#this is just a loose collection of thoughts

[hannieboyd]

ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ ˳ᐟ

Pairings: needy!seungmin x fem!reader | established relationship

Contains: +18, mutual masturbation, phone sex, like one water drop of angst, needy!dom seungmin, sorta innocent reader, Seungmin trying to act bossy even tho he litr falls apart from reader, smut, established relationship, minnie misses the reader sm!

Word count: 1.4k

Sypnosis: min can’t help but think about you whenever, and wherever he goes. whether its on a work trip or not.

*sorta proofread!*

10:09pm.

The lights were dim, and the air chilling as you positioned yourself onto your bed.

It had been nearly a week without Seungmin, ever since he went on a work trip and the bed couldn’t have felt lonelier. It had been a rough one without him. You missed his face, his hair, his scent, everything. Even the intimate moments without him felt empty— even though it was your only way to let the edge off anymore.

but there he was, nearly 10,000 miles away on a business trip to god knows where. and there he stood, in his bathroom, fresh out of a shower drying his hair as he masked his thoughts off u ever since he had landed a few days prior.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, the towel still slung low around his hips as he sat back against the headboard with a quiet sigh. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, with work and the boys driving him crazy all day, he was basically drained dry. but it wasn’t just the long day weighing on him—his mind had been restless.

Ever since going onto the plane he hadn’t stopped thinking of you, wondering if you missed him as much as he missed you. Being away from you was already hard enough, but the distance made everything ache a little more than it should’ve.

Lost in thought, his hand subconsciously brushed over his stomach, lightly grazing over the edge of his semi-wet abs and oversliding lower with a lazy sort of intention.

He let his eyes flutter closed for a second, letting a mental image of you flood in.

and boy did they flood.

his mind clouded with the ideas of your voice, the way your lips shuttered when you moaned his name, the way your body moved the night before he left, letting him know that you’d be right here for him waiting for him to get back,

Before he even realized it, his hand was moving faster over his hard on, his breath catching slightly in his throat. it wasn’t urgent or fast. just slow and needy, like he was trying to make the moment last in the absence of your touch.

Then without even thinking, his hand grabbed his phone, fingers lazily swiping through the screen until your contact popped up. before doing anything, he got a glimpse of the photo he had set as your contact photo.

The way your eyes looked at the camera, sweet and starved, it only made him want you more in that moment.

His finger grazed over the face time button before calling you. he looked at himself through the camera waiting for you to pick up, hair damp and messy as his face flushed. gosh, how pathetic he was to be calling you in the middle of the night just so he can cum by all himself.

When you answered, your voice groggy and confused, he didn’t say anything right away.

“seungmin?”

no reply.

“seungmin, whats wrong?

still no reply.

That was until the sounds of smacking and heavy breathing started to become more apparent.

“mmph- fuck…” his eyebrows started to furrow as he looked into the screen

your eyes widened. there was no way he could be serious…jerking off this late, right? he had usually been so calm and collected over these things, its a rare occurrence he’d step out and call you or even ask you for photos & videos—

so you stayed there.

looking at his frustrated yet composed expression, you could only let out a slight smirk. It’s so little that these things happen, I mean, cant you have a little fun when they do?

Knowing that, you slowly started to fix your posture as you panned the camera down. In nothing but a loosely fit button up sleeping shirt and shorts you slightly opened up your shirt just enough so he had a glance of what was inside it.

Noticing this, Min restraint himself from making any noise. or at least he tried..

His pride of being the chill - little emotion showing boyfriend was too strong for him to let it go now, especially when he was 10,000 miles away when he’d much rather have you right there next to him taking you for whatever you’re worth.

But you weren’t there.

You were on his screen, blinking at him through wide eyes, legs tucked under you, shirt half open and camera angled just enough. It was like you were fully aware yet completely oblivious of the effect you had on him right now. His pride told him to stay quiet, chill. Like this wasn’t already getting to him..But it was hard.

“Undo another button,”

He said through poorly masked breaths, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.

You didn’t say anything, just tilted your head and did as told. fingers trailing down your chest to pop the next button open. His eyes followed every movement. You were teasing him on purpose—you had to be.

“mmm..- fuckk..”

His eyes started to squint a bit as his head was thrown back on his pillow, still holding contact with the phone. His hands had started to have a mind of their own at this point. Desperate for any sort of motion out of you, “lower the camera for me, yeah baby?”

tooken aback a bit by the sudden question he waited. He didn’t repeat, just waited for you to figure it out on your own.

You glanced at him through the camera again but didn’t argue. You adjusted it slowly, tilting the angle slightly before dropping to your thighs, where the fabric of your shorts rode up just a bit. You tugged the hem slightly down without thinking— revealing a bit of your lower body.

you miss me at all yet, baby? he muttered through breaths. “of course..” you said, looking at him as if you were in a trance. like he was hypnotizing you one word at a time under his voice, and you happily let him.

“Then why don’t you help me, hm?”

“seungmin, its late..”

“please,-” he squeaked “i need you..”

That was all it took.

The camera shifted in your hands as you set the phone down at a new angle. angled toward your lap, shirt still open, your body lit in soft yellow light. You didn’t say anything as your fingers trailed back down, shy and slow, slipping under the waistband of your shorts again. He groaned under his breath the second your hand disappeared from view.

He pushed his towel down with a quiet curse, one hand holding the phone steady, the other already wrapped around himself. His eyes never left the screen.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing good. Just like that, yeah?..”

Your lashes fluttered as you leaned back into the pillows. one hand still holding the phone, the other between your legs. You were quiet, but your breathing gave you away. And that’s all he really wanted. Just to see you like this. To hear it. To know it was for him.

He was already stroking himself harder now, eyes locked to the screen, hips twitching every time you let out a breathy sound.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he groaned. “Keep going, baby, let me see what I do to you.”

You whimpered softly—barely audible, but it made him stutter.

“Say my name.”

You whined—gentle and unsure.

“I said say it.”

“seungmin-..”

“Again.”

You whispered it again, and he nearly fell apart.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” he muttered, chest heaving up and down. “You feel so far away. Do you know how bad i’d ruin you if you were here,”

You moaned just a little louder this time, legs shifting. You were trying so hard to do it right, to follow every word, every pace, even if your movements were soft and a little hesitant. He could tell you were just listening—listening for him.

“Faster,” he breathed out. “Please. Just… please..”

He was falling apart now. That cool tone from earlier was gone. His voice cracked every time he exhaled, hand working faster under the sheets, head tipped back as he gasped your name.

“fuck- ‘needed this so bad,” he whispered, voice shaking. “needed to see you so bad baby..”

you moaned his name at the—and he lost it.

With a low, broken groan, he came hard, hips jerking under the tossed towel, hand stilling around himself as his chest tightened, breath catching in his throat.

All he could do was stare at the screen—at you, still soft and sweet and flushed, waiting for him to come back down.

“Fuck,” he whispered, half-laughing now, flushed. “You’re unreal.”

You smiled shyly as you slowly closed your thighs together. “Was that okay?”

He nodded, lips parting. “Better than okay.”

A/N: Hi guys! its been awhilee, Im so sorry for going ghost for a bit. I had some personal stuff (not anything bad lol) but Im soo happy to be back! :) I promised a seungmin fic so here it is, enjoy! :)

[7-deadly-cats]

·.✿ KMS COLLECTION — HOW RAFE STARTS DRESSING WHEN HE FEELS SAFE IN AN ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP

S I D E C O L L E C T I O N | K M S M A S T E R L I S T

these are headcanons related to my killing me softly series but this post can still be read as a standalone if you see this as a version of rafe in a relationship that healed him

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ bf!rafe x gf!reader

✿ A / N ✿ i stumbled upon the pic of him in the very middle of the (not so aesthetically pleasing) moodboard i made (i’m bad at this shit ok, just trying to get my point across 🤣) and i immediately knew this is how i imagined him to look like w reader after they’ve been together for a while. not sure if this fits how you guys might imagine him in an established relationship w her but maybe you get my vision and i’d LOVE to hear your thoughts <33 xx ᓚᘏᗢ

// C A S U A L

✿ first things first: in an established relationship with you (early 20s), rafe would feel extremely comfortable and confident in his appearance. you never pressure him into fitting specific styles or aesthetics—no—you even encourage him to try out new hairstyles and fits.

✿ slowly, rafe would stop caring what his dad thinks because the only opinion that matters to him is yours. this means: he stops trying to fit into the perfect, well-mannered, polished kook ideals and standards, and redefines himself in a way that makes him feel good and comfortable.

✿ that doesn’t mean he stops caring about his appearance. of course, he still wears the most expensive cologne, stacks on designer rings and jewelry, and each of his clothing pieces still costs around 1k but he breaks free from expectations and cliches.

✿ he threw out most of his old polos—not because he hates polos in general, but because those ones always reminded him too much of his dad. stiff, classic, too tight around the arms (okay, maybe that part’s just because his biceps are bigger now 🫦). he doesn’t completely write off the look though. he’s started buying softer, more relaxed polos that actually fit his vibe—loose, comfortable, slightly oversized or with textured fabrics. more effortless, less 40-year-old country club member vibes.

✿ and then (!!!) this guy lets his hair grow out. not super long or wild, but long enough to fall into his eyes when he laughs, with some small curls peeking out behind his neck. sure, you thought his slick-back and curtain bangs looked cute but they were giving daddy’s lapdog and rafe wanted to remove anything from his appearance that reminded him of his dad.

