#turning the tide (modern)

[illusiomagnificentia]

verses

the power behind the name (main) locket enterprises (star wars) turning the tide (modern)

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, mutual pining, romantic tension, cheesiness, 1.3k wc tracklist: still - you’ll never get to heaven fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 5 | fig. 6

Sleep won’t find you tonight.

You’re hyper-aware of everything, from the wind weaving through the maple leaves outside to the moth fluttering about your room, hurling itself against the windowpane like it pays rent. 

The comforter’s wrapped around your legs in a cocoon. Moonlight bleeds in silver streaks across your body as you sit up. 

With a sigh, you smooth back your hair, studying the wrinkles in your bedspread. 

There is no singular thing that’s got you on edge. It’s a bit of everything—work, life, your future, your roomie back and roaming the halls of your house like an apparition, and that moth nearly giving you a heart attack, flying into your face.

He’s thankfully quiet, Sylus. Always is, mindful of your sleeping schedule despite being a night owl himself. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past midnight. You’re gonna be hurting later. 

Maybe it is him. You’ve been all jittery and tongue-tied since last week when he alluded to something you were too stupid to pick up on. When he came so close to kissing you and shifting the tide of your relationship after months of tiptoeing around this budding feeling. But you just had to open your big, dumb mouth and drive that wedge even deeper.

Lately, your mind’s been a whirl of confusion, every little smirk, mischievous glint in his eye, and idle brush of fingers taking on new meaning. 

Figuring some cold water would help ease your nerves, you haul yourself from your bed and shrug into one of your cardigans.

Arms crossed to ward off the crisp whisper of the AC, you pad down the stairs, mindful of each creak in the floorboards, trying not to rouse your roommate on the off chance that he is asleep. 

The jaundiced glow from the kitchen spills into the hallway as you make your way down. Cold beneath your bare feet. You stop at the common area’s threshold when you see him—that hulking figure hunched over the table, tinkering with something too small for his hands. 

There’s a tiny divot between his brows, lips tight with concentration. He’s got his AirPods in. Sweater sleeves rolled up to the crooks of his elbows, fingers shifting between a small Philips head and wire cutters.  

You watch him a little longer, hip propped on the doorframe, waiting to see if he’ll notice you. Come to think of it, his hair’s gotten longer, sweeping over broad shoulders, a little tousled and damp, probably from a shower. He doesn’t look as spent as he did when he first came back. Things must be going well at work.

Done ogling him like a creep, you pad into the dining room. He startles slightly when he catches sight of you, expression easing from mild surprise to an effortless crook of the lips. He tugs out an AirPod, fixing you with those brilliant, boyish red eyes.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

You wave a dismissive hand, moving to settle beside him on the table. Rest your feet on the chair, ignoring the static discharge between your bodies, tingling your skin. “Nah. The existential dread did.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, turning his attention back to the contraption out front after taking a swig from his mug. “It tends to do that.”

You eye the mess of wiring and microchips with a raised brow, slightly curled over, nudging his thigh with your toes. 

“That looks like a detonator.”

“It is,” he answers too quickly, matter-of-factly, not looking up.

It takes a beat, but you catch onto his sarcasm. He’s messing with you. Your Sylus, obsessed with Classical music, film noir, talking to a mechanical bird he built like it’s a real one, and helping old ladies pull weeds out of the kindness of his heart, constructing a detonator? 

Yeah. You are tired. 

“You planning to blow up a hospital?”

He holds one of the chips strewn across the table to the light with a set of tweezers, turning it over, scrutinizing it like a gem. “You have no idea.”

You snort, peeling yourself from the table after clapping him on the shoulder. Squeeze, and—has he always been this pleasantly rigid?

“Alright, Heath Ledger,” you taunt, walking into the kitchen. “You have fun with your plans to take over Gotham City.”

