzy, dissolving from his intimacy like steam from a boil. It hurts, but you crave more.

He tastes sweet, the tang of an orange along the freshness of mint. At the first sample, a swipe against his lip with your tongue, you immediately crave more. He lets you in, gives you full reign to him. You take it easily, take and take and take as you run your hands up his neck and confine him. A groan releases from his throat, a rough sound that starts from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your own. You think you might die from the intensity, how his song raises your temperature even further.

When you finally have space to breathe, pulling apart only to press a rapid succession of kisses against him, you breathe his name like air. First it’s the exhale of a shaky, “Hanta,” and then it’s a cry, the choked mantra of, “Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—”He whines in response, a high pitched and raw honesty. You can’t take it, can’t bear the thought of being apart from him. When you think about how long you’ve lived in his absence, one you weren’t even aware of until tonight, it tears at your chest, the sting of an open wound.

His hotel isn’t far from the duomo, but the journey there is endless. He pulls you forward by the hand, and the sight of him, his wide back and his arm outstretched towards you, fuels a giddiness in your chest.

The room is small, only large enough for one, and the hall is tight when he pulls you in, immediately pressing you into the wall of the cramped corridor. You inhale sharply at the impact, then nearly choke as he leans into you, the curve of his front slotting snugly into yours. He’s all over you once again, this time in the private darkness of his space. The air is heavy against you, a sticky dampness of need. You welcome him easily, lips parting to taste him again—orange and mint and heat.

His kisses are deep but hurried. He moves quickly, an eager pace you encourage. You urge him to continue, equally firm as you run your tongue over his teeth, catching his with your own.

Your heart jumps when he pulls back enough to run his lips under your eye, migrating to your temple and against your ear, lighting your body aflame. You gasp as the feeling, how it claws into your chest and sides when he moves to kiss your jaw, your neck. Then you’re whining, high pitched and breathy. He chuckles against you—a raspy, throaty sound that blooms an ache in your stomach.

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your throat after biting it softly. I’m sorry. “Ideally I’d take my time with you.”

You groan at the admission, hands sliding up his neck to bury in his hair. The grunt he releases is an animal sound. Suddenly he’s clutching at your thighs, grinding his hips into yours to make you feel the hard, searing heat of him.

He tears you from the wall. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly as he stumbles further into the room. Your hand reaches for his stupid jester hat, tugging one of the felted points, jingling as it slides off his head and onto the floor. You giggle at the silliness of it all, your two costumes pressed together.

Then you’re falling backwards, flopping against the surface of his bed. Hanta leans with you, pinning you against the plushness of the duvet. He hums into your lips, an intrigued sound at your laughter, before he ruts his hips into you again, pulling a gasp from your lips. The heat between your legs is blooming, consuming. You bury your face in his hair, dark dark threads swept beneath your chin and cheek as his lips suck at your neck. His fingers dance against your sides, sliding under your back to find the string that holds your dress together.

With one tug it loosens over your shoulders, bunching softly when one of his hands comes to your collarbone, fingertip hooking into the seam before tracing gently down your chest. You fold easily, shaking the cinches from your wrists to let the sleeves slide down with the bust. You’re left bare, chest and stomach and heart, for him to see in their entirety.

He pushes up from the bed to look at you, eyes tracing the dip of your collarbone, the firmness of your sternum, the softness of your belly. A hand smooths into the curve of your waist, touching gently with delicate fingers. You reach for the lapel of his top, the robe-like fabric tied at the side. He lets you pull the string, and then shrugs the garment off, easily brushing it to the side.

You know he’s fit; he’s an acrobat for a living. But you eye him greedily, taking in his sculpted figure, all lean muscle and angles and edges. Your fingers reach for the side of his pec, tracing down hot skin to the hard flesh of his obliques, the ripple of his abdomen. Another searing, hot wave rushes through you as you drink him in—the pour of boiling black liquid. Molten rock.

He leans back down to kiss the skin of your chest, the flesh coating your heart. His chest is impossibly hot against your stomach, his torso burning as it settles between your legs. Your hips stutter on their own, bucking into his belly in attempt to relieve that ache. He groans again, a deep sound that thrums through your own body. You notice the flush of your face, a burning heat from within—not just the external warmth you’ve been stealing from him.

His thumb presses against your hip, fingers wrapping around to dig into the plush of your ass. He’s encouraging you, pulling you into him to roll again and again, to use him for your relief. You follow his lead, let your hips rock into him even after his hand stops guiding you. There’s a twitch against your sternum, his lips stretching into a grin that he smothers into your skin. You don’t have the gall to care, too wrapped up in his touch and your pleasure that builds embarrassingly quickly.

He lifts his head, drags it against the plush of your chest and to your nipple. You inhale sharply when his tongue flicks across the bud before he kisses it, a peck before harsh sucking. Pins run down your spine and directly to your heat, burning your body in every place and at every moment. Your hand threads through that deep, dark hair—soft, long locks against his scalp. His free hand pinches your other nipple, giving you no reprieve as he presses his stomach harder against you and flexes. You tremble from the overload of sensation, its ruthless compounding.

Your body tightens, shakes with the tension of a coiled spring. In the next moment it releases, you cresting the peak of your high as relief washes over you, hot white light flooding your vision and body. You don’t hear yourself whine and groan through your ecstasy, focus only on holding Hanta close to you.

You can hear your panting when you finally come to. Your eyes peel open after some effort, sticky from the force you used to scrunch them closed, to see Hanta above you. He’s smiling gently, a sweet and careful tug at his cheek. You blink rapidly in attempt to sharpen your vision, but he remains fuzzy in the dim light. You can only smile back, watching him lean down to kiss you again—this time slower, unhurried.

You jolt in your skin as his free hand reaches for your waist, sliding up and down. Your heart buzzes when it trails lower, touching the top of your thigh, over the edge towards the inside, before gliding to your center. You can feel your heart pound in your ears, thrumming in anticipation. The tips of his fingers ghost over your heat, igniting fire through your legs at the simultaneous lightness and overstimulation.

And then he stops.

The shift is jarring. He pulls away from your lips, hand jerking back. In a flash it’s like his touch was never there, only the ghost of a feeling in your memory. But he’s still hovering above you, now with a look of uncertainty. You frown—at the loss, but mostly from concern.

“Hanta?” you press.

He blinks, eyes darting from you and to the side, inspiring nervous fluttering in your stomach. He bites his lip in thought, nearly chewing at himself. You think you can see the gears turning in his mind.

“¿Estás bien?” Are you okay?

His head shakes, like he’s coming back to himself. He looks at you again, wide earnest eyes that hold every secret you’ve ever needed. You feel relief in your stomach, that moment of unease slipping away. You trust him.

His voice is throaty when he answers, and he stumbles a couple of times before he manages to say, “I—I really don’t want to rush this. To rush you… us. I’m sorry.” A glossiness pools in his eyes. He looks mournful. The sight hurts your heart.

“Estás bien,” you say this time. You reach one of your hands to his face, carefully brushing his cheek. You want your words to get through to him. “Hanta, it’s okay.”

He exhales shakily, leaning to press his head against your shoulder. Your hand migrates to the back of his head, petting his hair gently. He blinks rapidly against you, the butterfly wings of his eyelashes kissing your skin. They’re followed by the light touch of tears, a slight drizzle of rain while he collects himself.

You cradle him carefully, coaxing him to relax on top of you. His weight pins you down, like the security of a blanket. He’s still warm, hot coals against you—coals that breathe, expand and shrink over and over and over again. Your free hand travels down his back, softly tracing his spine, the ridges of mountains, groaning earth beneath taut skin.

In this quiet reprieve, the space between action, your mind wanders to his words. I don’t want to rush this. But it’s up to you, isn’t it? Whether there can be a this at all—whether you can have any time together in the future. Whether you can find the courage to leave and chase that feeling that brought Hanta to you. But the ashes of abuela sit under your coffee table, waiting to be brought home; your sister sits in her room halfway across the world, waiting for you to call her back. Your heart is heavy, sinking down your body as you bear its burden and the weight of the man above you.

“Lo siento,” he whispers the apology against your heart.

You smile sadly to yourself, swallowing a lump as you reply, “Yo también.”

Me too.

You don’t wake first, but you still wake early, eyes twitching when the morning sun brushes your face. You feel the plushness of the blanket, body snug under its warmth. The sheet is stiffer than yours, and the scent of the room has a tang yours lacks. Your eyes shoot open.

Sero is not what you expect to see upon waking, the first figure to cross your vision. But he lays beside you, propped on his stomach with his arms thrown over a pillow, outstretched to cradle a book. His shirt is still discarded from the night before, tan and toned skin stark against the white of the bed. He doesn’t notice that you’ve woken, eyes tracing along the paper, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Even buried in your peripheral, the book is recognizable.

You get a few minutes of this peaceful quiet, watching the light from the window illuminate him from behind. He's glowing, radiant.

When his finger drags against the top of the paper, his eyes dart towards you, widening in surprise when he sees that you’re awake. You wonder if he looked your way at every turn of the page, waiting.

You smile. He grins in response and tucks a tag in the spine, letting the book close as he shifts towards you.

“Buenos días,” he greets softly. The rasp makes your heart pound.

Your voice is almost a whisper when you return the phrase.

“Sleep well?”

You respond with an mhmm, adjusting as you roll entirely to your side to face him. The blanket falls slightly down your chest, but you leave it. Hanta’s eyes don’t leave yours.

Your hand slides towards him, finger brushing against his forearm. His opposite hand lands atop yours, thumb gliding gently over your knuckles. You wonder what this is, what you’re doing here with soft gazes and twitches of smiles. The pace of your heart picks up, an awkwardness seeping through your skin. Then you frown with realization.

“Was it okay for you to leave last night?” you ask.

Sero blinks at the question. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t actually working.”

Your face morphs to one of confusion. “But you dressed up and hung around the festival anyways?”

His mouth twitches, the press of a line as he tries to hold a straight face. “Yeah?”

You don’t press, supposing it made sense if he was planning to join you in the tent. The reminder brings another wave of thumping against your chest. Your cheeks flare at the memory, and suddenly you feel embarrassed too. Grateful and in awe, but embarrassed.

“Thank you,” you say. It doesn’t feel like enough, to simply thank him. “For last night, and the previous nights. What you showed me was incredible, and I have no idea how you and Momo managed it.” You have the urge to ask all those questions in you, how he pulled those memories, why your time with abuela is nothing but a bright green marble, how that tiny tent could expand the space inside to be so endless.

You don’t ask.

“Of course,” he answers, shuffling closer. He reaches for you, gentle fingertips against your cheek. “I… Like I said, I wanted to show you everything, how I feel towards you. I don’t… know entirely what happened, or what you saw in the earlier ones—it’s left to the illusion. But I hope they were all good to you, ultimately.”