✿ he was very uncertain and hesitant about this choice especially, because for a long time rafe’s mindset was like longer hair = more feminine = less masculine. but you helped him understand that men aren’t bound to any social norms and such, and expressing oneself through fashion and looks is extremely healthy and freeing (though, he still draws the line at earrings).

✿ he also stops shaving his face clean, stops grooming himself to perfection. not out of neglect but because it gives him a sense of freedom. most of the time, his face is covered in scruffy stubbles, and sometimes even some hints at a mustache, giving him a slightly soft-rugged edge.

✿ lots of jewelry. silver rings (and the golden one from his mom), always wearing chains, vintage (!!!) watches around his wrists and, of course, bracelets. all of them gifted by you, either handmade or picked out specifically by you.

✿ and his overall new style shifts into something that’s hard to label but feels a mix of urban chill and soft grunge, and it screams comfort, freedom, and i have a girlfriend that helped me heal.

✿ he starts layering. cargo vests over hoodies, longer shirts under tees, boxy short-sleeve button-ups over tank tops. sometimes it’s mismatched and makes no sense, but somehow he always ends up pulling it off. and when you say “you look cute like this,” he wears it again without hesitation.

✿ and his wardrobe now? lots of caps, oversized hoodies, slouchy crewnecks, loose denim & cargo pants, printed tees including graphics of games and franchises he enjoys, AND OF COURSE, simple tanks & muscle tees to show off his arms and biceps, because you’re obsessed with them and rafe loves catching you stare at them. no more tight and stiff collars. and belts are now a fashion statement, not clinching him in to fit some standards.

// S P E C I A L O C C A S I O N S / F O R M A L

✿ on special occasions or when it comes to formal events, rafe definitely switches back to a cleaner look. in everyday life he fully leans into his freedom and comfort, but he’s learned to separate that from his professional side.

✿ he puts a lot of value on leaving a solid, lasting impression, so he’ll either shave completely or keep a very light, well-groomed stubble. his hair gets trimmed too, shorter but in a way that it can still grow out nicely when he’s not in work mode.

✿ his suits never go full traditional. they’re still sharp and tailored, but never plain or boring. he’ll pick a black suit with subtle texture or wear a tie with a minimal pattern or slightly off-tone color. nothing too loud, just enough to stand out quietly.

✿ his dad thinks it’s unprofessional, obviously. but most people find it charming—you especially—rafe knows how to carry himself now, and whenever he gets compliments on his suits, he always refers to his gorgeous girlfriend that helped him pick it out.

✿ when it comes to jewelry, he tones it slightly down during formal events. except for his mom’s ring and that one special bracelet you gave him at the beginning of your relationship. he’s worn it every day since you gave it to him, no matter the setting.

✿ at more casual events, he lets more of his usual style bleed through—rings back on, shirt slightly undone, watch of your choice, all bracelets back on his wrists. and most of the time he makes sure he matches you, not in a cringe way, just enough to show you’re his. subtle, possessive, and very much intentional.

// B O N U S

✿ this hair? rafe bleached it on impulse one night after some fight with his dad while you were on a trip with cara. when you showed up the next morning, you stared at him for a moment like (●.●) ?! and when you started giggling, he got all scowling and pissed off and suddenly he regretted his choice, but let’s just say his mood immediately switched when you dragged him into the bedroom to show him just how much you loved this style (whole day and night were spent in bed with lots of giggles and kisses).

✿ why you loved it? it was loud, bold, kinda chaotic but it weirdly worked on him. he looked criminally hot with that hair—cropped and kinda messy. especially when he came home from the gym: a little scruff showing, him wearing a loose muscle tee that clung to his body just right and showed off every inch of his post-pump biceps (he’s built a strong, athletic frame by then—whole body more toned and mature—and you were obsessed).

✿ lowkey one of your fav styles he’s ever had. it led to you leaving more than a few parties early iykwim. but he eventually let it grow out again, said the constant bleaching was ruining his hair. rip platinum blond rafe. gone but never forgotten.

// A D D I T I O N A L T H O U G H T S

✿ he’ll steal your hair ties and keep them on his wrists next to your bracelets, and he even lets you tie his own hair occasionally (although he scowls dramatically during it). half of them have little charms or colors that don’t match his outfit at all, but he wears them anyway because they’re yours.

✿ he leaves his rings all over the house. nightstand, bathroom counter, couch cushions. somehow they always end up back where they belong—either because you collect them without saying a word, or he accidentally stumbles upon them in the most random moments.

✿ his cologne changes depending on mood. something aquatic and clean for daytime, darker and richer for nights out. but there’s one signature scent he always comes back to—yours.

✿ he rolls up his sleeves constantly. even if they’re already short. it’s a nervous habit at first, then it just becomes part of his look—forearms out, veins showing, rings flashing.

✿ he cares about how clothes feel now more than how they look. if it doesn’t move with him, feel soft on his skin, or smell like home (aka you), he’s not wearing it.

✿ if you compliment something specific—his watch, the way a chain falls against his collarbone, a certain shirt—he’ll start wearing it more and makes cocky comments about how you loved this look on him. it becomes part of his rotation, not because he’s vain, but because he likes being looked at by you.

✿ and most importantly, he’s still clearly rafe. his clothes are quality, he’s still wearing expensive brands, he carries himself with cockiness and passive-aggression, and anyone who looks at him wrong still gets barked at. but now he doesn’t wear labels to impress—he wears comfort, softness, and quiet confidence. to some, he might look more low-effort now, more casual. but really, it just shows where he’s at. he’s healing. because of you, he’s softer. his clothes are softer, comfier, because he finally allows himself to be. he lets himself be boyish—lets himself enjoy things. play games. wear dumb printed tees with star wars motives. be silly, be cozy, be real. and you love this version of him just as much as you loved the previous one.

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

(taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

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[alexlexperiments]

Gold Rush. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

By the very nature of his troubled, deranged personality, without even considering any sort of biological factors, dragon hybrid! Satoru was a possessive man. Even as a young boy, he was never quite known for sharing his toys on the playground and that weirdly territorial child evolved into a weirdly territorial manchild who had only gotten a bit better at hiding his hoarding tendencies. Through the years, he had learned how to hide any sort of gold-sick gleam in his eyes and hold back the worst of his draconic instincts. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. 

And when he finally met you, everything he tried so hard to keep under wraps started to unravel.

You were the cute new hire under some departament or other in his company - a junior analyst with a keychain filled purse, an imaginable amount of trinkets on your desk and a fidgeting stance. On one rainy Tuesday, you just so happened to catch the same elevator as him, sighing over you wet Converses as if you hadn’t just shifted the axis of his entire universe.

One look. One quiet sniff. That’s all it took. 

Suddenly the elevator felt too big - there was too much space between your bodies, an insurmountable and unforgivable amount of centimeters he had to cross in order to gather you in his arms; The smell of your perfume had covered the closed box and overtaken his senses, pupils doubling in size; And the dragon inside of him started purring, not unlike an oversized cat, chuffing and growling something akin to mine, mine, mine, mine…

“I’m sorry?” you asked, suddenly turning your pretty eyes to him. Eyes like jewels, round precious stones like treasures, his to protect, his to own…

Wait. Had he said that aloud? 

You were still blinking at him, clearly waiting for an answer, seeming a bit put off by his intense staring. He coughed, trying to will his voice to work, face flushed for what seemed like the first time in a decade. When you looked at him, half concerned and half freaked out, he did not feel like the confident owner of the building you were both at, he felt like a gangly teen again, fumbling with a crush. 

“Mine, I mean, my!” he said, trying to salvage the situation and a bit of face “My floor, this is my floor, so… Excuse me.” 

You stepped aside and he got out, breathing in the clear ear. Looking back at the elevator, he saw you smile slightly and wave as the doors closed out, effectively taking you away. And that stupid dragon inside him snarled, furious at being deprived of your presence.

Satoru looked around at what was most definitely not his floor, slightly stranded literally and metaphorically, his heart attempting to beat itself out of his chest in tandem with the much less innocent - but still romantic in its own carnal way - hardness in his pants putting the strength of his zipper to the test. He resigned himself to taking the stairs, hoping the seven flights or so would clear his head of the urge to claw his way back to you and let loose everything he had been taught to hold back. But when he finally got to the top floor, sweaty and panting, his thoughts remained on you - the missing gem of his collection.

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ poster girl — choso x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: it’s just you, him, and a couch that’s about to see more action than the gig ever will

content warnings: suggestive content, no sex (yet), partial nudity, voyueristic undertones, implied erotic photography

word count: 2.5k

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

You came to practice dressed for the heat—and maybe Choso too. The shirt you’d thrown on was an old tee you’d hacked into something riskier: sleeves chopped off, neckline wide and loose enough that it slouched off one shoulder if you moved just right. The front dipped low, a soft promise of cleavage everytime you bent over to adjust an amp or coil or mic cable. I love drummers pasted in big bright letters across the front. You told yourself it was practical—it was hot in the garage, after all—but the truth was you liked the way Choso’s eyes sometimes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

And tonight, they definitely lingered.

“We’ve got a game to catch,” your bassist calls out, eyes flicking from your face to your chest with an unsubtle grin. “You two behave now.”