You’re halfway to the fridge when the hot scrawl of steam catches in your periphery near the stove. You turn towards its source—your favorite mug on the counter, filled with something dark and earthy, the faint scent of broken apple skin beckoning to you.

“Chamomile,” Sylus’ voice carries from the dining area, “to help you sleep.”

It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head. That, or he knows you too well, and you suppress those delightful little thrills and that stupid smile threatening to break out onto your face when you take the mug between your palms.

You lean against the counter for a sip. It’s warm. Delightfully warm, pooling in your belly, the right amount of sweet buried beneath its bitter bite. 

“Do you always make tea for two?” A shoddy attempt at flirting. A thank you masked by sarcasm.

You watch his shoulder blades swim beneath his sweater as he shrugs. “Only when I know someone can’t sleep.”

You scoff, venturing back to his side, sliding onto your spot on the table that’s still warm. You study him from the rim of your mug held to your lips as the crackle of plastic and copper wiring salts the air—those unfairly pretty lashes, the quiet confidence in his eyes, his sloped nose. 

You’re staring again. A tad too long, blinking away your reverie, the steam watering your eyes, and you sip your tea.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Just smiles that knowing smile, in on a secret you know nothing of.

“You know, I once read that insomnia is a byproduct of avoiding something.”

You stiffen. He doesn’t have to look at you for you to know he’s calling you out in that way that bleeds Sylus. You’re in this picture, and you don’t like it.

Your tone is sagely. “You read that somewhere? I’m assuming from one of those old, moldy tomes in your room?”

He chuckles, and you love that sound. It pinches something in your belly. Reminds you of fall and mahogany and cured leather sliding against your fingertips.

The silence settles again. Comfortable, typical. You’ve moved closer without noticing, his arm teasing your thigh each time he shifts. You could conquer the space between you with a breath out. You’re closer than roommates, both physically and metaphorically.  

You’re both keenly aware of that fact, yet neither of you makes a move to bridge the gap. 

Setting down your mug, you stuff your hands in your cardigan pockets. Drop your shoulders along with your defenses, voice thick in your throat.

“What if I said I wasn’t trying to avoid anything, but instead trying to confront something?”

You don’t know what it is about him that makes you feel so at ease. Gives you diarrhea of the mouth. 

He sets his supplies down with a soft, definitive clack. Slowly turns your way, and you’re holding your breath. His eyes slide over your features like he’s searching for something. Like he’s weighing something in his mind before they snap to yours. 

“Then I’d say you’re not alone.”

The atmosphere between you tilts. Thickens with particles rubbing together so fast, it grows hot. Neither of you looks away, and neither of you makes a move to go. 

You’re just two idiots wordlessly feeling each other out, trying not to burn up like meteors streaking across the stratosphere. 

One step forward feels like another ten back.  

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[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Star's Fairytale July

➾In Which: Star will share twisted and dark tellings of everyone's favorite classic fairytales.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥ATEEZ x fem reader (separately, and the final all together)

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere / dark, lots of au's, consensual + dub con + non con

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DARK FICTION. DEAD DOVES ALL AROUND. some more than others so check the tags on each chapter before you read !

���a/n: i'm so excited !!! i've always alwayyyys loved grimms fairy tales and dark fiction in general, and i've spent a lot of time planning these out; some ideas have been around since spooktober 2023. this is the project i'm pausing my work on requests for, so i hope you enjoy ! this might not be the order they're posted in but we shall seeeee

taglist ? -> open !

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Heart of a True Believer

❥Kim Hongjoong ➾In Which: Neverland is dying and you, my dear, are the only way it can survive. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "( Return to ) Neverland", loosely inspired by "Once Upon A Time", peter pan joong, historical fantasy au, dub-con

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When Will My Life Begin?