You have to take his words in slowly, processing them individually and as a whole. They’re cryptic, vague. But you think you understand.

“And I’m sorry again,” he adds. “For last night. I meant what I said, but I don’t regret anything.”

When he told you he didn’t want to rush, he means. You remember his words, couldn’t forget them if you tried with your entire body and soul. They’re burned into your mind, scorched etchings on wood. This is an opening, you recognize, to be honest. An opening to share your confusions, to ask what he means and if he’s expecting you to leave for him. An opening to share your concerns, every bite of hesitation that claws at you, chains your feet to the streets of Milan. They’re on the tip of your tongue, heavy between your teeth.

“It’s okay,” you say instead. Your hand comes to cradle his, cup it gently. “I appreciated it.”

You still have a few days, your brain bargains. Tomorrow, you promise yourself. Let’s enjoy today, and be honest tomorrow.

But it’s hard to hold back when you look into those sweet, earnest eyes. You shift your gaze, needing reprieve, and landing on the book. Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. Your mind flits to the tent last night, that incredible scene of the meadow under the night, a clear sky reflected in the black glass of the pond—poked with a thousand holes, the freckles of light seeping through for you to grasp and stretch and weave.

“What chapter were you reading?” you ask.

Sero pulls away from you to turn towards the book. You watch his shoulder dip as his torso twists, stretching the thin gap of his waist. You want to grab the skin, maybe sink your teeth into him. It’s bad for your health to be so close to him this early in the morning.

“Last night’s scene,” he says as he manages to grab the corner of the novel and turn back towards you.

You hum unsurprised. Lithe fingers dip to his bookmark, the spine bending easily to lay flat. It’s a well-loved copy, the glue holding the pages together starting to separate. You see the words littered with underlines and notes, a mix of Japanese and Spanish, blue and black pen, neat and messy handwriting. He’s annotated again and again, throughout the years.

You scootch close to him, wiggling to see the words more clearly. Your chest meets the point of his elbow, your hand returning to its place on his forearm. He leans into the touch for a moment, head dipping to press your shoulder. Then he rightens, and reads a few paragraphs.

You haven’t heard the prose spoken by anyone but yourself for years. You last remember your mother reading it aloud to you in middle school, but it was the last time. At some point you were expected to grow out of it, to read something else. You did, for a while. But your heart always found its way back.

Hanta pauses after describing Santi’s experience crossing through the pond.

“Y’know, there was supposed to be a sequel.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You stiffen. “What?”

His thumb moves to the edge, pressing down as pages flip by, the rapid flutter of wings. He pauses, then shuffles his other hand to turn back a couple times. His copy has an author Q&A in the back. You didn’t know this existed. He points to one of the paragraphs under a bolded question.

“Ataré Mi Corazón al Tuyo,” he breathes. I’ll Tie My Heart to Yours.

Si estiramos estrellas como seda, ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

If we stretch stars like silk, I’ll tie my heart to yours.

The title of the first book is set up to have a sequel, only the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes scan where Sero’s finger points, reading the author’s explanation for how the two books would fit together. It’s vague, ideating a continuation of Santi and Marco’s friendship, how they navigate as they age—but ultimately how they find a way to be together, forever. You inhale sharply.

“Did you read it?” you ask quickly.

Sero shakes his head. “Was never published.”

You pout to yourself, the knowledge like a bucket of ice water. To learn that their story kept going, that there was more you could have known, only for it to never make it to the shelves, your shelf—how devastating. It carves a hollowness in your chest, a sort of obligation to do the heavy lifting and imagine for yourself how things could have worked. A part of you wants to examine the parallels to your current situation.

“Shit,” you mumble, leaning back to flop against the mattress. The ceiling has crown moulding, little swirls and divots painted white and pressed into the corner. “I’m sure it would’ve been incredible.”

Hanta’s response is delayed. You can feel his eyes on you, contemplative.

“Yeah,” is all he says.

You lounge in bed, soft voices wafting through the small hotel room. Eventually you grab your phone—to check the time—and wince at the stack of missed calls on your lock screen. A few are from Chiara, with concerned messages demanding your whereabouts. But worse are the ten from your sister, eight of which were made early in the night, the remaining two attempted after midnight. There’s also a message from Kendou, asking if you’re free for dinner tonight. You swipe your sister’s assault away, reply to Chiara, and type a quick yes to Kendou, then glance at the time. You should leave, to be home for a client picking up a last minute costume for Carnival. Presumably Sero has his own circus business to attend to.

You turn to him, watching his face twist in embarrassment after being caught looking over your shoulder.

“Sorry,” he nearly whispers. “Wanted to see the time.”

You roll your eyes, uncaring. You tell him as much, adding regretfully that you need to leave soon, to check over and prepare the costume.

To your surprise, he asks, “Can I join you?”

You look at him skeptically. “You don’t have to help with anything? Like taking down the tents, or… whatever for the parade tomorrow?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Top’s already disassembled, I guarantee. And Denki and Tetsu are the only ones who need to rehearse.” He looks at you deeply, a little too deeply. “Please?”

You weren’t planning to deny him, but the plea shakes whatever footing you thought you had. “Yeah, of course. Just… don’t complain if you get bored.”

He grins.

Your only clothes are the puddles of your dress and blazer on the floor. You pout at the idea of sliding back into them for the ride home, but huff and sit up to reach over the bed. Sero watches confused, then in realization, as you pull your gown by the skirt, slowly bunching it atop the duvet.

“Wait, no—hang on.” He throws the covers aside and slides off the bed, immediately moving towards the closet in the hall. You watch greedily at his nearly bare form, every lean muscle and sculpted curve.

His front disappears into the closet door, still offering the view of his curved back. Small clangs ring as he rummages through the hangers, eventually turning back with fabrics in his hand. One is long and a pale yellow, a shirt with bright patterning around the collar and wrists. The other is a pair of pants, brown and baggy. You think they’re natural fibers, soft and easily wrinkled.

“It’s cold,” he says. The garments look a little too thin to be effective, but you nod.

You thank him, taking the shirt first and slipping it over yourself. The rush of his smell is dizzying, overwhelming. Then you slip on the pants, their touch gentle over your thighs. Both are big on you, swallowing you. Hanta’s eyes linger over your neck, before he darts them away and brings a hand to the back of his own nervously.

You bite down your smile.

“There’s no way they cleared the site already.”

Hanta grins beside you as you walk briskly down the sidewalk together. You’re nearly a block from the duomo, where you insisted you pass before getting on the metro.

“Mhmm,” he hums smugly.

As you crest the final strip of tile, pacing along gothic columns and carvings, your jaw almost drops at the lack of the canvas in the sky. The piazza is completely cleared, just a scattering of people lingering on its surface. A trio of girls pose in front of the duomo as an Italian man crouches to take a photo. You see someone in a suit jog across the square.

The remnants of Hoshi no Sākasu have vanished, completely evaporated into the night prior. There are no circus tents or rows of stalls. Nothing.

You glance at Sero, his chin tilted upwards. You want to pout, thinking his smile is one of smugness, but he looks more like he’s enjoying the cool air against his face. He looks pretty, peaceful. One of his eyes opens, pointed towards you, and then that smirk creeps in, stretching across his cheeks. You pout dramatically and walk towards the metro station without warning. You hear him laugh before the thump of his footsteps catch up.

You let him into your studio while you shower, returning with his clothes neatly folded and some tea. He’s rummaging through your costume racks when you walk in. You pause when you see the ones that caught his attention.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” he says, embarrassed.

You smile awkwardly. “No, no. It’s fine, I wouldn’t have suggested you wait here if I wasn’t okay with it.” You do, however, feel cornered. His hand hovers on an ocean-themed dress you finished a few months ago. The top is a saturated teal, fading into a layered skirt, each piece of fabric white at the ends, layered with lace and some frills at the edges—sea foam. It’s a beautiful gown, with shells and beads and pearls meticulously sewn into the bust.

“This one is surprising,” he says.

You nod, putting the mugs on your work table. “It’s for my sister,” you say, leaving out the detail that she doesn’t know it exists. How do you explain that you’ve been avoiding your family for months, ignoring every call your sister attempts to make, but sitting at home making dresses fitted to her exact measurements?

He hums, not pressing further. You wonder if he saw the missed calls when you swiped them away, if he could tell they were from her. You share the same last name, after all.

Instead he points to your mannequin, the voluminous layers of red satin and a creamy ambrosian mask—with matching scarlet lips and golden swirls around the eyes. The connecting top explodes with spirals of fabric to mimic roses. “Is that the one getting picked up today?”

You hum in affirmation. “I made it for Carnival a couple years back. It sold shortly after I put it on sale, just had to do some tailoring, and fix a couple of the roses.”

Sero’s face lifts, curious. “What are you wearing this year?”

Your lips twitch. “I’m sure you can take a guess.”

“Can I see?”

“You can’t wait til tomorrow?”

He pouts. “I might not see you, since we’re in the parade.”

Your grin stretches further. “No one told you I was invited to join?”

“Oh,” is all he says, mouth hanging ajar. He’s cute, standing awkwardly by your costume rack. You laugh at the surprise on his face.

You point to the mugs while you walk towards your mannequin. “One is for you, if you want it. And feel free to sit. The costume won’t be picked up for a couple hours, but I’m gonna get working.” It’s Tuesday after all.

Sero hums affirmingly. “Yeah, please do what you need. Can I keep looking at these?”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t mention the other dresses for your sister.

He doesn’t.

He does make comments on the others, asking what they’re for and what inspired you. He soaks your answers greedily, noticing details and connections that you don’t explicitly state. He’s observant, and nosy. Eventually he sifts through the entire rack and settles in the chair across from you, watching quietly as you sew; the only sound between you two is the thrum of your needle passing along the fabric.

His eyes feel distant as you fall into your craft. But they’re focused, settling on your fingers as they fold and glide and cut.

In this silence, you have the urge to ask him questions, so many questions. About Ecuador, about Quito. You want to talk about your homes and how you’re connected. You want to trade stories of living near sand and ocean and sun. You want to learn about little Hanta, running through the house to greet his abuelita. You want to hear about extended family members and their messy drama. You want to paint a picture together: of bamboo and rain clouds and scorpions; birds and tropical fruit and volcanoes.

You want to hold long conversations in Español—your native tongues with their small regional differences.

A tension builds within you, only noticeable after it’s grown considerably. You don’t understand, don’t know what’s changed. You try to let your mind wander back into that focused headspace: a thoughtless void where things get done. Instead words sit in your throat, reaching for him. Your hands move quickly, a little roughly, foot pressing firmer against the pedal beneath the table as you work with agitation.

The needle breaks.