The others laughed, footsteps fading up the old basement stairs. Then it was quiet—just you, the leftover hum of the amp still cooling down, and Choso, standing a few feet away. Good things happen when two bandmates get left unsupervised. Good because now you can actually talk, and ask questions. Questions like: how long have you played the drums? What are you doing after tomorrow’s show? And, do you want to come over and make me scream so hard my neighbors file another noise complaint?

Instead you shifted your weight, tugged the hem of your already-low shirt a little lower—because if you couldn’t say it out loud, you could at least make him look.

“Thanks for missing the game and helping me clean up. Means a lot.”

Choso’s arms flex as he puts away the boxes of cables and wiring, lifting them as if they were nothing. You wondered if he could do that with you too; sling you over his shoulder and carry you up to his room. He could show you his record collection, or how to cut skulls out of old t-shirts and stretch them out. Maybe after the arts and crafts, he could stretch you out too.

“It’s no problem,” his voice snaps you out of your daydream. It’s gruff, and feigns nonchalance, but you see the way his eyes linger on you for a beat too long. “Wanted to make sure everything’s in order. I don’t trust the guys to check.”

You chuckle, and for a second, he flashes you a soft smile before returning his attention to the checklist on his phone. You step toward him, place your hands on the rim of the cardboard and lean forward.

“Anything I can help with?” You ask, voice dangerously sweet.

His face flickered, with what exactly, you weren’t sure. Lust? Want? Disgust? God, don’t let it be disgust. You’d quit the band if he told you to fuck off.

“Actually, there is something,” he says, eyes actually meeting yours. “I was thinking of re-doing our poster.”

You let out a half-laugh, thinking he was messing with you, but when you realized he wasn’t, you stopped. You knit your eyebrows together, confused.

“What’s wrong with the current one?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Just look,” he pulls up the image on his phone and shows it to you. It’s a visual mess—colors and graphics placed haphazardly, like an afterthought, and letters of varying fonts and sizes fighting for space.

“Yuji designed that,” you shoot back, evading blame.

He laughs, “that’s even more of a reason to re-do the whole thing.”

Your laughs fill the garage, bouncing off its walls, and back towards you, and you want to play the sound over and over again. Even his laughter had a certain rhythm to it, almost like the way he played the drums—sharp and fast. Maybe he was just naturally gifted the way some musical prodigies are. You imagined him as a baby, banging out tunes on his toy xylophone long before he could talk.

“Okay drum genius,” you quip, nudging closer. “What do you have in mind for the do-over?”

Choso tucks his phone into his back pocket, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. He scratches the side of his neck, as if debating whether to say what’s on his mind.

“I was thinking..” He trails off, turning around to pull a camera from his bag. “Would you mind?”

You let out a single, confused laugh—a quick ha you can’t hold back. You glance behind, half-expecting to see someone else, then point at your chest..

“Me?”

He rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at his lips. “Who else?”

The way he looks at you in that moment very well nearly brings you to your knees—all soft eyes and a grin that could make a nun sin. Angelic. Heaven sent. God.

You’re grinning like an idiot when his gaze dips—from your lips, down to the neckline of your shirt, then back up to meet your gaze. He catches the smooth ball of his piercing between his teeth, and you want so badly to find out how it’d feel pressed to your own. Camera still in hand, he nods towards the gear stacked behind you.

You take a seat on the floor and lean against the amp. The carpet’s scratchy, dust and stray guitar picks buried in its fibers—you try not to think about it as you look into the camera lens.

Red light first. Then a soft click followed by a bright flash. He lowers the camera, checks the screen, then looks at you as if he’s about to laugh.

“What?” you ask, half-worried, half-defensive.

He lifts a brow and turns the camera around. “You look scared.”

You scoff, crossing your arms tight around your chest. “Am not.”

“Just surprised,” he says, taking aim. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be so camera shy.”

You blink. You grasp for something to say—an insult, a smart comeback, anything—nothing.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, capturing your wide-eyed expression with a soft whir of the shutter. He tilts his head, a lazy grin curling at his mouth “It’s alright. Just sit there and look pretty for me, okay doll?”

Doll. God. The way he says it makes something warm pool low in your belly. You’d sit there and let him shoot a whole roll if he asked.

You shift, trying to ignore the way doll echoes over and over in your head. He lowers the camera again, eyes skimming over you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Move your arms,” he says, gentle but firm, nodding his head at how you’ve got them crossed. “Relax.”

You uncross them slowly, allowing your hands to rest on your thighs. He hums in approval, stepping closer. The lens clicks again.

You do as you’re told, eyes flickering from the camera to him. He takes another shot. The soft click, whirrs, fills the silence between you, punctuated by your breathing. He takes a few more shots, the flash flickering against the garage walls, then lowers the camera, chewing on the ball of his piercing like he’s turning something over in his head.

“Get up,” he says, voice still soft but now edged with something that makes your stomach flip. He quickly sets the camera down and reaches for your hands.

You let him pull you up—his palms rough and warm around your wrists. He steps back and looks at you, head tilting as he sizes you up like you’re a new instrument he’s learning how to play.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “Turn around?”

He smirks. “Yeah. Trust me.”

So you do—you turn your back to him, the garage feeling suddenly too warm, too small. You feel his hands brush against your hips, positioning you in front of the equipment.

“Hands here,” he says, guiding them to rest flat against the top of the speaker. The surface is cool under your fingers. You can feel the faint rumble of leftover bass vibrators from earlier, or maybe that’s just your heartbeat. Same thing.

He steps back and grabs the camera again. “Perfect. Hold that.”

The lens clicks. You hear him suck in a quiet breath, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Look over your shoulder,” he says. His voice is lower now—almost rough.

You glance back at him, and the look on his face—like he’s seeing you in a way no one ever has—nearly makes you forget how to stand.

“Good,” he murmurs. He moves closer, one hand bracing the amp beside yours as he leans in to adjust the hem of your shirt, tugging it just enough to expose a sliver of skin above your jeans. His knuckles brush against your waist, slow, deliberate.

Another click. Another flash.

“Good girl,” he says, almost under his breath. “Stay just like that for me, doll. Perfect.”

The shutter clicks. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches you. You hold the pose for him, feeling the brush of air each time he shifts to find a new angle. He keeps adjusting you—a hand on your hip, a brush of his knuckles against your ribs as he pulls on your shirt again. Each touch feels heavier than the last.

Then he lowers the camera and steps in, close enough that can see the tiny smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. He flicks his gaze to the old couch in the corner; half buried in cables and battered gig bags.

“Come here,” he says, his voice dipping lower. He slips in hand around your wrist like it’s nothing, and tugs you towards the couch.

“Lie back for me,” he says, gesturing to the faded couch cushions. “Lean on your elbows.”

You shoot him a look. Trying for a teasing laugh, but it comes out breathless. “This still for the poster?”

His grin flashes, wicked and soft all at once.

You do as he says—lowering yourself onto the couch, propping yourself up on your elbows. The angle makes your shirt ride up, your legs part slightly where your jeans stretch. He watches every shift like it’s something sacred.

He climbs up next. One knee on the cushions between yours, one braced by your hip. The camera hangs heavy from his neck, dangling close enough you could tug him down by it if you wanted to.

He lifts it, one hand steadying the lens, the other braced on the back of the couch by your shoulder. The closeness makes your breath catch—the way his knee brushes your thigh, the soft rasp of his jeans against yours.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, but his eyes aren’t on the viewfinder—they’re on your mouth.

You’re putty underneath him. Mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow and quick. Your expression gives up what your words don’t say—I want you; plain and simple. The strap of your top slides off one shoulder, you don’t bother pulling it back up.

“Hey–hold that—” Choso mutters, stepping closer. He lifts the camera again and aims it down at you like he’s framing something just for him.

You laugh—low and breathy. “What? This?”

You tuck your chin down, eyes flicking up at him through your lashes—and something about that look, sharp and lazy all at once, makes his throat go dry.

“Yes,” he says. “God, yes.”

His voice is rough. He hovers over you so close you can smell the cologne under the sweat. He lifts the camera—click—lowers it—click—gets closer until it’s just your eyes filling the frame.

You let your head fall back over the armrest, exposing your neck, your mouth falling open just a little. Your breath hitches—the way you expose your throat like that. Bare. You knew exactly what you were doing.

“You like that, huh?” You tease, voice husky now. Your free hand slides over your stomach, thumb hooking the hem of your shirt.

He swallows. His knee shifts closer, bracing himself over your thigh. The lens clicks.

Choso lowers the camera halfway, lips parted like he’s got something he shouldn’t say. He huffs a breath, shakes his head, grinning crooked. “You’re gonna pack the whole gig tomorrow.”

You toss your hair, grinning wide, feeling the buzz of it in your chest. “Good. Maybe they’ll finally notice the drummer.”

He laughs, eyes catching yours for a beat too long. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Sure I do.” Your lips curl, lazy and wicked. “These for the poster too?”

“Yeah. Poster.” His voice cracks into a laugh. He doesn’t move—just keeps snapping, angle after angle, the flash popping like fireworks. The camera’s lens clicks and whirrs, but half the time, you’re sure he’s not even looking through it anymore. You shift under him, arching your back to make the top ride up higher.

The other strap slip completely, falling down your arm. You don’t fix it. You look straight into the lens, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your collarbone. He shifts his weight, knee pressing deeper between your thighs, The shutter clicks again, but slower now—like he’s dragging this out just to watch you squirm.

Choso lowers his camera for half a second, his eyes tracing over your face. Your lips, the sliver of skin where your shirt’s ridden up. He bites the ball of his piercing, his thumb brushing the curve of your waist. Your eyes lock, and your grin turns slow, feline.