❥Jung Wooyoung ➾In Which: Life is simple, it's safe, and it's calm. When a strange man climbs inside your isolated tower — it turns into anything but. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Rapunzel" and "Tangled", criminal woo, modern fantasy au, consensual

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Devour

❥Jeong Yunho ➾In Which: He's watching. He's drooling. He's so hungry. He's so pent up. He can't decide which way he'd rather devour you. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Little Red Riding Hood", non-con to dub-con, historical fantasy au, werewolf yunho / red riding hood reader

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Last Petal

❥Choi Jongho ➾In Which: The Beast has until the last petal falls from the rose to find true love. And he is determined not to let that petal fall. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Beauty and The Beast", consensual, historical fantasy au

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Fate

❥Kang Yeosang ➾In Which: You are lost with no way home after you break a wing, and a friendly woodcutter offers his home to you. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Seonnyeowa namukkun", lumber jack sang / fairy reader, dub-con

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Wild

❥Song Mingi ➾In Which: Your plane goes down in uncharted wilderness — but you don't have to be afraid. He will take care of you. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Tarzan", non-con to consensual, historical au

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Tides

❥Park Seonghwa ➾In Which: You save a prince from drowning, and it comes back to bite you in the tail. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "The Little Mermaid", prince hwa / mermaid reader, historical fantasy au, dub-con

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Price of Magic

❥Choi San ➾In Which: The devil at your window tells you he can help you, but all magic comes with a price. ಠ_ಠ: a spin on "Rumplestiltskin", demon san, dub-con, historical fantasy au

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Tea Party

❥ATEEZ ➾In Which: You and The Mad Hatter Hongjoong host a party where the most debaucherous affairs take place. ಠ_ಠ: PURE SMUT. consensual, sooooo many smut warnings holy shit-

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

[cheftsunoda]

party 4 u —cl16 & mv1

charles leclerc x !ex lover reader

max verstappen x !wife reader

(a/n) : reread gatsby for the 80th time and got inspired. i hope you enjoy. george is the readers cousin. working on all the requests rn- love you guys.

word count : 6,365

“…i only threw this party for you”

george pov

When I first moved to Monaco, I didn’t expect to hear jazz echoing through my apartment walls at one in the morning. And yet, here I was — three nights in a row — lying awake in a painfully modern flat in Fontvieille while a saxophone moaned through the night air, accompanied by laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional cheer, like someone had just won a hand of poker or landed a deal worth millions. At first, I assumed it was just Monaco being Monaco. But then I saw the house.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a palace of light — ivory stone, clean glass, framed by palm trees and ocean views. The parties spilled out into the gardens, down to a private dock where vintage Riva boats rocked gently against the tide. Ferraris lined the circular drive. And at the edge of the property, glowing faintly in the night like a secret, was a small green light, fixed at the end of the dock. It blinked through the dark, across the water — oddly out of place. Quiet, where everything else was loud. Still, where the rest of the estate pulsed with life. I didn’t understand it then. But later, I would. 

—

The night I finally received an invitation, it arrived on thick cream paper slid under my door. No name. Just a time, a date, and a location I could have found blindfolded.

—

The party was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Models lounged on lounge chairs as if posing for fashion editorials. Waiters in black tuxedos carried trays of champagne and caviar. Jazz musicians played on a raised platform, and beyond them, a DJ was already warming up for the late-night shift.

“Mr. Russell.”

I turned to see him, standing at the edge of the garden, in a perfectly cut black suit. Not a hair out of place. But up close, Charles looked… tired. Or maybe just haunted.

“Charles,” I said, shaking his hand. “I wasn’t sure the invitation was real.”

“I don’t invite people who don’t matter,” he said with a small smile. “Come. Walk with me.”

We strolled along the edge of the pool, the party fading behind us.

“I knew your name sounded familiar,” he said. “You’re related to her.”

I paused. “To who?”

“To YN,” he said, as if it were obvious. As if her name were written across the sky.

Her name hung in the air like the smoke from the cigar someone had left behind on a railing.

“She’s… well,” I began, unsure of the boundary I was crossing. “She’s married now. You probably know that.”