You curse, lifting your foot and immediately tearing your hands from the garment. Grumbling at your carelessness, you stand to rummage through your tools for the pliers. Before you grab a replacement needle, you check the time. There’s still half an hour before your client arrives. Maybe you should just take a break.

You look at Sero, sitting quietly and observantly. You feel bad.

“Sorry,” you tell him. “But I warned you it would be boring.”

He smiles. “Not boring at all. I like seeing you work.”

You ignore the heat that rushes through your body. “I think I need a break. Are you hungry?” You aren’t hungry, but you feel like making something.

His eyes light up. “What do you have?”

When you rummage through your fridge, you suddenly feel self conscious of your limited ingredients and random leftovers. So you open the freezer and poke around, pausing when you pull out an old plastic bag you forgot about.

“Empanadas!” Hanta chimes over your shoulder.

You grimace, first because you know these are abuela’s, handmade and saved for later. A flavor you haven’t tasted since her hands lost their strength. Your face tightens further when you realize they must have been sitting for over half a year.

“Hanta… these are old. And I don’t have any salsa.”

He shrugs, a smile twitching against his cheeks. “But they’re frozen.”

You nod slowly, face twisted in uncertainty. He plucks the bag from you and you protest, awkwardly standing from your crouch.

“I’m probably not gonna get to eat good homemade latino food for a while,” he says pouting.

You look at him skeptically. “Good latino food is six month old empanadas? Hanta, I know a spot where we can get some. Fresh ones. Also homemade.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll go there later.”

You blink as he twists the dial on your oven and rummages through the cupboards. He works your kitchen effortlessly, quickly finding a tray to start lining up the empanadas. You pout. Cooking was meant to give yourself something to do, but he took over so easily.

You settle on brewing another round of tea.

Your phone pings before the food is ready. It’s your client only minutes away, so you leave Hanta in the kitchen as you return to the studio. The exchange is brief, and you feel a lightness at losing a costume that doesn’t suit you—instead passing it to someone who will love it properly. You let the chilly air run over you for a few minutes, watching her slip away down the street, before closing the shutter and returning to the kitchen.

Hanta has the food plated when you reenter, but has yet to take a bite.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you tell him.

“I wasn’t, they’re still too hot.”

You roll your eyes, pinching one experimentally. The outside is hot, but not burning. You carefully take a bite, the skin crunching under your teeth.

“Mm,” you agree, putting the remaining moon half on the plate. You juggle the piece in your mouth as it rolls and sends a flurry of scalding tingles along your tongue, trying to taste and cool it at the same time. Hanta watches you exhale mirthfully, I told you so lurking as a sparkle in his eyes—pools of stars.

You catch the savory spice of sausage paired with molten cheese that burns, coated in the earthy corn dough. The flavor is dulled with age, but it’s unmistakably abuela’s. The loss of its intensity is akin to the fuzziness of memory, the veil that obscures nostalgia into nothing but vague feelings. Transparent images flash before you: abuela’s hands rolling the skins, mixing the meat, sprinkling the cheese, folding the edges.

The food temporarily brings you home, fading your Milanese kitchen to the one of your childhood. In another moment you are far away, outside looking in at you and Hanta here in Italy, before it shifts to your imagination of a traditional Japanese home. You wonder if this is how every morning could look, if you chose to follow—join—the circus.

Hanta’s face is unreadable, putting you further on edge. You watch his lips part, ready to speak, before he closes his mouth. Your forearms buzz, wanting to grip him and shake him and make him talk.

Your mind wanders to the night before, that confession of a tent, where he pulled you through your favorite book and across the sea to the moment he first laid eyes on you. What did that mean? When he said, I wanted to show you how I feel. Does he trust you to put those feelings into words, to make the correct assumptions. Are they feelings of these same deluded fantasies, imagining your lives intertwined until they burn out? Is that what he wants—what you want?

“Are you getting dinner with Momo and Kendou tonight?”

His question pulls you from your thoughts, so abruptly you need time to process the words. You nod eventually. “I think so.”

He hums. The sound isn’t entirely satisfied. “Do you know when?”

You aren’t sure. Hopefully early.

“Can I see you, after?” he asks.

You blink at him in surprise. He continues when you don’t respond. “I know… I’m probably being pushy, I’m sorry. I just—I’d like to spend more time with you.”

You recall your thoughts this morning. Let’s enjoy today and be honest tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course you can.”

You take another bite of the empanada and look down at the plate, averting Sero’s gaze. His hand intercepts your vision, grabbing one for himself.

“They’re really good!” he exclaims after a bite, and you turn back to him skeptically. He pouts. “Be fair, they’re good for how old they are. And they taste close to home.”

You force him to return to the studio once you finish your fill, setting to get as much done as possible if you’re going to be busy all evening. He happily continues munching across from you, settling to watch you work again. This time he asks about the current project, the details of your choices. Again his eyes follow your hands as they work. He asks about your process, your stance as a designer, how you imagine a costume when you start putting one together.

He’s distracting, in the way that makes your hands tingle and your heart tighten. When you lift your eyes briefly, the sight of him is too much: his casual form across from you, leaning on an elbow against the table, hand gently swirling through excess fabric with slender fingers. You should make him leave.

“Sometimes I just see a person and I have a costume in mind,” you say, answering his question. “But sometimes it’s just a passing detail. Like your Todoroki friend, I thought he’d look nice in blue.”

He hums in surprise. “Really? What—does that happen for everyone you meet?”

“Hmm, I guess.”

There’s a pause, a pensive look on his face. You smile.

“I thought of black fabric when I saw you,” you explain. “Something loose and slippery, like silk. Imagine my surprise when I realized your number.”

He grins. “Really? That’s so cool. What did—the costume—”

He wants to know what you saw. You hum, standing abruptly to your fabrics. There’s a long length of chiffon you know is lurking in there, blue, but it’ll do. You wave him over as you pull out the clump, shaking it to untangle into a wide swath. Sero stalks over quickly, eyes wide with excitement. You have the urge to kiss him.

Instead you throw the sheer fabric over his head, resting like a hood as the ends fall over his shoulders. Then you wrap them a couple times over his arms, letting the extra dangle from his wrists after tying it off. The transparent fabric gives him a regal and misty appearance, like a dancer. You pull a silken blanket of black around his waist, tying it by his hip. When you take a step back and look at him in full, you grin.

He’s flushed, only slightly, but his eyes are wide and watching you closely. For a moment you picture a dog’s pleading face, sitting with anticipation as a hand hovers a treat over its head.

“Something like this, just black,” you say to break the silence.

Sero blinks, then looks down to the mess of fabric wrapped around him. His eyes scan his arms, then the skirt. “No top?” His voice is small.

You laugh and shake your head. “A slutty dancer’s fit suits you, I think.”

When you sit back down to keep working, he doesn’t ask anymore questions.

Hanta leaves you to get ready for dinner on your own. He calls out a soft, “See you later,” before waving awkwardly by the door. He lingers for another second, and then slips out into the dimming sky.

Your heart races as you approach the ristorante, this time for Momo—your gratitude still unspoken. The knowledge of her involvement in Hanta’s tents is another source of tension; how do you adequately thank her? A tremor of nerves passes through you, paired with the chill of the cold.

The pair is waiting for you outside the restaurant when you arrive, three minutes early. Your heart lifts, churns at the sight of Momo in a long wrap coat. She’s beautiful, and for the first time you notice the darkness of her hair, the depth to her eyes. You huff to yourself, clocking a type you didn’t know you had til now—these soft, earnest personalities with rich souls, mysteries of dark nights and stardust.

Her eyes tear from Kendou when you’re only a few paces apart. She brightens and turns towards you immediately, stepping to meet you halfway. Your body eases.

The restaurant is unfamiliar, one you have yet to try. It has the sort of atmosphere that makes you feel out of place. You prefer the coziness of a trattoria, where photos of family members decorate the walls. The ristorante is formal, populated with white tablecloths and button down shirts throughout the dimly lit room, clusters of tealights and dried flowers in the center of each table. When you sit and receive your menu, the host rattles on about the chef’s special and the wine of the day. Your eyes glaze over the entrées and then to your company, reminding yourself this isn’t an interview or business meeting. It’s a meal between friends, like your impromptu empanadas with Hanta. Just a very different meal between friends.

When the host walks away, you let Momo and Kendou discuss the options, planning the appetizers they want to try. You agree easily, uncaring and murmuring a quiet, “Grazie,” as the waiter appears to fill your water glass. When you order, you disregard the suggestions from the sommelier, instead pointing to the lone sangria. He doesn’t react, jotting your order with a blank face. You bite your cheek to suppress your smile.

He leaves. Finally, in the quiet of the company between just the three of you, you turn to Momo.

“I never got to thank you, for being so patient with me and letting me in—as your designer.” You speak freely, earnestly. Kendou’s eyes are the only other ones who watch. It feels right.

Momo smiles, the red crescent of her lip pulling into her cheek. “Of course, and thank you for your diligence and your care. It takes a trustworthy designer to feel safe surrendering to their process.”

Her words are warm, a massage through your neck and shoulders. Tender, careful hands that hover over your skin.

Your eyes drop to your glass. “Hanta told me… about the tents. I wanted to thank you for that as well.”

When you glance back to her face, her eyebrow quirks. Her lips are pressed, suppressing a smile. Kendou is the opposite, beaming excitedly.

Momo hums. “Sero did the heavy lifting, it was just me who executed the ideas. I’m relieved that you enjoyed them—that’s all he wanted. He was worried, after the second night.”

You cock your head curiously, leaning in to hear more. “He was?”

“He was waiting, hoping to catch you when you left. I don’t know what happened, but… he was anxious the day after. It’s unlike him.”

You blink, imagining the sight he must have seen. You had clutched that little green bottle and ran, maybe still crying, rubbing your eyes as you left the festival. Did he see that? You recall him lingering when you waited with Momo before her act, his surprise when he saw the marble—the compressed sphere of abuela, quietly tucked into your pocket until you dropped it.

Your hands buzz, a tingle lingering on the tips of your fingers.

They don’t bring up the job offer, dinner continuing as the peaceful murmurs between friends. Momo and Kendou talk about the upcoming shows, their next stop in Austria. The singer muses enthusiastically about the musicians scheduled for the evening festivals, while the designer talks animatedly about visiting traditional boutiques. You smile while watching them, Momo’s poised etiquette against Kendou’s unbridled excitement.

Your thoughts race before you can get a hold of them, imagining hopping a train to catch a weekend show—spending the daylight hours whizzing next to the mountains. You try to shoo the thoughts away, pull yourself back down to earth before you start envisionsing your reunion with a particular man—getting to watch his act on the long threads of silk again.

You bite into the lemon garnishing your dish. The sour citrus is rough against your tongue, but it does the trick—pulling you back to the dining table. You manage to keep your face from twisting in a pinch. Momo doesn’t notice and Kendou doesn’t say anything.