“Last one,” he murmurs. His mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smirk—but there’s heat behind it, dark and sweet. “Hold it. This one’s for me.”

The words sink into you like a match to dry paper—a sudden heat, a rush that makes you feel reckless. For him. Not the band, not the poster—him.

“Oh?” You say, your voice soft, teasing. “For you, huh?”

His hand flexes on the couch near your head. “Yeah. Just—hold that pose for me, doll.”

You tilt your head, your grin curling to match his. You feel the thrum of your pulse everywhere—your chest, your throat, between your thighs where his knee brushes so close.

“Okay,” you say sweetly. “One for you.”

And then—before you can talk yourself out of it, you slip your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The fabric brushes over your stomach, your ribs—and then higher, until it clears your chest completely. No bra—just skin, flushed and soft under the garage air.

You feel the chill hit you first—then the heat of his stare, dragging over you like a touch. You swear you hear him suck in a breath, low and sharp, the lens lowering a fraction.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. When he lifts the camera—his eyes aren't behind it anymore. They’re on you, hungry and half-lidded, mouth parted like he’s seconds from forgetting the camera exists at all.

The shutter clicks—just once. Then his free hand slides up your ribs, warm skin to skin.

“Perfect,” he says again, voice wrecked with want. “Fucking perfect.”

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

author’s note: hello lovelies it’s been a while :) professional and personal life has been a bit of a mess + very packed as you might’ve noticed in #mitskicain confessionals 📿 this is my little procrastination project before a huge exam i’ve got coming up in a week hehehehe it’s also self indulgent because i too, want to fuck the drummer 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 shoutout to him for being hot!!! until the next drop!! MUAH MUAH 💋💋

[woniefication]

FETISH FOR MY LOVE. Ni-ki

𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂; you said you’d never fall for a man like him...

; gangmember!niki x fem!reader ✦ under 1k words.

W⋯⋯ hood romance, toxic loyalty, possessiveness, tattoos n trauma, brutal softness, “i’d die for you” energy, cursing,lowercase intended.

Reblogs﹠ FB appreciated - Masterlist.

A/N: very lazy layout and im back yet again with a niki fic..ive been obsessed with gang romance lately so Why Not?

you told yourself you’d never fall for someone like him.

but there he was—leaned against the hood of his blacked-out benz, hoodie halfway on, blunt in hand, laughing like he didn’t just pistol-whip somebody two nights ago. niki was all red flags and gold chains, a walking warning sign with a mouth that could either ruin your day or ruin your life.

you climbed in the passenger seat without a word. he didn’t look at you at first—just took another drag, eyes focused on something in the distance.

“you mad again?” he finally asked, blowing smoke toward the cracked window.

“do i have to be mad for you to care?” you shot back, pulling the seatbelt over your chest.

he turned, finally meeting your eyes. “nah. you gotta be mine for me to care.”

“thought i already was.” you answered smugly.

he smirked, but it didn’t reach hiis eyes. “then stop actin like you ain’t.”

the car ride was silent after that. not awkward never awkward with him. just….charged.

you met him at a house party, the kind with red lights, loud music, and people who stopped caring about the law 2 years ago. you were only there because your friend dragged you. niki was there to collect money from somebody who’d made the mistake of gambling with the wrong crew.

he saw you across the room. you saw the gun tucked in his waistband.

you still didn’t look away.

the club tonight was full. packed. the kind of crowd niki hated—too many faces, too many eyes. but he had to show up. had to make his presence known.

you stayed close. his hand stayed on your waist. and the second some random dude tried to grab your wrist, niki turned around and—

“touch her again and i’ll break your fuckin arm.”

the dude laughed like it was a joke. it wasn’t.

niki dragged him into the alley. came back three minutes later, shirt a little wrinkled.

“we goin home.”

you didn’t ask questions. you never did.

you were in his apartment now. legs over his lap, some old playboi carti track playing low through his speakers. niki was scrolling through his phone, one arm loosely around your waist.

“you ever scared?” you asked, voice low.

he glanced at you. “scared of what?”

“this. all of this. what you do. what could happen.”

he leaned back, tilting his head like he was actually thinking- he wasn’t.

“i ain’t scared of dying. i’m scared of not leaving anything behind.”

you blinked. “that’s… deeper than i expected.”

you reached up to trace one of his tattoos, the one behind his ear the little broken crown.

“what’s this one mean?” You mumbled curiously, still tracing the tattoo.

“meant to be king, but life fucked it up.” he answered nonchalanty.

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have to.

the next night he didn’t come home.

you called. no answer.

you texted. delivered. no reply.

(♡)-- @orimuraa @douqhnxtss @chrrific @liwinly @fleuryns @leaderwon @pnghoon @rikiiimeow @yuuuraaa

[grimoireskin]

i. DARKHAVEN.

THE WARDEN'S WHISPER: The first day of school dawns heavy for the Darkhavens and the Godfreys. Old blood walking familiar halls beneath new omens. In the heart of Hemlock Grove, a presence stirs. Quiet, unfamiliar, yet curiously known. Was this the beginning of ruin or return? Someone had arrived… and with him, the cruel magic of reunion.

hand and hex: 1,649.

A SHADOW'S CAUTION: english is not my first language, so i apologize in advance for any grammatical errors. feel free to reach out via DM if something is misspelled. this tale walks beside the canon, but does not follow its footsteps exactly. shadows shift, and fates may unfold differently than you remember. slight mentions of nightmares, emotional exhaustion, slur mention (gypsy). magic/witchcraft themes. y/n being aggravated by christina.

further into the abyss.

━━━━━ ☾☽ ━━━━━

HEMLOCK GROVE, PENNSYLVANIA.

Baelor Darkhaven rubbed his eyes, watching sunlight try to crawl into his room through the heavy curtains. He stirred, still exhausted. They’d only returned from London the day before, and the jet lag clung to him like a second skin. The trip hadn’t been easy—emotionally or otherwise. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually slept.

He had nightmares last night. Nightmares that he hasn't seen in a while.

The brunette groaned, pushing himself up from the bed and heading to the bathroom. His mind was still hazy with sleep, and the cold air of his room didn’t help the exhaustion trying to cling to his bones. He closed his eyes, cold water washing away the tiredness of his body.

Downstairs, something moved. Was he imagining things? No—his senses were tuned too sharp now, his inner magic on high alert. He could hear faint voices. His family was already stirring.

A knock on his bathroom door made him snap his eyes open, knowing it was probably Nana or his Mother.

“Good morning, champ.” His father’s voice made it through the door, surprising him. He was rarely home at this hour. “Can you drive the twins to school today?”

“Good morning, Dad. Yes, I can drive the twins.” He responded.

“Thank you. Everyone's running late today.” His father pointed out. Baelor felt a shiver down his spine.

Something was looming over his family; it wasn't just him who felt it.

His father’s footsteps faded, and the house fell quiet again. Baelor stood still, feeling the chill of that silence. Then he stepped into his room, moving on autopilot as he got dressed. Black jeans. A loose satin shirt. Doc Martens. He slipped on his rings one by one, each metal band anchoring him. Protecting him. He could still feel the weight of London on his shoulders. Everything they’d learned, everything they’d uncovered… it hadn’t left him.

It had changed Y/N, too. Even if she didn’t have the strength to say it. She didn’t have to say anything; he already knew.

Baelor sighed, taking his backpack and heading downstairs. He found his whole family there. Except for her. He furrowed his eyebrows… He thought everyone was late?

Nana sat at the head of the obsidian breakfast table, wrapped in velvet and silent authority. She stirred her tea counterclockwise. Always counterclockwise. A charm of resistance. Her silence wasn’t just silence. It was a spell in itself.

Another presence made it into the kitchen, and he knew who it was. The energy shifted, and the trees sang in harmony.

Her eyes flicked to Y/N as she entered.

“I'll go to the shop after school, if that's okay?” She asked, her brown eyes set on her grandmother’s golden ones.

“You’re supposed to practice blood magic with your father today.” Irene Darkhaven retorted, sipping her tea without looking away.

Calm. Collected. Unbending.

“Actually…” Neven's voice cut through the conversation, Irene’s gaze moved slowly to her son, sharp as a knife, waiting. “I have a lot of things going on at the firm today, Mom. She could use the break, and I could use Baelor.”

“Then who’s driving the twins back?” Gabrielle asked, setting slices of pear on the twins’ lunchboxes.

“I’ll take them to the shop with me.” Y/N said, bored and tired. “No need to get all fuzzy.”

“You’re exhausted.” Irene murmured, standing up and cupping her granddaughter’s face gently in her hands. Her eyes studied her closely.

“Nana, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She murmured, her hands resting on top of Irene's.

The old witch in front of her grazed her skin, as she was trying to find something under it. She waited, patiently. She knew better than to interrupt her Nana's thoughts or rather her vision. Irene Darkhaven saw more than most. Whether it was age, wisdom, or something else entirely—no one ever asked. And no one ever dared to question her.

“You two touched too much old blood in London.” she finally said, barely above a whisper. “It’s clinging to you. And it’s feeding your magic whether you realize it or not.”

“I’m handling it.”

“I’m not sure you are.”

“Done!” Gaia and Gael announced in perfect unison. Everyone’s attention snapped to the twins.

“We’re supposed to be at school in less than half an hour, let’s go.” Baelor murmured once the twins finished their breakfast.