“To Max Verstappen,” he said, bitterness bleeding into his voice. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long silence. He stopped walking and looked out over the cliffside. His eyes didn’t fix on the city or the stars — they settled on that same light, blinking across the bay, barely visible in the distance from this side of the estate.

“Do you see that?” he asked me, pointing. “That light.”

I nodded.

“It’s hers,” he said. “From her dock. I had mine built to mirror it. I thought… maybe if she ever looked across the water, she’d know someone was waiting.”

There was a pause. The music behind us shifted to a slower rhythm. The world seemed to exhale.

“Do you think,” Charles asked quietly, “if I threw enough parties, made enough noise, maybe… one day she’d show up?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the answer was both cruel and kind.

“She might,” I finally said. “She’s still in Monaco.”

He turned to me then, and for the first time, I saw it. Not the money, not the cars or the charm — but the ache beneath it all.

“Tell her I said hello,” he murmured. “No — wait. Don’t.”

He smiled again, that fractured, wistful kind of smile that people wear when they’re already halfway through a memory.

—

Later that night, I messaged YN. 

Just got in. Staying in Fontvieille… you won’t believe who my neighbor is. Drinks later?

And even as I hit send, I glanced out my own window —at the soft glow of that green light blinking faintly across the dark sea. And I knew. This wasn’t going to be about racing. It was about her. 

And the man who never stopped watching the water for her return.

—

your pov 

I always hear the sea before I see it. It’s the first thing that greets me each morning, soft waves brushing against the cliffs beneath the villa, rising through the open balcony doors in a rhythm that’s become as familiar to me as the beat of Max’s absence. He was gone before I woke up. Again. No note, no goodbye, just the quiet echo of the front door closing and the faint smell of motor oil lingering in the sheets. It’s always like this during race week. There’s no room for softness in his world, only speed and steel. I step outside into the morning light, drawing my robe tighter around my waist as the breeze dances across my skin. Monaco stretches out beneath me — white yachts drifting into the bay, their wakes slicing through the water like ribbons being unwound. The hills behind them are already glowing gold with sun, and the city is beginning to bloom again after its slow, silent winter. And then, I see it.

The light.

Faint. Blinking. Distant.

It’s perched at the end of a dock across the bay much too far to be useful, too strange to be a coincidence. I’ve noticed it before, always late at night when I can’t sleep, when I pace the villa barefoot, aching for something I can’t quite name. I never knew what the light meant. But today, it feels like it’s looking right back at me. My phone buzzes on the terrace table. I already know who it is.

George.

Just got in. Staying in Fontvieille — you won’t believe who my neighbor is. Drinks later?

I smile despite myself. George has always been a soft place to land, all English politeness and thoughtful silences. The opposite of Max’s sharpness, his chaos. I haven’t seen George since Christmas, when we all played pretend around the dinner table and ignored the cracks in my perfect life.

Of course. I could use a distraction.

I hit send. The light blinks once more, steady this time. Like a heartbeat.

—

The lounge at Hôtel de Paris is half-empty when I arrive. George stands when he sees me, and for a moment I forget the years between us.

“Still the most glamorous woman in Monaco,” he says, kissing my cheek.

“And still the smoothest liar in Europe,” I tease.

We fall into our old rhythm — champagne, banter, small talk wrapped in satin. But I can feel something building. George is holding something just behind his smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Do you remember Charles Leclerc?”

The world stills. My breath catches. God. Of course I do. I remember how his voice dipped when he said my name. How his fingers hovered over mine like they didn’t dare touch. How he looked at me — like I was every sunrise he thought he’d never see again.

I swallow. “Yes. I remember.”

“He’s my neighbor,” George says slowly. “Lives just across from me in Fontvieille. You should see the house — it’s… absurd. Like something out of a dream. And the parties, every night. Like he’s trying to distract himself from something.”

I stare down at my glass.