When the plates are cleared and a dessert menu is laid on the table, you have no remaining appetite. Once again your body floods with nervous anticipation, squeezing your belly. You try to ignore it, focus on being present for the last minutes of dinner with your friends, but all you can think about is meeting Hanta afterwards. Momo orders a torta, offering you a bite when it arrives. You take one, but taste nothing, and hum vaguely.

The three of you stand to leave, you deliberately moving as unhurried as your body will allow. At the door you thank Momo for the meal, and once again for being Momo. Then you thank Kendou, trading hugs with them both and promising to see each other tomorrow. You feel steadied, more relaxed than before.

You let the pair exit first, stepping into the biting blackness of the night.

“Sero?”

Your eyes shoot open, heart racing at Momo’s call of his name. When you make it out the door behind the redhead, you search for him.

He’s standing to the side, away from the door and next to one of the restaurant windows—partially obscured by the hanging planter box. Your chest heaves at the sight of him in a long black coat, face tucked into the high collar. He’s stiff, hands stuffed in his pockets and his feet pressed together. He looks nervous. Cute.

“Hi,” he says, eyes flitting from Momo to you, and then back to Momo.

Kendou grins in the corner of your eye, trying to swallow it as she grabs Momo by the wrist and pulls her to walk from the ristorante.

“See you tomorrow!” she calls, ignoring Momo’s confused protests. You hardly wave, barely managing to lift a finger.

Hanta stands before you, tall and dark and a little flushed. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t wait.”

You chew your bottom lip harshly, attempting to contain your reaction. “Don’t be sorry,” you tell him. Your heart thumps in your ears as you add, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

The admission is awkward and embarrassing, but Hanta’s eyes widen and his lips press together, caught off guard. He coughs before turning his head from you, the pink across his cheeks darkening. He returns shortly, eyes boring into yours.

“Yeah,” is all he manages.

You nod.

The tension that sits between you is palpable, a dense mist of uncertainty. You hold it within you, that hunch to your shoulders as you take him in.

And then you laugh.

It starts as a lone huff of amusement, a cloud of hot air as it escapes you. It builds to a giggle and you realize there’s more to release, and suddenly your shoulders are shaking as you laugh. Sero yelps in surprise, then exhales in disbelief. He’s quickly laughing with you, and when you look up and see his scrunched eyes and wide, crooked grin, it fills you with warmth—and peace.

It’ll be okay.

When your laughs finally die and the two of you are left smiling stupidly at each other, you tell him.

“It’s okay,” you say. “It doesn’t… It doesn’t have to be so scary.”

Sero looks almost guilty, a face that makes you want to grab him. “I’m gonna be scared no matter what.”

“Of me?” You’re baffled.

“Yeah,” he admits easily. Freely. “Things are scary when they’re important.”

Your chest tightens at his words, his honesty. They bring a heat to your face, steaming into the winter air. First it’s from the waves of embarrassment within you, and the giddiness. Then there’s a pang of guilt: from your selfishness to want to wait til tomorrow—for the hard conversation.

The door of the restaurant opens, a couple stalking out and almost bumping into you two. You watch Sero’s face twist in embarrassment, bending at the hip as he apologizes—very Japanese—and think you should go somewhere else.

“I didn’t eat dessert,” you say flatly, pulling his focus back to you.

He blinks, waiting for you to continue.

“You wanna get gelato?”

“This wasn’t the smartest choice.” You wish you had gone for cake, or pastries, now that your hand is freezing as you sit with Hanta near a park fountain.

He hums and shakes his head, “No, you’re a genius.” He happily swallows another spoonful from his own cup of frozen cream, the saturated hue of blood orange.

“Thanks.”

You eat quietly, only accompanied by the rustling of branches above and the scrape of wooden spoons against paper cups. When you finish—before he even makes it halfway through his own—you set the cup beside you and let yourself ramble without thought, hoping it’ll help you be honest.

“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow,” you start, staring into the darkness of the plaza before you. Hanta’s spoon pauses, halting at the bottom of his cup, before continuing slower than before. “But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”

He doesn’t answer. Your eyes glance his way, watching as he slowly wraps pink lips around the bowl of his spoon, letting it sit as he watches you closely. You exhale.

“You probably already know, but I haven’t made a decision about the job offer. I mean, I really want to—it’s a dream of mine, to work in costume and travel with a circus. But… I just—the timing…”

In your peripheral vision he pulls the spoon from his mouth, lips parting to ask, “The timing?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You mull over the words, how to string them together. In a way that makes it less obvious that the timing is not the issue. “My abuela passed last year, and… things are messy back home, because of me. If I left for Japan before managing to clean it up…”

God. You close your eyes, focusing on anything but the sting creeping up your nose and eyes. You don’t know where to start explaining where you fucked up. Was it years ago—when you left home for Europe? Or when you came back and convinced everyone that abuela could be saved if she left too?

It’s inevitable that you’ll have to face your family. Part of you wonders if it’s wrong to start making amends now because of a man you’ve found, a frilly romance that caught your eye. But part of you knows this criticism is another means of avoiding stepping forwards, that Hanta being your motivator to tie loose ends is better than never doing it—than hiding here for the rest of your life. And it’s reductive to Hanta, to categorize him as just another man, just a romance. He clearly holds something deep for you, something you don’t quite understand; something you aren’t sure you’re ready for. Another reason to be scared, to stay stagnant.

There’s a timid touch on the back of your hand, a pinky gently pressing your knuckle. You smile softly, turning to look at Hanta.

His expression is conflicted, almost pained. But he looks at you as he answers. “I… I don’t expect it to be an easy decision, or for you to choose me—or even Hoshi no Sākasu. I mean—fuck, I was hopeful? I’m still hopeful. I guess I thought it’d be the obvious answer, that everything would align and… and I’d get to be with you and get to know you and take my time. Shit, if my contract wasn’t for two more years—”

Your eyes widen at what he’s implying, immediately shifting to face him. “Hanta, that’s insane. We’ve known each other for a week.”

He nearly scoffs. His face twists, eyes shining under the distant lamplight in the courtyard. Your heart constricts at the desperation in his voice. “I’ve known… about you since I was a kid. You… you directed the course of my life; I never would have thought about performance before I saw you. Of course—”

His glassy eyes search yours intensely, boring beyond your mind. You feel naked beneath them.

“Of course I’d choose you. I was always choosing you.”

You swallow again, heart heavy in your chest, filled with sand. You can’t breathe. He’s insane. You should hit him and run away.

“And—fuck, I’m not trying to guilt you or wax poetry about how we’re meant to be together—” your heart is running, tripping over itself as he continues. “But it’s important to me that you realize how… how important you are, to me. And I get that you don’t feel the same, but…”

He stops, deflating. That hurts you more in a way.

“I’m sorry,” you interject.

His face pinches. “It’s not your fault—”

“I can still be sorry,” you cut him off. “For the situation, and for you. And for not being honest earlier, and for being scared, and for… for possibly trying to ignore all of this.”

“I should’ve been clearer sooner,” he reasons.

You look at him blankly. “How much clearer could you have been? You… you made magical tents for me, of memories from home and…”

The air is still between you, eyes unwavering as they target one another, restless, unforgiving. All you can think is that Hanta’s so good, so raw and open and honest. He’s here, baring his heart to you all the while considering every thought and feeling of yours, not once directing blame or anger. He just wants to be seen—to be considered, too.

Your eyes water, blinking rapidly as your lashes collect drops of salty tears. Hanta crumples.

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

You sob and nod quickly.

He’s warm; he’s always warm. But this warmth is gentle and easy, nothing but comfort and understanding and maybe even love. You try not to think about that. Instead you hold him close, by the front of his coat, and press your face into his neck. It’s so so warm, and he smells like oranges.

His arms hold you firm and close. You try to breathe evenly against him, but you’re crying, hiccuping into his skin. He hums, running a hand down your back as you shudder in his embrace. He holds you like a fruit easily bruised, cradled protectively. He doesn’t let go the entire time you cry, and he doesn’t let go when you stop. Instead he brings one hand to your head, holding it in place against him. Maybe he needs this more than you.

When your breathing evens and you have faith in your voice, you whisper, “How did you know? That you were always choosing me?”

He exhales, arms shifting to squeeze you. “It’s just a feeling.”

You hum curiously, softly.

His response vibrates through his chest, lulling you. “It’s the same feeling I get from reading Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I don't know how to explain it, but it’s intense, and it’s… it feels important. So I just always chose the things that made me feel that way.”

Si estiramos estrellas como seda,

If we stretch stars like silk,

You don’t understand, can’t understand. You ended up in Milan out of luck, initiated by a sense of obligation and then carried out when the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Life was never about choices, really, just following a thread tied around your heart, moving you forwards. Maybe Sero has that too, but it feels different to him. Maybe your threads are intertwined.

Ataré mi corazón al tuyo.

I’ll tie my heart to yours.

This time when you wake, you’re in your own room, under familiar sheets and scents. Your eyes remain unopened as you gently rustle your body, shifting just enough to comfortably fall back asleep. The movement brings attention to a heat pressed against your back. It’s so warm, like the comfort of a blanket multiplied and condensed. You lean into it, press yourself as snugly as you can.

Only when you feel a pressure around your waist, an arm pulling you closer, tighter, do you register that the heat is another body—Hanta gently cradling you.

You recall the night before: him standing awkwardly outside the ristorante, gelato in the park under lamplight, tight hugs, coming home, tender conversation in the sheets, confessions of what you’ve done to your family. He nearly rolled off the bed in shock, but he ultimately understands why you’re struggling to decide. He stayed with you when the sleepiness of night came; he held you under the covers.

He’s still holding you under the covers.

A flurry of tingles scatter across your skin, originating in the depth of your chest before fluttering down your arms. You blink your eyes open, staring ahead at the wall as you take note of all the ways you two are entangled. His head is pressed against the back of your neck, lips touching the base, the first ridge of your spine. One leg parts yours, thigh separating by one of his, a muscular calf slotted along your shin. The arm around your waist is firm, fingers gripping your side. The other runs beneath your neck, bicep filling the space perfectly. His entire front blankets your back, every dip and ridge and softness in his chest and stomach known to your skin.

He shifts, bones settling into the mattress while his grip never loosens, and then he presses a kiss to your neck, that bump of your skeleton. Your breath halts, body stilling with anticipation. If Hanta notices, he doesn’t make any indication, instead nuzzling your hair.

He sighs. It almost comes out like a whine, or whimper.

“Are you awake?” His voice is a raspy whisper.

You nod.

He hums, squeezing you tight for a few moments, face burying into your neck before his hand at your side detaches. The press of his heat leaves your back and his legs begin to unravel from yours. You turn towards him, on your back, eyes trailing him. He reaches for his phone, glancing at the time before turning back to you, pouting.