“Are the car seats in your car?” His mother asked, where her firstborn nodded, his expression bored.

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” Y/N whispered to Irene, her voice soft and cracked around the edges.

“Your magic clings to your emotions, your mood. It tends to be dangerous when you’re like this.” Irene warned again, brushing a lock of hair behind her granddaughter’s ear. “Your emotions are in disarray.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.” Baelor said, placing a hand on Y/N’s arm. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

Y/N nodded. Grabbing her backpack.

“Have a good day!” Gabrielle said, seeing her children step out of the kitchen.

━━━━━ ☾☽ ━━━━━

At school, the whispers came easily.

The Darkhavens were strange. Too composed, too private. They spoke only to each other. Dismissive. Detached. Brilliant students. But cold. Occasionally, even rude.

Baelor could be friendly if he was in the mood. Or if the sky was particularly grey. Y/N, however, was harder to read. She wasn’t just cold. She was intense.

Christina Wendall appeared in front of her again. Y/N sighed. Her patience was thinner than usual. She blamed the jet lag. And London. Mostly London. Christina gave her a bad feeling. Like something that didn't belong in the room. In a bad way, she was… bizarre. Sometimes she thought it was just her intuition acting crazy.

“Is it true you're a witch?” Christina asked, her smoke-colored eyes piercing through Y/N’s brown orbs.

The witch in front of her stayed silent, her cold gaze flickering between the clock and Christina. There was a rumor going around the school about some new guy. He was a gypsy—and now, it seemed, a werewolf too. At least, that’s what Christina had been saying.

Her temper tightened. She hated that word. Gypsy. It was sickening, filfthy. People used it so casually, like it was folklore, like it wasn’t rooted in centuries of real violence and racism. Slurs wrapped in glitter. Y/N had heard it weaponized too often, usually by people who didn’t know a damn thing about history—or didn’t care.

“Why are you asking?” she shot back, opening her literature book. “Wanna spread another rumor, or is it for writing purposes?”

And Christina? Christina used it like it was exotic. Like it made someone dangerous in a cute way. Like it was mockery. The Darkhavens weren't Romani, but she'd studied their magic, their history, their pain. She knew enough, yes, she did. She knew enough to be angry on their behalf. Even though they didn't cast spells like the Darkhavens, or the Ravenwoods, their power didn't come from blood rites or elemental alignments. It came from ancestral rhythm, from symbols passed through generations and ceremonies older than most grimoires.

It was old, raw magic… Therefore, it was sacred.

And every time someone like Christina used the word like it was a Halloween costume or a plot twist, it grated on her. Christina thought she was being clever. Edgy. But all Y/N heard was violence buried in syllables.

“Writing purposes, of course.” She tried to hide the excitement of what could be her response. “If you say no, I won't believe you.” she adds, the ghost of a smile lingering on her face.

“And why not?”

“I mean, your house looks like a Gothic cathedral where sacrifices are made.”

She frowned at her words; she knew her house didn't look… approachable. At all. But for her, it was warm and safe.

It stood tall at the edge of the Blackridge woods, where the trees grew too close together and the wind never dared to howl. A wrought-iron gate, overrun with thorned vines, groaned open only for those whose blood knew its name.

Beyond it, a cobblestone path led up a slow incline, slick with moss and time, until it reached the great mansion itself, a looming silhouette against the ever-clouded sky, all sharp gables and shadowed windows, like eyes that had grown tired of watching.

But everyone who whispered knew one thing for certain: Darkhaven Manor did not welcome visitors. It chose them.

“Have you heard of something called ‘assist to your own class?’” Baelor's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. He stood tall in front of Christina. His gaze was bored and uninterested.

Without a word, the girl disappeared. His sister shrugged in her seat, and Baelor dropped into the seat beside her. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t need to.

The classroom filled. Familiar faces. All except one.

Peter Rumancek sat a few rows away, hunched in his seat. He looked like he carried entire storms in his chest. His hair hung around his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were ice.

He was handsome. Roughly so.

“Darkhaven.” Mrs. Pisarro called. Both siblings looked up. “You two can’t be in the same class.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. Baelor scoffed.

“I thought our dad already fixed this.” Baelor said flatly.

“This can’t actually be a thing.” Y/N snapped. “It’s not like we’re going to switch places. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don't share the same gender.”

She hated this conversation.

“The twins are allowed to share classes.” The principal’s voice echoed from the doorway. When had he arrived? “Four total. This is one of them. That okay with you, Mrs. Pisarro?”

She nodded, not caring enough to protest further.

Y/N’s pulse quickened. Her throat dried. That scent… expensive, familiar, dizzying—hit her all at once.

Roman Godfrey.

Once Baelor’s brother in everything but blood. Now, the beginning of her undoing.

📜✍🏻: my first two chapters are specially dedicated to @vadersangel, @melancuntly and @fathelzzz. thank you for reading my drafts, believing in the trembling words, seeing my small piece before it properly breathed and nudging me to share this story with all of you. your faith stitched courage into my silence. this humble offering exists because you believed (along with my small family of hemlock after dark). thank you. couldn't be more grateful... now, let's rock. 😈🪬����

━━━━━ ☾☽ ━━━━━

💌: under the old moon: @ch404 @kikibit @rottingpink @voidofsunlight @a-differentbrandof-beans

[theevilfishywizard]

I didnt. Dndads hiveswap au be upon ye

[jobbot]

just got this for like 20 bucks holy shit

[lizardlicks]

Going through my askbox to clean it out and I have so many good Homestuck writing prompts still sitting there waiting, some going back as far as 2015. Some from good good friends who've since deactivated. Damn.

Maybe I can dust some off in the upcoming year??

[aroanthy]

ohhhh and suddenly everything is different now. if you even care. they have looked at each other. btw. looking and seeing and perceiving and understanding as my absolute favourite things in rgu. bearing witness to things. knowing. having the illusion of knowledge or understanding. attempting to unpick what is and isn’t valuable, what we do and don’t understand. watching a play and wondering who produced it. nakedness and clothes and costumes and how they all pertain to this truth/untruth dichotomy that is absolutely not a dichotomy whatsoever. did you guys know i really like aou’s painting motif btw

[putrid-tongue]

though mordú is a cisgendered man and comfortable existing as such, i have been thinking more and more about gender, presentation, traditions that may pertain to him ( as a queer person myself, i would like to weave more variety into my canon and explore different angles. mostly as a comfort to myself— though perhaps you may find comfort in that as well ). and i do not think that he persists in a strictly binary system, nor is he all that familiar with such a thing, such a concept as a whole.

of course this is all breaking with canon ( and may require the rewriting of some canon events, potentially ), but you may be assured that i have no issue with that whatsoever. ( read lighthearted, tongue in cheek )

númenor is depicted largely traditional in the works we have been given. though i feel like a restriction of gender to societal expectations, roles and presentation, as well as gender and sex being a means of oppression and power, does not suit this nation and is a disservice to the plethora of human existence and perception that exists. i am loathe to think that the wondrous sciences they devised, their traditions and philosophies are looked at through a lens of western christianity, for one.

in my mind, númenor is a blend of many, often ancient, mainland cultures that have then developed independently upon the isle for many generations, creating something unique and yet not entirely removed. gender is a thing of fluidity, more tied to a function someone may have in society, not to the person themselves. allowing said person to settle into an environment that best suits their innermost self as well as their interests && abilities. a distinction of someone being lesser or inferior made by gender and sex are foreign to mordú. that is not to say there are no distinctions between men and women in general— this is more about culture and society as a whole, overarching concept.

mordú is indeed a villain, and a reprehensible person, but i labor that his villainy is not channeled through such concepts at all. his were always themes of self-destruction and self-fulfillment, the achievement of his goals and the agony in the wake of it. betrayal of one's spirit.

[rontra]

So, given you are interested in DC, or at least aspects of it and RWBY I am curious what your thoughts were on the recent crossover? I assume positive given the art, which s amazing by the by. Also low key curious if you have any "born in DC" headcanon for superhero RWBY. No pressure though.

THE MOVIE YOU MEAN??? well first off thank you hahahah

& for #2 i don't really have any headcanons like that ... somehow i struggle with conceptualizing rwby crossovers w my other interests in general. (maybe it's because rwby's language is so specific to me i struggle to translate in or out of it????)

i do think however we should rank dc characters on how competently they could solve the salem situation /j*

the movies... i watched them back to back in the same night of course, so it was very funny to like, go directly from v7 to post-v9. they were like Guys you will not believe the shit that happened to us since last time we spoke

of course it's crossover spinoff material and not that important to me in the grand scheme of things. so my mode of interaction with it is mostly Enjoying A Light Snack. i can't say i have many capital t Thoughts that are worth posting about individually bc of that. but i DID enjoy the post-v9 aspect of movie2 bc like--altho obviously they can't dig into this shit in a crossover spinoff film--it still gives somewhat of an inclination towards what the writing room is thinking about. ruby especially i had a great time with. how's figuring out the summer rose shit going for you girl (BADLY) (LOL)

oh and omg invoking raven's name ... RAVEN MENTIONED... (to yang no less. heh)

a lot of salem namedrops in movie2 as well which i did chuckle about every time. speaking of, salem not going to vacuo Bolstered... hee hee hoo hoo... pleaaase give me evil gang meetup at beacon pleaaase

movie1 was a special treat for me because i loved all the "this doesn't make any sense this doesnt add up" Memory/Continuity/Spatial fuckery. i could've genuinely watched two full movies about rwby characters going "wait, that doesn't make any sense" at each other. i REALLY enjoyed that. very good show. pyrrha moment very fun also

i think zatanna shouldve showed up in movie2. for me.

i thought i was gonna miss bat ears brucie baby from the RWBYxJL comic more than i did. i think of him so fondly. but wings were kinda fun .... 🦇

movie1 had a little too much diana characterization disease for me to enjoy her. but that's so common its barely worth leveraging as Specific To This Movie. and i feel like she barely talked in movie2 so jury's still out on that. but of course there's a fair bit of wriggle room for the dc characters (in movie1 especially) as well given the "its a random ass crossover so the meta stakes have never been lower + they all got Genuine Teenager Brain for the whole first movie anyway"

movie2 had some pretty cool animation moments that i really noticed. movie1 wasnt like Awful but movie2 was the one where i perked up like "oh, that animation looked cool", you know? also i really liked the models they made for team rwby. the stylization felt nicely balanced to me?...if that makes sense. i hope we can see more models like them in the future just for me. idc who uses them but its my christmas wish RT please

final evaluation: better than DC/RWBY the comic. here is my favorite screenshot

so true girls<3

*wonder woman could fix everything i know this about her

[sivdoodles]

When the boss said he was hangin' up his hat, everyone was lousy with speculation. Nobody was expectin' it to actually stay in the family, but Daylight Spring grew up in the business and took to it like marbles on a dish. And while that might seem like a lot for a young filly, that's what help like Gardenia Glow and Pepperdance are for.

New OC. Daylight Spring, a little criminal.

[meownotgood]

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

read on ao3

════════════════════

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

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

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

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

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

"That's when you find it." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

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

"I am not-" 

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

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

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

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

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

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

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

"It is a necessary risk." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a reminder that you're right. 

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this body is… wilting. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor softens. 

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

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

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

[s0dium]

Victoria Secret

A/n: For all my Geto lovers, i made sure the fucking was extra juicy. Enjoy!

Synopsis: Your secret indulgence? Buying lingerie. You've managed to keep this "hobby" under wraps until your worst nightmare, Geto Suguru, discovers your secret. Unexpectedly, he proposes a deal: he'll keep your secret, in exchange you help set up his friend Gojo with your roommate, and after that he will even buy you ten sets of your favorite lingerie. There’s just one catch—you have to model them for him. What could go wrong?

"W-what are you doing?" You manage to gasp but Geto just kisses the hollow of your throat. "Why? Do you want me to stop?" He murmurs against your skin. And you know you should say yes, but you shake your head. Like a fool. "Good girl."

Warnings: Teasing, praising, body worship, nipple play and sucking, soft-to-rough sex, unprotected sex, breeding

Word count: 5.5

Every Sunday, at precisely three in the afternoon, you sneak out of your apartment for what you call your "secret indulgence."

Your eyes gaze at the velvet-lined shelves, mentally dissecting the lace and silk items that sit on the red fabric. A familiar, gentle melody fills the boutique, playing overhead as soft light casts a warm glow on the meticulously displayed delicate fabrics. As you run your fingers over each fabric laid before you, you stop when you find one that feels like a whisper against your skin.

This one is perfect.

Carefully you hold the item up on either side, feeling the fabric between your index finger and thumb. Intricate floral patterns cover the lace material and you note the high-waisted cut and scalloped trim that would certainly flatter your figure. You hum in contentment. Yes, this piece of underwear will go perfectly with your collection.

Your "secret indulgence" you may ask? It is collecting lingerie.

Your indulgence was secret for a reason as well. Far too often people assumed that you collected lingerie for a boyfriend or even an audience, but it wasn't like that at all. In fact, it was the opposite, you collected lingerie for you. It wasn't like you never thought about trying it on for someone though, you just never seemed to have an opportunity too. Unlike many of your peers, you're not a social butterfly, never one to attend college parties or gatherings. Even your best friend Shoko has to drag you out of your room every once in a while. Yet, ever since you can remember, there's something about lingerie that captivates you—perhaps it's the delicate lace, the intricate patterns, or how damn good you looked in it. You were simply in love with it.

And up until now, you were pretty damn sure your indulgence was perfectly secret as well.

"Y/n! Just the person I needed to see."

Oh what the fuck.

Your steps halt instantly at the sound of the familiar voice, freezing you in place. You didn't want to look back, you didn't need to look back, you knew who was behind you. You purse your lips as a rush of thoughts floods your mind: Had he seen you leaving the boutique? He wasn't a fool; surely, he'd deduce that the two bags you were clutching came from somewhere significant nearby.

Shit shit shit. Fuck it.

With a nervous bite to the inside of your cheek, you slowly turned around, facing the tall man behind you.

"Geto." You dead pan. There’s a tightness around your mouth, the corners pulled down just enough to betray your displeasure. The usual spark in your eyes is conspicuously absent, replaced by a guarded, cool glare that clearly communicates your discomfort at this encounter.

Geto smiles and takes a few steps toward you. Your first instinct is to step back but you stay in place, taking in his appearance. He's wearing a black tank top today, one that clings to his well-defined muscles and shows off the tattoos covering his arms. He pairs this with casual grey sweatpants that hang loosely around his hips and of course, his long black hair is partially tied up in a man bun like it usually is, while the rest cascades down his back.

Of course he looks good.

Thin sharp black eyes scan you before landing on the two bags you are clutching. His smile grows. You know you're fucked. The last person you needed to uncover your secret.

"Enjoy your shopping?" He chuckles, nodding to the bags and you harshly bite your lip.

"Just some clothes for the summer" You respond dryly, making sure to be heard over the bustling people around you.

"Ah, you don't have to keep secrets from me." Geto chuckles and he gestures to the tattoo and piercing shop across the street. "You know I work there right? I see you go into the little shop every Sunday."

No. No, you did not know that.

You pause before speaking again. "Can I help you with something Geto?"

"Actually, yes you can. I need a favor."

"Favor?" Your eyebrows raise and you scoff. "What could I possibly help you with."

Geto smiles and takes another step forward. "I know we aren't friends, but Shoko is your best friend and she is also mine so I thought maybe we could benefit each other a bit."

You dont respond this time and he continues.

"My best friend, Gojo, im sure you know him."

You have to fight to hide the disgust on your face upon hearing the white-haired man's name. Of course, you knew Gojo, every one on campus knew Gojo, you specifically for the amount of girls he has "toyed" with.

"Yes, I know who the fuck Gojo is." You roll your eyes and you notice Geto has taken another step forward, effectively closing the distance between you two.

"Well, he is head over heels for your room mate-"

"Head over heels or just want to fuck her." You sarcastically snap back, cutting Geto off.

"Is there any difference these days?" he replies, a slight smirk playing at the edges of his lips, challenging the cynicism in your tone.

"And you want me to do what, exactly? Set her up with him? No way," you snap back, your voice rising slightly in indignation. "She's my friend, and I'm not some kind of matchmaker. Gojo can go screw himself."

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying at all," Geto quickly interjects, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm just asking you to let her know that he's available, that he likes her. Just make him out to be an option, you know? Your roommate can do whatever she wants with that information."

"Still, why would I want to do that?" you question, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion and frustration. The warmth of the afternoon seems to intensify the tension between you as Geto steps closer, diminishing the gap until he's just inches away.

"Because in exchange, I'll buy you anything you want," he offers, his voice low and persuasive.

"Um, what?" Your response comes out more as a reflex than anything else.

"Let me rephrase that," he continues, nodding slightly towards the bag of lingerie you're holding, which causes your cheeks to flush with embarrassment. "I’ll buy you what you really want."

"No," you retort firmly, feeling the discomfort rise.

"No?" He echoes, his tone a mix of amusement and disbelief.

"Yes, no. Besides, I'm not strapped for cash. I can buy what I want whenever I want—"

"Didn't I tell you you don't have to lie to me?" Geto cuts in, his voice lowering a bit. "Please, I know how expensive that store is, and I'm not offering just one thing. Say, how about 10 sets from that store you love?" he declares, his eyes flashing with a mix of challenge and amusement.

"10? Can you even afford that?" you retort skeptically, your eyebrows arching in disbelief. This game of his was becoming more intriguing and absurd by the minute.

He leans back, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Oh, and I have to go shopping with you and see you try it on," he adds, as if the deal wasn’t provocative enough.

"Why the hell would you want to do that?" You feel the tips of your ears grow red and you scoff. The idea of Geto Suguru choosing lingerie for you sounds so personal sends a shiver down your spine.

"Because," he pauses, his gaze intense, "its not about buying you lingerie, Consider it… a test of trust, can't just give you hundred of my dollars and let you do whatever you want, I want to make sure you use the money the way our deal assures you will which is... buying lingerie."

You pause, absorbing his words, the heat of the afternoon sun pressing down on you, making the moment feel even more surreal. "Fine. We follow each other on Instagram, so I'll DM you when it's done. But like you said, it's up to her what she wants to do with that information."

"Alright by me. See you soon," he replies, his tone casual yet carrying an underlying note of finality.

As you turn away, walking down the busy street, your mind races with the absurdity of the conversation.

What the hell just happened?

Your fingers hesitated over the blue send button, poised to confirm the completion of your part of the unusual bargain.