“I have to meet with the crew early today. Parade stuff.”

You nod in understanding, eyes drinking in as much as they can before he has to leave: rumpled hair, unfocused eyes, the indent of the pillow running along the side of his face—

His pout, deepening.

“You could look more sad, you know.”

It pulls a laugh from you, an early smile of delight. “I am,” you assure him. “But I got to spend yesterday with you. And you look cute right now.”

You catch the twitch of his lips, a moment of suppressing his smile before the grin wins, crooked and wide. He’s warm and light, you notice, a contrast to the dark mystery you initially saw in him.

He sighs again, leaning to press into you. His head slots in the curve of your neck, chest pressing flush against your own, hot. He kisses you beneath your ear, before groaning and pulling away. Your chest yearns. A heat runs down your body.

“Don’t get up,” he commands gently. “Go back to sleep. Is it okay if the door’s unlocked?”

You won’t be able to sleep, you already know. But he looks at you with a soft plea in his eyes and you can’t argue. “That’s fine.”

You watch while he gathers his things, standing by the bedroom door when he’s done, just to come back and kiss your forehead again before he slips away. You murmur, “See you later,” and then turn into the covers of your bed. It’s chilly, without Hanta heating your back. But he left a lingering smell of oranges in your sheets. Warm citrus.

“So. You sleep with your circus boyfriend yet?”

You frown at Chiara’s accusation. She stares into your eyes sharply, focused as she brushes yellow and black across your skin before pulling out a white pen.

“We didn’t sleep together,” you remark. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Uh huh,” she says flatly. You roll your eyes dramatically and slowly, and she grunts, pinching your cheek. “Stop it, the eyeliner isn’t dry.”

“Then you stop.”

“Never.”

The air is still for a moment, Chiara quiet in her concentration. You avert your eyes downward, letting her finish dragging the pen across your eyelids and towards your temple. She pulls back and holds your face at arm's length, eyes hopping between yours thoughtfully.

“But you left with him, didn’t you?”

You groan, “Chia—”

“You think I’m an idiot,” she accuses. You recall your conversation with Davide last week, wondering why you chose such dramatic friends. “I could tell there was something going on backstage. And you know Davide is a snitch for me.”

You want to groan. Of course he told Chiara at his first chance, to brag about finding out first. She must have known before you went to the show together, likely watching you carefully, to figure out who it was.

“It’s the Sero guy, yeah? Longish black hair.”

You huff, giving in. “Yeah.”

She hums to herself, pausing her eyes to look into yours, thoughtfully. She smirks. “So did he win you over? You’ll leave Milan, me, for him?”

You pout. “Give me more credit, Chia.”

She snickers. “I know, I know—just teasing. But are… are you leaning one way or another now?”

You pull your lip between your teeth, eyes scrunching in uncertainty. “I don’t know, it’s made everything more confusing than anything.”

She stares at you blankly. Then she sighs, turning and letting your face go. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t kill your excitement. I’ll stop asking, but when they leave—you’re telling us everything.”

“Of course,” you say immediately.

She grins. “Well, you’re all done now.”

You turn to the mirror, taking in the swathes of pigment around your eyes and the swirling white details. The makeup spreads to your temples and down your cheeks. You slip on the costume, wrapping black slippery fabric over the bottom half of your face and settling the structured headpiece on your head. Your eyes stare intensely at their reflection, stark against the costume; they match the lone flash of yellow beneath your neck and the brightness of the beak you carry separately.

For a second time, you and Chiara leave her place as a pair of birds, her as the red macaw, but this time you as the keel billed toucan. You haven’t worn a costume of these colors in at least fifteen years.

Unlike a week ago, when you were a pair of macaws, you walk carefully—subdued. You wonder what Hanta will think when he sees you.

You amble unhurried to the gathering location, where groups and individuals wait their turn to start parading through the streets. There are swarms of people, large crowds gathered to walk and witness, chattering animatedly. Various groups play instruments, populated throughout the section of the plaza. You grin excitedly at the sea of colors, groups in costume and traditional wear, floats, giant clusters of balloons. Your eyes search and scan, face schooling into a frown as you look for the puppets from Gōyoku.

When you turn and scan a second time, you spot one that was initially hiding behind a float. You recognize the bright yellow—Kaminari. You tug Chiara’s sleeve, pointing when her attention turns to you.

She nods before leaning to shout over the noise, “Go ahead! I’ll tell you where I meet Davide.” To spot them in the crowd, when you pass. You nod in return before weaving your way through the crowd, the puppet as your lighthouse.

It’s a difficult journey, but a practiced one. You clutch your headpiece and beak carefully as you slither between bodies, moving quickly but with precision. The excitement and your hurrying brings that exhilarating rush to your chest, the heavy thump of your pumping heart a reminder that you’re alive. You smile, briefly thinking of abuela, before you brush the thought away—it’s too soon to be sentimental.

When you finally reach Kaminari, standing excitedly under the floating feathered mec, you call out to him. He brightens, yelling, “Yo!” as you manage the last few steps.

You notice it’s just him and Bakugou, no one else hanging around. You pause at the sight of the latter, the first time you’ve seen his festival costume. It’s similar to Sero’s, but infinitely more ridiculous: a much more lively and springing jester hat—striped with orange and black—sandwiching his face against the swooping frills of his collar. The colors sit uncomfortably next to one another, him glaring in the middle of the chaos.

“Your costume is sick!” Kaminari shouts at you, eyes tracing the headpiece and beak. “It’s like—a bird version of what other people are wearing.”

You laugh. “That’s kind of my thing. Where’s everyone else?”

Bakugou grunts while Kaminari pulls a face. “We kind of lost them. It’s hard getting around the crowd with this thing, and Kacchan was supposed to chaperone me, but he isn’t doing a good job.”

That pulls a glare from the ashen blond, immediately retorting in brash Japanese. Kaminari pouts. You don’t understand what they’re saying, but you can tell their banter isn’t getting them anywhere. You jump in at the next pause.

“I didn’t see the other puppeteer that way,” you offer, pointing from where you came. “So maybe we can head the opposite way?”

Kaminari thanks you repeatedly, happily bounding towards the direction you pointed. You try to hurry ahead, glancing over the crowd for the silvery bird. A tug at your sleeve yanks you back, faint jingling sounding behind you followed by a gruff, “Oi.”

It’s Bakugou, scowling when you turn to him. “Stick with stupid, you can’t see shit with that thing on your head.”

You nearly guffaw at the comment. Thing? you want to ask. With all the bells on the ends of his hat, flopping around awkwardly and into other peoples’ space: he wants to call yours a thing? He walks ahead before you can return the comment, leaving you to wait for Kaminari to catch you. The latter smiles amiably as you two trail behind your self-proclaimed leader.

“Should I feel insulted?” you ask.

He laughs. “Maybe. Will you hold my hand? So I don’t get lost again.”

You grab the sleeve of his costume with a laugh.

The three of you slide your way through the crowd, eventually passing a float that was obscuring Tetsutetsu’s metallic puppet. Bakugou turns to you when it’s visible, nodding curtly as if to ask if you see it, before slipping forwards quickly, out of your sight. The crowd is thinner where the Hoshi no Sākasu performers are gathered, and you tug at Kaminari, directing his attention. You can’t weave through the mass while attached to the blond, so you wade through unhurried. Bakugou reappears after a few minutes, sticking close by as you finally reunite all the performers together.

Kirishima is the first you spot, rushing forwards. He calls to Kaminari, words you don’t understand, but a tone you can recognize as exasperation.

“Just had to pick up a delivery, that's all!”

Kirishima’s eyes move to you, sighing with a smile. “Sorry about him. Thanks for helping!”

You shake your head dismissively. He’s about to continue when you hear your name called behind him.

You lean towards the sound, to Hanta and his excited face. A smile takes over you, forgetting your mouth and nose are obscured by the silk around your head. Your hand pinching Kaminari’s sleeve releases, lifting to wave. The other holds your bright yellow and green beak by your chest.

Hanta’s eyes are wide as they trace your costume.

“¿Un tucán?” he asks. A toucan?

You hum, still smiling. “Como la primera vez.”

Like the first time.

His expression softens. Kaminari whines behind you, high-pitched Japanese that makes Hanta roll his eyes. He reaches forward, taking your hand to pull you close. You follow easily, stepping so your shoulder brushes into his chest. His palm tightens around yours.

You bump into Momo as you navigate the crowd, waving at her and Uraraka. Midoriya says a swift hello with Todoroki—the younger one—before hurriedly running off. The two of you migrate to the edge of the crowd, where the noise begins to fade into the background. You check your phone for any updates from Chiara, but there aren’t any new messages.

Only one missed call from your sister.

“Any idea when Hoshi no Sākasu starts heading down?” you ask, shoving your phone out of sight.

Hanta’s fingers loosen around yours, trailing gently over the individual lengths, the tips grazing your palm and ghosting your knuckle. He shakes his head. “We’re following the float with the balloons, so whenever they start moving.

You learn shortly that the circus is on a float of their own, not trailing on foot like you expected. It’s simple, an elevated rectangular platform with a black frills lining the bottom and a banner with the circus’ name translated in Italian. The simplicity will allow the mechanical birds to remind the focus, the characters in costume being the supporting decoration.

You blink in surprise while Hanta steps forwards, heaving himself up the ladder after a few of his coworkers. When he reaches the top, he turns and offers a hand, waiting for you to join him. Your heart constricts at the thought of a stage—always what you worked towards but never where you stood. Thank god your costume covers your face. You lift your beak towards Hanta, letting him hold it safe as you grasp the metal rungs and pull, taking careful steps before standing on the sturdy floor of the float—above the crowd. The sight is one you’ve never seen in person, a sea of headpieces and vibrant fabrics, dots moving about on their own. You like the vantage.

Hanta returns the beak, grin uncontained.

“Excited?” you ask.

“It’s my first time being in the parade,” he says after nodding. “For almost all of us.”

You smile wistfully, nervously. “It’s my first time in a long time.”

Some of the crew members scurry around, instructing you where to stand and how to engage with the crowd. You’re assigned towards the end with Hanta. The two of you stand out of the way with the others as the float slowly approaches the start, following a massive float with bundles of balloons—an array of bright colors against the still-bright sky. Some are neatly arranged to display certain patterns or shapes, others thrown together without order.

Midoriya talks animatedly beside you, explaining the research he did about the Ambrosian Carnival, the rich history of Milano’s Carnival specifically.

“It’s so wonderful that we get to be part of this,” he says with shining eyes. “Especially with its origins in Catholicism, Milan has so many incredible communities and traditions that we can see first hand. Even with this parade, entering the city center will let us pass centuries of historical buildings. I looked at all the sites along the map of the floats, and I think we’ll pass—”

The float jostles from an abrupt halt, jerking your attention away, before it resumes almost immediately. You lurch forwards, but Hanta’s steady hand finds your waist, bracing you just as long as it takes for you to find your footing, before falling from you. Your heart stirs from the contact, then yearns from the loss.

Midoriya’s voice resumes, droning on as Todoroki hums beside him. You stalk towards the railing at the edge of the platform, curious to spot whatever caused the disruption. Instead you see the road only a couple floats ahead, the approaching sea of onlookers waiting for you to pass. You check your phone again, this time seeing a message from Chiara with her location. She’s three blocks down from the starting point, on the left—your side.

There’s a moment of scrambling and shuffling atop the float, people getting into place. You turn to Hanta beside you, beaming with unexpected excitement. You feel like a child again, bubbling with the anticipation to be part of something new. Hanta grins back, skin flushed warm in the sun despite the chill of the winter air.

You turn back to the front, taking in the crowd and the racing of your heart. You feel so tall now, compared to the child you were in Quito, grasping abuela’s hand and draped in the itchy costume she made you wear. Here you are above the audience, dressed in your own toucan, silky against your skin. Two nights ago you were given the gift of reliving that moment in honesty, remembering the joy you felt when you let yourself go, let yourself meld with the spirit of the celebration—a moment Hanta saw and could never forget.

Here you are above the crowd, entering your second parade—this time nearly two decades later, and with your hand in his instead.

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #hanta sero #sero hanta #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #fanfiction #sero #bnha sero #mha sero #cellophane #sero x you #hanta x reader #hanta sero x reader

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tuttle-did-it · 3 days ago

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@superiorsturgeon

I understand and agree. In the grand scheme of things, it means nothing. You are absolutely correct. However.

I've been in this situation. I used to write for a magazine. I was severely underpaid for the work I was doing and the knowledge I was bringing to the role. However, the editor was a racist, sexist, homophobic arse. Every article was an argument.

I stayed in the job because I told myself that when I DID win those arguments, I could bring more diversity to the audience. That the audience would benefit from learning more about some of these incredible women. And I think, on some level, that was true.

However, I also felt contaminated and a little ashamed to tell people I wrote for this magazine-- because so many people in my industry knew what he was like and what his attitudes were. I was barely paid anything for what would take over a month to research and write. But that wasn't the biggest problem. Eventually, I just felt like I was slowly being poisoned by staying. It felt like a fungus growing over my skin. I'd feel sick all the time when it was time to start researching and negotiating on what I was going to do.

Did my taking a stand and leaving make a difference to anyone except me? Nope.

Was I replaced without even a single thought? Yes.

Did I finally feel like I was no longer being contaminated by this man and his 19th century ideals? Yes.

It was very heavy weight on me that was keeping me on the bottom of the ocean. I cut the rope, and could finally swim to the surface. Did I save the world? No.

Did even one reader care that I left? Did the editor? No. Did the knot of poisonous anxiety finally leave my chest and stomach? Yes.

In a similar situation to Ann Telnaes, Prof Dorothy Bishop resigned from the very prestigious Royal Society because they've taken Elon Musk on as a fellow. She got nothing out of quitting. But she took her stand where she believed she had to, and I respect the hell out of here for walking away. (Please read the link on her name for her blog entry.)

I cannot speak for Ann Telnaes, or for Professor Bishop, but I suspect they both felt something similar.

1) for the person out there who is leaving the job, they're showing themselves as a person of integrity, and I have to hope that someone else with integrity will see that and approach them for a better job.

2) even if that does not happen, I genuinely respect anyone who is willing to burn their bridge and take a stand against something they know is wrong-- even if it gets them nothing. Integrity is not about what someone wins. 9/10, when people do something like this, they are doing it for themselves. And I respect that.

3) i can't speak for you, but when things are a complete hell hole, like right now, and all we see is corruption rewarded, and seeing domino after domino fall? Watching even one person --knowing it will fuck then over, knowing it could destroy their career-- stand up and say 'no?' I think that is important to see.

Yes. Grand scheme of things? Ann Telnaes walking out will do nothing to WaPo. They may lose a few subscriptions, but the world is not going to change much. Professor Bishop will be replaced, and life will go on. I don't think either of them are under any delusion that quitting will stop the corruption going on in the world. I certainly was not when I left the magazine I wrote for.

But if Ann can now sleep at night knowing she's done the right thing? If Dorothy can breathe because she feels she has done the right thing?

That matters.

To me, seeing the world burn-- and even one person who says 'I will not light this match' and walking away? That matters. If for nothing else but to believe that there is at least a few people in the world who will take a stand. Even when they know it won't change anything.

You are right. Ann will be easily replaced, just as i was. Dorothy has probably already been replaced. The world will move on, no one will remember or care next week. But Ann and Dorothy will probably sleep better at night, and so will I.

Maybe someone else will see this, and do the same. Maybe not.

Sometimes you don't save the world. You just save yourself. And sometimes that is enough.

Article from Washington Post cartoonist Ann Telnaes who has quit WaPo. Worth a read.

#ann telnaes #washington post #wapo #Sometimes you don't save the world.#sometimes you just save yourself #And that is okay #Prof Dorothy Bishop

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radaverse · 4 months ago

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what would jack react if i give mai a sword with a deadly look to it and i say “go do a crime”

she wanted to kill him affectionately 😭

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lemonlover1110 · 1 year ago

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𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑

Sukuna

Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Summary: Your husband was an heir, and you have to fulfill the order.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), spitting, slight use of tummy mouth, double penetration, tit sucking (and biting), breeding kink, degrading, sukuna is... sukuna but fluffier to his wife

*he's been on my mind lately and I'm going insane

10k Event Masterlist

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“I want an heir.” Sukuna brings up one fateful night as you walk over to lay down beside him. It’s not a request, it’s an order that you must fulfill, just like everything that involves Sukuna. Strangely enough, Sukuna has been the one that’s been delaying having a child since you’ve been nearly begging him to have a baby with him for the past year. It seems he’s finally given in to the idea though.

“What was that, Suku?” You ask, stopping in your tracks because he’s caught you off guard. He stands up from where he lays, towering over you. You look up at him, waiting for him to repeat himself but you should know better than anyone that your husband doesn’t like to repeat himself. But this time he does,

“It’s about time you give me an heir.” Which makes a smile spread across your face because it’s what you’ve been wanting. Sukuna has been the one that has been refusing to have a child so you don’t understand why he words it like that– But either way, you’re happy and ready to fulfill his every need. Before you can even agree to his order, his bottom hands are undoing your robe to get you undressed while his mouth goes down to your lips.

Sukuna has grown accustomed to kissing you, and handling your body more gently since you’ve asked him to. Compared to the beginning, he treats you like a petal. You like to think it’s his way of expressing his love for you since he’s not very vocal about it, and you know he doesn’t particularly enjoy kissing. His tongue meets yours while his hands try to undo the robe without tearing the fabric into pieces since he knows it’s one of your favorites.

He bites down on your lip causing a cry to leave your throat while he gives up on properly taking off your robe. You hear as the fabric rips, and maybe another time you would be upset about it but you’re too consumed by him to care. He’ll just get you another one. His two lower hands roam down your bare body. One hand gropes your breasts, his rough fingers pinching your nipples. He gets to your cunt, lightly slapping it before he runs two fingers through your cunt.

He pulls away from the kiss, letting your soft moans into the air when he begins to play with your clit. Sex for him has always been a selfish act but ever since his first night with you, he’s found pleasure in pleasing you. The sound of your moans in the air while he toys with you is the sweetest melody. He found it dumb at first, but now there are nights where he’s simply buried between your thighs with the purpose of making you come as much as he can.

Sukuna picks you up and puts you down on the bed. Taking a moment to appreciate how beautiful his wife looks when she’s under him. Fuck, you’re so fucking small compared to him. It’s nothing new, really, all the people that Sukuna has been with are miniscule compared to him. But he just loves the way that you look under him since he’s never seen a more beautiful human being. He’d never tell that to you though.

Sukune begins to tease your entrance, threatening to push a finger into your cunt but he doesn’t. He runs his fingers through your folds, while his thumb plays with your clit. He lowers his head, his tongue circling your nipple before his mouth wraps around it and he begins to suck.

“Can you put a finger in, Suku? Please…” You ask him, your needy cunt in need of his fingers inside of you. He bites down on your nipple, causing a cry to leave your lips before he unlatches and lifts his head up.

“I hate beggars.” Sukuna reminds you, and you’re about to apologize but he shoves three fingers into your mouth, gagging you with them before you can even get a word out. He really knows you better than anyone. “My woman doesn’t apologize to anyone either. Not even her own husband.”

Sukuna finally pushes two fingers inside your pussy, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. His fingers are just so fucking big, and they reach every right spot. Sukuna feels you moan around his fingers before he takes them out of your mouth. He curves the fingers inside your cunt so they hit against your sweet spot. One hand goes to your breasts, and he begins to play with your nipples.

“It feels so good, Suku.” You moan, your back arching as pleasure consumes you. Sukuna’s multiple hands are… Everything.

He takes his fingers out of your cunt, moving the wet digits down to your asshole. He spits down on your cunt and spreads his saliva down. He presses his fingers against your asshole as he lowers his head. He kisses from your lower abdomen to your pussy, where his tongue then runs through your folds and then up to your clit. His tongue begins to flick your clit while he pushes two fingers into your asshole, making you moan loudly.

“Fuck– Fuck!” You yell, as Sukuna also pushes two fingers into your cunt again. It’s like music to Sukuna’s ears. It’s too much for you, two fingers in your ass, two in your pussy, and his tongue on your clit. Both holes squeeze around his fingers as his tongue lays flat on your clit.

“Sukuna! Shit, it’s so fucking good.” You bite down your lip, trying to not bring too much attention to yourself. Unluckily for you, as soon as Sukuna knows that you’re making yourself quiet, he stops. He lifts his head up and takes his fingers out of your pussy and asshole, leaving your holes to clench around nothing.

“I want my woman to be loud. Don’t be a fucking bitch, do you hear me?” Sukuna kneels, towering over you again and you nod in response. You use your forearm to hold yourself up and look at him. He undoes his robe, and you lick your lips as you watch your husband get completely naked. Your thighs come together as your eyes fall on his two thick cocks, feeling excitement consume you. Sukuna smirks, watching you prompt yourself up to get his cocks in your mouth. He stops you, his hand going on your chin. “You’re a cute little bitch… You’ll be okay. You can handle them both, right?”

“Yes, lord.” You nod in response, and Sukuna treats you as if you were a doll– More gently than he would treat an actual doll but he moves you as if you were one. He forces you to hold your legs to your chest, and the large tongue on his mouth licks your pussy, and moves down to your asshole. He’ll be sweet with you, especially since you brought back the name that you hadn’t used since your marriage.