Earlier, you had shared with your friend the prospect of a date with Gojo Satoru, carefully omitting the details of the deal behind it. As expected, she was ecstatic, thrilled by the idea despite Gojo's questionable reputation—a fact that gnawed at your conscience. But what could you do? The arrangement was already in motion. Now, it was time to let Geto know that you had held up your end of the agreement, and it was his turn to fulfill his promise.

You took a sharp breath through your nose and pressed down on the screen, watching as the word "delivered" appeared beneath your message in the chat. Just as you were about to set the phone aside and start getting ready for bed, it pinged with a new message. It was from Geto Suguru. Your heart raced as you read the simple words.

When do you want to meet?

The sun blazes down as you approach your favorite boutique, the heat making the pavement shimmer like a mirage. Despite the sweltering temperature, you've donned a big, baggy sweater over your shorts—a choice more about comfort and less about fashion, especially since you didn’t want this meeting to scream 'date'. It’s your casual armor, albeit a warm one on a day like today.

As you near the boutique, you spot Geto Suguru waiting by the entrance. He leans casually against the wall, dressed in some graphic t-shirt and black jeans, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. This time his hair is completely up in a man bun that shows off his black gauge earrings and hints of a tattoo on his back. The moment he sees you, his lips curve into a knowing smile, as if he can read your thoughts about the outfit.

"Hey," he greets, pushing off from the wall to stand upright. His voice is smooth, a calm contrast to the bustling street around you. "I was starting to think you were gonna bail."

"And miss a chance at free money? I think not." you quip. "Hope Gojo enjoyed his date by the way." Sarcasm drips from your words and Suguru chuckles.

"Probably not as much as I'm gonna enjoy this." he counters smoothly. "Come on," he says, gesturing towards the boutique's door. "We got some shopping to do."

The moment you walk through the boutique doors, cool air hits you in refreshing waves, making you sigh with relief. The boutique interior sparkles with delicate lighting and the gentle clinking of hangers, an ambiance you know and love all too well. You notice that the store is unusually quiet today, with no other customers around—just the shop owner standing by the cashier, who flashes you a small, welcoming smile as you enter. As you step further, your eyes lock onto a stunning pink lingerie set draped elegantly on a mannequin right by the entrance. Its intricate lace and delicate details shimmer under the boutique’s soft lighting, radiating an aura of both luxury and temptation. It's new, and most definitely pricy.

"You’re staring," Geto observes with a smirk, catching you in your admiring glance.

"I'm appreciating," you correct him, the corner of your lips twitching upwards. The price tag hanging from the mannequin does nothing to deter you; it's clearly on the pricier side, but today, Geto’s wallet is on the line. "And since you’re offering, I think I’ll indulge."

Geto's laughter fills the air, playful and unbothered. "I should’ve known you'd go for the gold. Well, it’s your day. Let’s make my pockets weep then," he says, gesturing grandly towards the set.

Who were you to deny him?

You dive into the racks, your fingers grazing over silks and satins, selecting the most exquisite pieces you lay your eyes on. One by one, you gather a collection of lingerie sets—each more lavish than the last. There’s a daring scarlet set that promises to captivate, a royal blue ensemble that speaks of deep oceans, and a classic black lace number that's timeless in its elegance. By the time you're done, nine luxurious sets accompany the initial pink one on the counter.

Geto watches with a mixture of admiration and apprehension as the pile grows, his eyebrows raising slightly at each new addition. But he doesn’t protest; instead, he engages in light banter with the shop owner, who carefully folds each set into sleek boutique bags.

As the total rings up—a sum that makes even the shop owner blink twice—you don’t look away from Geto's face, watching for any sign of regret or hesitation. None comes. He simply pulls out his black card, the smirk never leaving his lips as he hands it over.

The transaction goes through with a soft beep, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of victory as he signs the receipt. You reach out to grab the bags and head toward the door, already planning where each piece will go in your wardrobe, when Geto’s voice stops you.

"Where do you think you’re going? We still have the other part of the deal, remember?" he says with no attempt to hide the amusement in his voice.

Geto's reminder hangs in the air, the playful edge in his voice more pronounced now. As realization dawns on you, you let out a low groan, remembering the full scope of the deal. "Oh," you say, hesitance hanging from your voice. "Right, the 'trying on' part."

"Exactly," he grins broadly. "Come on, my car is parked outside."

"HAH! You think I'm going to your house?" you scoff, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief.

"Why not? Or can we go to yours?" he counters quickly, his grin turning into a challenging smirk.

You bite the side of your cheek. Your place was an absolute mess right now and you don't think you can handle Geto Surguru in your room. "Fine, yours it is," you finally concede.

The drive to Geto's place unfolds in a tense silence, your gaze fixed on the cityscape sliding past the car window. Your heart pounds with a mix of dread and nerves, the quiet amplifying the whirlwind of thoughts in your head. There had to be a way to get out of this. The idea of layering your clothes under the lingerie flickers through your mind, but you dismiss it almost instantly—Geto would see right through that. The thought of making a daring escape through a bathroom window doesn't seem entirely out of the question, though it feels more like a scene from a comedy than a realistic plan.

As you mull over these scenarios, you wonder about Geto's intentions. Was this all just a game to him, a way to tease you? He'd watched you choose each piece with care, so there was no question of you running off with his money. Was this some weird way he got off?

Your so into your thoughts that you dont even realize your at Geto's door.

"Welcome to my humble abode," He says through a grin as he swings upon the door. Rolling your eyes at his grandeur, you step inside, instantly taken by the loft's undeniable charm. The space is open and airy, with high ceilings and large, sunlit windows that overlook the bustling city below. Exposed brick walls add a touch of urban cool, while modern art pieces dot the walls, giving the place a curated yet lived-in feel.

"The bathroom is over there," Geto points nonchalantly towards a sleek, sliding door on the far side of the room. His tone is casual, as if inviting you to try on clothes was an everyday occurrence. He saunters over to a plush couch, settling in comfortably. "You can start whenever you're ready."

Feeling a flutter of nerves, you clutch the bag of lingerie a bit tighter. "You want me to—to try on all of them?" Your voice barely hides your anxiety.

"Nah, just two or three," he responds, his voice calm and nonchalant as he picks up a magazine from the coffee table.

With your heart pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it, you make your way to the bathroom. The cool, modern aesthetics of the loft seem to blur as your mind races. Was this just a fucking joke to him?

As the door closes behind you, you set your bags down on the bathroom floor.

Holy shit Holy shit Holy shit.

You were going to die, this was it. You were going to die out of embarrassment because of god damn Geto Suguru. Your face burns a deep shade of red, heart racing as you lean against the cool, marble sink. Fuck, you're overwhelmed, your thoughts a tumultuous whirl, but you know you need to pull yourself together. Yes, the task is simple: pick two sets of lingerie, try them on, and get this ordeal over with. Just two sets, then you can leave. That's all.

Peeking through a slight crack in the bathroom door, you see Geto lounging effortlessly on the couch, casually flipping through a magazine as if he hasn't a care in the world. A quiet curse escapes your lips at his composure— god you hated him.

Turning back to the task at hand, you rummage through the bag containing the 10 pieces of lingerie. Each piece is stunningly beautiful, making the choice unexpectedly difficult. The last thing you wanted was to make it seem like you where trying to impress him. After a moment's hesitation, your hands settle on a set of black lace lingerie—bold but the plainest out of all of them.

Slipping into the black lace, you feel the fabric glide smoothly over your skin. The lace is intricate, delicate yet firm, offering a sensation that is both luxurious and comforting. As it settles into place, you notice how perfectly it cups your breasts, enhancing your natural shape without discomfort. The fabric molds to your body, sculpting your curves in a way that boosts your confidence, even in such a vulnerable moment.

Turning to face the mirror, you take a moment to really look at yourself. The lingerie accentuates your figure beautifully—your waist appears slimmer, your hips more pronounced. Yes, this was exactly what you loved about lingerie, how it made you look and more importantly how it made you feel. Despite the situation, you can't help but feel a surge of self-assurance. It's a small victory, but in this moment, it's enough to steady your nerves.

Now was the hard part.

Slowly you step out of the bathroom, your heart pounds fiercely in your chest, echoing in your ears. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, Geto's attention shifts from his magazine to you. He lays the magazine aside, his gaze instantly locking onto you. His eyes rake up and down your figure, taking in every detail of the black lace lingerie that clings to your curves.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Geto muses, a teasing grin playing on his lips. "If it isn't the bravest fashion model of our time."

"S-shut up," you stammer, trying to mask your discomfort with irritation. "Just remember, I'm only doing this because of the deal."

"Oh, and you're doing it magnificently, may I add. Who knew you hid such bold taste under that sweater."

"It's just underwear, don't read too much into it," you retort, your cheeks warming under his scrutiny.

"Turn for me," he commands softly. "I want to see the back."

"What?" you falter, caught off guard.

"Turn for me, I want to see behind," he repeats more firmly.

Fuck it.

Reluctantly, you turn, exposing the delicate lace detailing on the back.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the design.

"What?" you ask, your voice wavering slightly—unsure if you're more startled by the compliment or by the intimacy of his tone.

"Nothing, baby," he responds, his hand dismissively waving as he looks away, pretending to refocus on something else in the room. "Go try on the next one."

You dont say anything, instead slipping back into the bathroom and rummaging through the bag. Your heart still thumps audibly in your chest, but now there's an undercurrent of excitement mixed with the nerves. The flutter in your chest isn't just from anxiety though; it's also from a burgeoning sense of empowerment. You realize that you have control over how you present yourself, a certain power over Sugruru.