The tongue teases the entrance of your asshole but Sukuna stops before anything else happens. He lays his cocks down on your lower abdomen, and you deeply inhale. You wonder how it’ll fit inside of you, but it always fits so you shouldn’t worry.

Sukuna doesn’t bother teasing the cock that goes in your pussy, immediately pushing it in which causes a loud moan to leave your lips. He doesn’t waste time in putting the second cock in your ass, and once you’re stuffed with him, he begins to move. He’s gentler with his thrusts this time, which you certainly appreciate since he didn’t give you time to adjust.

He’s grown impatient with the idea of you giving him an heir, he can’t waste anymore time. And fuck, he just needs to feel you wrapped around his cocks. You don’t seem to be struggling either way, quite the opposite, you moan in pleasure with his every movement.

“I’m going to fill your womb up with my seed, and you’re going to give me what I deserve.” Sukuna says through gritted teeth to not let out another sound that hints at how good you’re making him feel. Sukuna will never say anything that could hint at him being happy with someone else– The most you’ve ever gotten from him was a marriage… order. Sukuna didn’t propose marriage, he simply told you that you two would be getting married. But you know that the face that he’s making and the way he talks, he’s feeling good.

“I’ll give you what you want, lord.” You respond as his cocks hits every right spot, filling you with so much pleasure. His thrusts pick up speed, and your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head. Sukuna’s hand begins to play with your clit, and you begin to squeeze around him even more, causing him to hiss. Fuck, he can’t wait to see you big and round with his child. Sukuna can’t wait for his seed to bless your womb and all the changes that it’ll bring to your body. He can’t wait to steal some of the milk that’s meant for his child.

“Going to fill you up with my child.” Sukuna groans as you squeeze around his cocks. It’s too much for you, especially after he’s worked you up. You’re loudly moaning his name, just like he wants you to. He wants the servants to hear how he pleases his woman. It’s all too much for you since he’s filling up both of your holes and toying with your clit.

You shut your eyes, and see white as you squirt all over him, causing a chuckle to leave his throat. He lightly slaps your clit as you make a mess all over him. Sukuna can’t help but praise you for it, which is definitely something rare, “That’s my good wife.”

Sukuna bites his tongue, loving how tight and warm your holes feel. But you won’t get a noise out of him. His hand goes to your throat, however, it just rests there while his thumb presses against your lips, “The only woman worthy of carrying my child.”

Sukuna gets rougher with his thrusts as his release approaches. The thought of you carrying his baby makes him go insane. He’ll make sure it happens soon, he’ll fuck you every night until there’s confirmation that you’re expecting his successor.

He mutters your name before he fills you up with his cum. He doesn’t dare to pull out until both of your holes are completely filled with his seed. When Sukuna pulls out, he lays down beside you. He brings you into his embrace while you take deep breaths.

Sukuna kisses the top of your head, one of his hands running up and down your back. Maybe Sukuna hasn’t exactly been fond of kissing before, but it’s definitely his favorite thing to do with you now.

#ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna smut #jujutsu sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n

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mickandmusings · 6 months ago

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third times the charm

pairing: tyler owens x f!reader

word count: 3.8k

summary: life has a funny way of putting people in your path, and ultimately making them part of your life. but what happens when the one person you never want to see stumbles in over and over again, a disastrous tornado tearing up your path of moving on?

aka: the two times tyler owens enters and, consequently, leaves, your life at the wrong time, and the one time he comes at the perfect moment and finally stays.

warnings: reader is described in a feminine manner; why are we ignoring his bull rider trope? cause i'm not babes xx; angsty mainly, but fluff too; lovers to enemies back to lovers (sorry); this author knows nothing about tornadoes or weather so sorry

shoutout to megan moroney and her banger new album where this title and idea come from :)

"What do you mean you're leaving?!"

Tyler shuts the tailgate of his red pick-up with a loud slam, the cowboy hat on his head nearly flying off with the force. Y/N stood just a few feet away, her arms crossed over her torso as her chest heaved in short, shaking breaths. The sunlight hits her just right, and the gold chain around her neck glimmers in the sunlight. It catches Tyler's attention from the corner of his eye-it had been burned into his mind from the moment he'd bought it with a chunk of his earnings from last year's rodeo. The chain was delicate, simple, but the charm had been the main appeal: it was gold, the same shade as the chain, but in the center of the small heart shaped pendant sat a capital 'T'. She'd worn it since he'd given it to her for a birthday present, and it had been the center piece of even their most intimate moments-her bare beneath him with only the glittering jewelry adorning her as he had her unraveling under his touch. Even the thought of it had heat traveling up Tyler's neck, and he swallowed down the feeling, along with all of the guilt bubbling to the surface.

"I'm leavin', simple as that."

"Ty, I-I don't understand. You get bucked off one time and you're giving up?! You've been riding since we were kids, I-"

He turns to her, emerald eyes blazing with an emotion he couldn't put a label on.

"I didn't just get 'bucked off', I almost got my head trampled in case you forgot!" His voice is laced with anger. He's not angry with her, he's angry with himself. After a series of unfortunate injuries in last month's local rodeo, Tyler knew he couldn't ride again, it would kill him. He'd spent the last few weeks in physical therapy and doctor's offices just to make sure the damn bull hadn't left behind more than scars.

It was better this way, he could leave his town behind, and forget about the deep, gut-twisting feeling of failure that sat like acid in his stomach. But leaving his hometown also meant leaving her.

Tyler had fallen for Y/N their junior year of high school, and they'd rarely been seen without one another ever since then. She was sweet and shy to his brash and confident, his biggest supporter-always sitting in the stands for all of his rides-whether he was the talk of the town or stumbling home, his shotgun rider, and the girl who wore his heart (literally and figuratively) on a chain around her neck. Looking at her now, with tears lining under her gorgeous eyes, he wanted to just forget all of his plans and pull her into his arms. He wanted to reassure her that he'd stay here, that he'd give her the life that he'd promised her-apple pie and babies, the perfect picket-fence life she deserved.

"Tyler, you-you can't be serious! W-What about your parents, your plans, hell, Tyler, what about me?!" Her shoulders now moved as she let out shuddering breaths, eyebrows furrowed as she grew frustrated. "Tyler Owens you promised me, you promised me a farmhouse, and a wrap-around porch, a-and babies! And now you're just gonna take off to God-knows-where to what? Storm chase?"

She stops and lets out a dry chuckle. She'd been 'chasing' with him before, vivid memories of him scaring her shitless chasing tornadoes in his truck, only to 'apologize' to her by making love in the backseat after the storm had passed. Through their time together, she, too, had grown to love the storms. Y/N took her camera into the storms with them, more than ready to capture the freakishly beautiful moments of pure disaster before it struck. She'd stand in the pouring rain next to him, laughing as wind whipped hair around her face. He'd snap a picture of her with her own camera that she'd set aside and she'd roll her eyes. They'd been happy, bonded by a mutual love of mother nature's chaos and one another. Now, she turns her back to face him, shaking her head as her bottom lip trembles.

"Ya know, I should've listened to everyone who told me to stay away from you in high school, that you'd just hurt me. I didn't believe them, not one bit, because I know you. You're running because you're scared. You don't have to run, Ty. You've never run from your fears, for God's sake you ride them! What the hell are you thinking?!"

Tears stream down her face, and Tyler feels his resolve slipping. He hadn't thought it through, not really, and now as she stands in front of him, he realizes he's only hurting her more and more. He needed an out, he needed to skip town, no matter who it hurt.

"I'm thinking that I'm a fuckin' failure at everything, no matter what I try! The only thing I'm good at is storms, chasin' them, getting close enough to see something! I fail at everything, Y/N/N, and if I stay, I'll just fail you, too. Over and over."

"Tyler, you've never failed me," she brings her hands to either side of his face, her thumb brushing a cut that still hadn't scarred over from his fall. Her eyes were blurry and her hands trembled. "Please, stay." Her voice was hardly a whisper, pleading desperately.

"You know I can't."

She nodded solemnly, wiping tears so she could take a final look into his eyes. She gave no warning when she launched her arms around his neck, all but hanging onto him like a child. He hugged her tighter than he ever had, and when she let go, he placed a final heated goodbye kiss on her lips. Y/N looks at him, her brain screaming pleas to make him stay, but she simply kisses his cheek before speaking.

"C-call me when you get there?"

He takes one last glance at her, taking her in completely, as if trying to memorize her. His eyes land on the jewelry adorning the spot just below her collarbone, the gold shining in the sunset, knowing he'd never see it on her again-if he ever even saw her again.

"You'll be the first person I call, baby."

Y/N's call never came.

She spent the summer miserable, but refused to take off the gold chain she hid under shirts. It burned her skin in a metaphorical sense, but she ignored it, just like the heartbreak that had festered into deep resentment for Tyler Owens. She'd decided to take off to the local university for a clean start, somewhere new, somewhere his ghost wouldn't haunt her. Things had begun to look up, and she found herself smiling again. The morning before her first day of classes, she almost took the chain off, but couldn't bring herself to do so.

When she spotted his tall figure sitting a row ahead of her in her Intro to Meteorology class, she pretended not to know who he was. It was only fair, he'd done the same to her. For a reason that neither of them could vocalize, they begin to hate one another. Without knowing it, Tyler had become the storm that had sparked her into chasing after danger forever, the one that had left destruction so fatal she wasn't sure if she'd ever recover.

ii.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Y/N rolls her eyes and nearly throws her laptop across her dorm room when she looks down at her field partner pairing. The name in bold stares back at her like some sick joke.

Tyler Owens.

She shuts her laptop with a force that could shatter glass and slams her face into her pillow to let out a scream that could have easily been heard four counties over. The universe had to hate her.

With one glance at her watch, she hops from her bed and packs her duffel, her camera slung around her other shoulder. After silently praying that this storm takes her away in one quick swoop, she opens the door to her room and stumbles down the stairs to the lobby, where he was waiting for her outside the double doors. She can already feel her skin flaming with anger when she catches sight of his towering frame, baseball cap thrown backwards over his head.

"'Bout fuckin' time sweetheart, thought the storm would pass before we even got out there!"

"Oh, kiss my ass, Owens."

She rolls her eyes and climbs into the red truck she had once been a permanent fixture in, feeling almost like nothing had changed since the last time she'd crawled into the passenger side. She had half a mind to let down the driver's side visor to see if her picture still sat inside it, but Tyler climbs in the second she thinks about it. The half hour drive is uncomfortable, silent, and laced with tension so thick both halves of the couple begin to wonder if the air supply is getting thin. But as the storm approaches, both of their eyes are locked on the massive twisting figure just ahead of them. Y/N reaches for her camera, focusing the lens as best as she can through the windshield of the truck. She sighs when the view is less than satisfactory. Without much thought, she begins to move the window crank on the door to let down the window.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Tyler's voice breaks their silence.

"What does it look like, Owens? Getting a better shot." Her body hangs halfway out the window, camera leaning out the window as she moves the lens and clicks.

"Get your ass in the truck, I'm not payin' your hospital bills when you fall out and I run over you."

She rolls her eyes and ignores him, almost her entire body hanging out the window.

"Okay, okay, get in the truck, I'll get you closer, Jesus."

She pulls herself back into the truck and rolls the window back up as Tyler moves forward down the muddy path, closer to the storm now building ahead. The wind and rain grow more intense, shaking even the bulky vehicle that could easily withstand even the most treacherous of conditions. The spiraling tunnel only moves at a more pummeling speed, and Y/N's sharp shout fills the air.

"Stop the truck!"

He hits the brake and before the truck even stops, Y/N's rolling out of the passenger side, camera raised as she captures a monster of a storm. Tyler finds himself silent, momentarily distracted-her hair blowing with the force of the wind, the smile drawn across her face, and the long sleeve button down she'd been wearing was slipping down her shoulders, exposing her tank top and-wait-he raises an eyebrow, his heart stopping. Against her neck sat a gold chain he knew too well. It stops him completely in his tracks, shocked that she still wore his initial around her neck. The sound of a roaring train pulls him from his thoughts and sends him leaning out his own door.

"Y/N," he's shouting over the loud winds. "GET YOUR ASS IN THE TRUCK!"

The barrel of wind only gets closer, the fierceness of wind making Tyler's heart race. The girl outside his truck, however, only smiles wider, raising her camera for another shot of the approaching storm.

"I'M FINE, TYLER. WIND'S NOT EVEN THAT BAD!"

Tyler huffs as his voice, raspy from yelling, shouts again.

"THAT WASN'T A REQUEST, SWEETHEART. GET YOUR ASS IN THIS TRUCK!"

She ignores his shouts, only squinting her eyes at the horizon as the wind picks up another notch, making the shirt now halfway down on her arms blow like a flag in the wind. Tyler gives her a minute to comply, hoping this was just a momentary phase of her being stubborn. After five minutes, Tyler cursed and stomped out of the truck over to her. He says nothing, picking her up over his shoulder.

"TYLER! WHAT THE FUCK?! PUT ME DOWN, ASSHOLE!"

He doesn't give in to her retorts, simply swinging her door open and shoving her into the passenger seat. He gets into his driver's side and slings his arm on her headrest, turning to back the truck around.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you have some sort of sick kink where you get off on ruining my life? I had a perfect shot, it-"

"You had a perfect shot of getting sucked into a tornado is what you had, Y/N. You're gonna get yourself killed gettin' that fuckin' close!"

"Like you would care." Her voice isn't even a mumble, and Tyler hardly hears her over the sounds of the storm.

It sends a jab of pain through his heart he doesn't expect, and instead of saying anything, he lets her stew in anger in his passenger seat. When he drops her off at her dorm, she agrees to email him her half of the project, and a week later he receives it.

He opens the email to find exactly what he imagines, the most spectacular shots of a storm he's ever seen. After the report and photos are submitted, the two never speak to one another again. They both graduate under the same Arkansas sun, but lead different lives in the same area of the country. Y/N swears she sees his truck pass her every time she goes out to shoot, and he sees her in every girl that stands in a field with a camera.

Y/N would never admit that she has a burner account subscribed to his livestreams, or that she laughed and smiled as she watched him hoop and holler with his ragtag group of friends, memories of the chases they once went on filling her mind more fondly than painfully these days. And if she had one of the red and white shirts with his stupid cartoon face plastered against it, well, no one would ever know.

When Boone and the rest of his crew would stop for food and rest breaks, if Tyler saw her name plastered in a newspaper or magazine, he'd put it on the counter next to his plethora of snacks. He'd never admit he'd cut her articles out of them and kept them in a small scrapbook that lived in his glovebox, right next to the picture of her that once lived in his visor-only because a magazine cut-out clip of her lived there now, her smiling with a massive twin barrel storm behind her, the gold chain peeking from the shirt was wearing.

iii.

"Ty, man, this one's a beaut! She's unreal!"

Boone's voice filled Tyler's ears from the passenger seat, but as Tyler looked out at the horizon, his attention was far from the brunette that sat next to him. He saw her car before he saw her-the same rink-dink, decked out, black Subaru she'd had in college, meaning she was here on her own, not for business.

His green eyes darted to the field across from where it was parked, spotting her instantly as she stood in the tall grass, hair blowing as she brought her camera to her face, crouching down to get the perfect shot. She shook her head when she pulled back from it, enjoying the sight in front of her.

Tyler puts the truck in park and all but barrels out of the door, his boots taking him towards her, but not nearly fast enough.

"Jesus, who's that? And why's she got Ty all in a tizzy?" Boone leans over to Lilly, who gives him an incredulous look.

"That's Y/N Y/L/N, she's a storm photographer, apparently he's got some fan girl crush on her or somethin', he keeps her work in a binder."

"Holy shit! Tyler knows the Y/N Y/L/N?"

Tyler would've blushed and denied Lilly's statement vehemently, but he was too far away to hear. Instead, the whipping winds and the sound of Y/N's delightful laughter filled his ears.

"She's a beaut, huh?" Tyler's voice carries over the noise, falling on Y/N's ears. She takes a breath and turns to face him for the first time in years. She nods slowly.

"Yeah, she's gorgeous. Got some great shots."

Her throat feels dry as his eyes peer down at her. She finally braves a look up at him.

"Um, I'm not studying it or anything, just bored, really. I'll let you and your crew have her."

She gives him a small smile, but he notes it's genuine as she caps the lens on her camera.

"It was good to see you, Ty. Good luck."

"Y/N, wait. I-I need to ask you somethin'."

She pauses her steps, turning back to face the man in front of her. For a split second, he looks just like the younger version that had left her all those years ago-the hat, the belt buckle, but none of that same all consuming fear.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Why do you still wear it? I saw you, that time in college, and when you did that shoot outside of Kansas City, the picture they published of you, it-you can see it real clear."

Y/N stills, pushing back hair that's blowing in the wind as she looks at him. She could say a multitude of things-how she wore it because she'd gotten so used to always wearing it. That she wore it because she wanted to hold onto him the only way she could. She could lie and say that she used it as a good luck charm. None of them would be the truth, and she was sick of lying to him, so she simply told the truth.

"Well, all the best chasers, they carry their first storm with them, right?"

She pauses, realizing how vague that was.

"What I mean is, without you taking me through my first storm I never would've done this. I was terrified of them, and you and that stupid red truck of yours showed me how beautiful they can be, and now I capture their beauty for a living. I never would've had any of this without you, so-"

She shrugs, giving him a small chuckle. The silence suffocates as he looks at her.

"Tyler listen-"

"If you're gonna apologize, don't. I'm the one that should apologize, I left you all those years ago. That was real shitty of me, and I didn't give you a warnin' or a reason why. So, I'm sorry, for all of it."

She nods, giving him a smile. The quiet floods between them again, and she pushes back her hair again before she speaks.

"I-I watch your videos, y-your livestreams. You're still crazy, but it reminds me of when we used to chase, and you'd scare me to death, and then you'd, uh, 'apologize' for it and, sometimes it's like I'm there with you."

He laughs with her.

"I-I've got every newspaper and magazine clippin' you've ever been in. You're pictures they're-breathtakin', it feels like you're standin' in the field right there next to you. I guess that's just because I used to be and memories, ya know?"

She nodded, giving him a sweet smile, one that sends his heart racing. They both turn their attention to the horizon where the storm seems relatively calm, at least by their standards.

"Uh, Y/N? I'm sorry, I promised you somethin' all those years ago, and I never made good on it. I think about that a lot, and-just-I'm sorry."

"I forgave you a long time ago, Ty, we were kids." She pauses, tilting her head as she looks at the storm brewing. "Besides, I don't think I'm cut out for that life anymore, I like life on the road. I mean, where else do you get moments like this? The storms back home are wonders, but nothing like this."

"I agree with you there," he chuckles. His heart pounds, and the words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I miss you though."

She cuts her eyes to his own, as if waiting for him to explain himself.

"You were my original chasin' partner, ya know? Plus, when things got scary, you never flinched, not really. This reporter I've got now? God help us all, can't stand much more than a strong wind."

Y/N laughs loudly before she shakes her head.

"Well, you might be in luck. I hate working for that magazine, I really, really do." She turns to face him, camera pulled close to her chest. "The Tornado Wranglers hiring? I'm looking for a job. I have a portfolio if you need it, references too."

Her statement is laced with sarcasm.

Tyler finds himself laughing now, a wide smile plastered across his face.

"I'm familiar with your work, have it on good graces that you're just what we're lookin' for. Lucky for you, we've always got room for one more, that is, if you'll have us. I gotta warn you, those over there are a handful."

"If they're anything like you, I'm likely to fall in love with them instantly."

Y/N doesn't register the words stumbling out of her mouth until they'd already filled the air between them. Without a word, Tyler grabs her hand, pulling her in closer than people who have a history like theirs should. His calloused fingers reach out to the gold pendant lying on her neck, moving it back and forth between its fingers. It had withstood their time apart-it was scratched and a little weather-worn, but, then again, so were they.

"The clasp broke about a year ago, the rest is all original. Pure gold, willing to sell it for a good offer. The guy at the pawn tried to undersell me, I know what I've got."

Tyler's chest warms, that sarcastic, witty humor he'd missed back in full force.

"Do you take alternate forms of payment?" He pulls her in by her waist with a cocky grin.

"Depends, Owens, what did you have in mind?"

He cocks his eyebrow, giving her a sort of contemplative look as his hands rest on the small of her back, hers around his neck.

"Well, I still owe you about-," He lifts his hand from around her and pretends to count on his fingers. "A billion apologies, we could chase this stunner of a storm, drop these characters back off at the motel, find us an empty field, and I could apologize like I used to...maybe?"

She shakes her head and pulls him in for a heated kiss. They're both smiling so hard its hardly a kiss, but the feelings are there.

"You've got yourself a deal, but I'm keeping the necklace."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, baby." He kisses her head, pulling her back towards his group of friends, who were now whistling at the pair, obviously catching the interaction. "Fair warning, after he finds out just who you are, Boone's likely to fall in love with you."

She raises her eyebrow, pulling away and heading towards the motley crew ahead of her.

"Guess you'll just have to chase me next."

taglist:

@fraaaaankiiiiieee

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens #twisters #glen powell #Tyler Owens x you #glen powell x reader #glen powell x you

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