After discarding the set you were wearing, you reach into the bag and pull out the pink set you splurged on earlier. The fabric is luxurious, with a hint of sheerness to the bra that would no doubt show your nipples. The underwear is equally bold, designed as a thong with delicate straps that loop around each thigh, highlighting the curves of your hips and legs.

As you slip into the pink lingerie, the fabric settles against your skin like a whispered secret. The sheer material of the bra makes you acutely aware of your own body, and as you adjust the straps around your thighs, the ensemble frames your form in a way that feels almost artistically deliberate.

Yes, just after this you would be done. So why not go out with a bang?

As you step out of the bathroom, the transformation in your demeanor is palpable. The delicate pink lingerie accentuates your confidence, which resonates with each step you take towards Geto. His eyes lift to meet yours, and the moment they travel down to take in the full view, his expression shifts dramatically to one of... shock? His usual composure falters, and he lets out a low, incredulous whistle.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out.

You shift in place, playing with the silk hem of your underwear.

After a moment, he composes himself slightly and gestures towards him with a slight tilt of his head. "Come here," he says softly, his voice low and inviting.

You pause, the hesitation clear in your stance. The intensity in his gaze and the palpable tension in the air make your heart race even faster.

Seeing your reluctance, Geto's expression softens. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. "Please," he adds, a hint of something more vulnerable in his tone this time.

The room seems to pulse with the silent energy between you as you take a tentative step forward, then another, drawn by the magnetic pull of his gaze. The air thickens with a charged mix of anticipation and desire as you finally stop just a breath away from him.

He looks up at you, standing up from his seat, his gaze intense yet tender. "You look incredible," he murmurs. You flinch when you feel his hand his finger trace your jaw and his other hand play with the hem of your lace underwear. He bends down, his lips just grazing your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine, making your entire body quiver. "If you want me to stop, say it now," he whispers. When you remain silent, he brushes his mouth against the hollow of your temple. "Or now." He traces the curve of your cheekbone. "Or now." His lips meet yours.

For a moment your so shocked that he kissed you, you don't do anything. It feels like you are having an out-of-body experience like you can't believe this as actually happening to you. Then in a matter of seconds, his lips move against yours and you melt. Suguru is gentle at first, then unyieldingly hard. You feel yourself falling —not just physically, but emotionally too. You open for him and his tongue snakes its way inside your mouth. His hands move from your face to your lower back as he pulls you toward him, closing whatever space was left between you. He pushes you against him as he deepens the kiss. One of his hands remains on your hip, while the other travels to cup your breasts.

"W-what are you doing?" You manage to gasp but Geto just kisses the hollow of your throat."

"Why? Do you want me to stop?" He mumbles against your skin. And you know you should say yes, but you shake your head. Like a fool.

"Good girl."

Without a warning, Geto sweeps you up in his arms with an ease that leaves you breathless, carrying you effortlessly across the room to his bed.

Geto stands over you, his eyes tracing the contours of your body splayed elegantly across his bed.

"Shit baby, you let anyone else see you like this?"

You thickly gulp and shake your head.

"Oh thank god." He murmurs, climbing over you to place light kisses along your neck, trailing down your chest. Each kiss is soft yet deliberate, sending a cascade of warmth through your entire body. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to be fully immersed in the sensation.

"Your skin feels like silk," he murmurs.

"Did you steal that line from a hallmark card?" You crack.

"Nope just stating a fact." He skims the underside of your bra with his fingers. "Always watched you come out of the store, always wanted to see how you'd look in what you bought." He lifts his head to give you a wry look "You're so smooth and perfect you know that right?"

You let out a soft gasp when his lips find your nipple, pulling your lacy bra down so soft lips can evoke your nub.

"Oh god sugu-" He doesn’t let you get to the last consonant, his eager, hot mouth enveloping one of your nipples and sucking. His tongue flattens, rolling your peak and swirling around your areola, fast and rough until you’re whining. His ears go hot at the sounds you’re making, all desperate and needy.

"So beautiful, fuck your tits are so beautiful" He groans into your skin like it was cocaine. He then switches to your other breast, sucking and licking until he knows you will be sore. Jesus, your breasts feel so good in his mouth, so soft and sweet, why didn't he do this sooner? How much longer did he think he could maintain this facade of being your 'enemy' when all he truly desired was to have you underneath him?

You are squirming underneath him now, the stimulation of his wet tongue on your nipple is becoming unbearable and so was the growing heat between your legs. Your tits feel so good in his mouth, supple, sweet, far better than his imagination could ever conjure

"God, sugu-"

"Love it when you say my name." Suguru breaths between licks and you feel your stomach twist with.

"Sugu please" you manage to gasp, "please touch me please anything please-"

"Fuck you?" Suguru coos, and the words make warmth blossom from your core.

"Please." You breath.

And who was he to deny you?

Without much of a word he pulls your lace panties down to your ankles, making you instinctively hide your bare cunt with your hands, but he clicks the roof of his mouth with his tongue and swats your fingers away. Then, as he stands over you, Suguru steps out of his black pants and pulls off his t-shirt. As you glimpse Suguru, you feel your breath get caught in your throat. His large, incredibly toned frame is a clear testament to rigorous workouts, and intricate tattoos weave across his skin, adding to the attraction.

You were no longer in the kiddie pool.

You are too immersed in his figure that you dont even notice he has lowered down his black boxers just enough so his long length springs out and slaps against his abdomen.

You thickly gulp.

"I dont think that will-" You stammer, the sheer size or his dick making your gut twist and turn. "I think it will hurt I dont think it will-" As you continue to stammer, searching for the right words, Geto cuts you off with a deep, consuming kiss that immediately shuts you up. When he finally pulls back, a confident smirk plays on his lips.

"It will, baby, it always does," he murmurs, his voice low and dark.

Geto positions himself atop you, his strong legs straddling either side of your body, anchoring him in place. He leans over you, the intensity of his gaze capturing yours as he methodically entwines his fingers with yours. With a firm but gentle grasp, he pins your hands down on either side of your body, his proximity reducing the world to the space between you. The warmth of his breath brushes against your face, his presence both overwhelming and exhilarating, as he holds you there under him, completely in control yet tender in his touch.

Before you can even get a word in, you gasp when you feel large pressure against your hole.

"Slowly baby," he hushes you before you can protest. "I'll go slowly."

Suguru's slow roll of hips hips into you is enough to make you scream. The way his dick parts your walls and fills every single inch of you makes your brain go hazy, especially when his tip smooshes against your cervix, sending blots of electricity throughout your body.

"Talk to me baby," Suguru murmurs, his voice cracking from the vice grip your cunt has on dick. "Want me to move?"

You're too lost in the hazy pleasure to form words, all you can do is nod, making Geto breathe out an air of what must be relief. His thrusts started out shallow and slow, testing the waters for how much he could get away with. What your limits were, and if you could fully take him for what he wanted.

You feel like you are going insane from the pleasure. Your cries came silent from your throat, eyes screwed shut in complete bliss. Your body adjusted rather quickly to him, Suguru coaxing you to relax as he peppers kisses along your neck, sucking and biting your sensitive skin. And as you adjusted, your hips began to buck against him at their own pace, beckoning him to move faster.

Of course, Suguru doesn't miss this, and without missing a beat he speads up his thrusts, the pap pap pap of his skin against your echoing in your ears

"Shit, you feel so good baby." Geto practically whines. You don't know it, but he's starting to lose his grip, the overwhelming pleasure beginning to unravel his usual composure.

The delicious friction of his dick scrapping your walls has your heart pounding in your ears and your breath close to hyperventilating. Everything is too much too good all at once. The proximity of Geto's body is overwhelming, his warm skin against yours, his ragged breath hot against your neck. When you gaze into his face, the sight nearly makes you faint—his eyes scrunched shut, lost in euphoria, beads of sweat lining his black hairline. His mouth is slightly open, panting, a sight that makes your cunt flutter from excitement.

"Su-Suguru, so good you're fucking me so good." you babble and he can only groan in response. Your toes curled and uncurled as he continued to wreck your body with his completely brutal thrusts. The pain of him hitting the tip of your cervix nearly every time mixed with the kisses he peppered on your neck and lips was all enough to end you to heaven.

He knows you're close. And you know it too. The way Suguru is fucking you is truly a primal display of affection; him rutting into your cunt like an animal in heat and you frantically scratching and clawing at his back.

Thats when an idea hits you, no, a need overcomes you, You need Suguru, you need all of him, all of him inside you filling you up and making you his.

"Sugu cum in me please," you beg through a hoarse voice. "Fill me up please please please."

He’s been pressing kisses and biting into your shoulder, but you don’t miss the way he practically whines at your words.

"Course baby, course I will."

As if on cue, you feel your seize up and your mind go blank. It feels like your body is free falling into a euphoric grave, electric arrows of pleasure coursing through your sin and directly to your core.

"Oh shit" Suguru curses at the way your cunt clamps down on him and it isnt to long before he follows you, shooting thick ropes of cum straight into your belly. In a fluid motion without leaving your insides once, he picks you up so you are straddling him, and his bare chest is pressed against yours.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs into your ear. And you can only sigh in response.

'I'll buy you 1000 more lingerie sets if we can do this again."

[demaparbat-hp]

Hiya!! 👋🏼😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

.

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️