“He asked about you,” George adds. “Didn’t know I was your cousin at first. Once he found out… well. I didn’t need to ask anything else.”

My heart knocks against my ribs.

“He built a dock, you know,” George continues. “Had it designed to mirror yours. And at the end of it — there’s a light.”

I look up. I don’t try to hide the way my expression shifts. He sees it.

“I’ve seen it,” I whisper.

“Every night,” George says. “He stands there, staring across the water. At you, I think. Or maybe just the idea of you.”

I don’t say anything. Because what could I possibly say?

—

That night, after Max has returned and collapsed into bed, I stand at the window. The city glows below, Monaco sparkling like something on the verge of unraveling. I press my hand to the glass, eyes drawn once again to that single, blinking green light across the bay. I can’t tell if it’s calling me back…or daring me to come closer. But I know one thing for certain…The past has teeth. And it’s not finished with me yet.

—

george pov 

The music was louder near the terrace — bold jazz brushing shoulders with the hum of luxury and secrets. But inside, the sound softened, swallowed by velvet curtains and expensive silence. I found Kika alone in the library. She looked every bit the part — sleek gown, hair pinned like she’d just stepped out of a runway show, drink in hand, lounging on the edge of a leather armchair like the room belonged to her. It probably did, in some way. She always seemed to belong. She raised a brow when she saw me.

“I was wondering when you’d come looking for me.”

I smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “You always seem to know where to disappear to.”

She tilted her glass toward me. “And you always seem to want answers you’re not ready to hear.”

I stepped inside. “You know something.”

Her smile faltered for half a second — just long enough. I crossed the room and sat opposite her, letting the silence settle like dust between us.

“It’s about Charles,” I said.

She didn’t answer right away.

“It’s about her,” she corrected softly. “And him.”

Kika swirled the drink in her hand, the ice clinking like a clock ticking down. “He was hers before Max ever entered the picture. Not officially, not in the kind of way people write about — but in all the ways that matter.”

“And she left?” I asked.

“She had to,” Kika said. “You know how it works. Her family. The image. The politics. Charles was everything she wanted and nothing she was allowed to choose.”

I stared at her. “And now she’s married to Max.”

Kika laughed — a little bitter, a little bored. “If you think marriage erases love, George, you’ve been spending too much time in the paddock and not enough time watching people lie to themselves.”

I looked down at my drink.

“She doesn’t talk about him,” I said. “But I can feel it. Like she’s holding her breath around the very idea of him.”

“She doesn’t talk about him,” Kika echoed, “because she’s afraid that if she does, the dam will break.”

She leaned forward now, her tone shifting, eyes sharper.

“Do you know why Charles throws these parties?”

I didn’t answer. Kika gave me a look that felt almost sad. “It’s for her. It’s always been for her. Every guest, every bottle of champagne, every stupid green light glowing at the edge of that dock — it’s all a signal flare. Just in case she’s watching.”

I leaned back, the weight of her words settling heavy in my chest.

“Do you think she’ll come back to him?”

Kika was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, soft and complicated.

“I think… if she lets herself feel anything at all, she never really left.”

—

youy pov 

It started with a message from George.

Come by tomorrow around four? Nothing fancy. Tea and old gossip?

I said yes, not because I had the time — Max had meetings, sponsors, a dinner I was expected to sit through — but because George never asked for much. And I liked being with someone who didn’t make me feel like I had to earn my presence. Besides, the rain was coming down in slow, silver sheets that afternoon, soaking the cliffs and muting the sound of the sea. Monaco in the rain felt like something suspended in time — a painting left out in a storm. I didn’t dress up. A soft sweater, silk trousers, hair left loose. I told myself it didn’t matter. That was my first mistake. George’s apartment overlooked the harbor. It was clean, almost surgical, like he didn’t really live there. He opened the door with a nervous smile that didn’t suit him.

“You’re early,” he said, glancing at his watch.

I raised a brow. “You said four.”

“I know,” he said. “Just — come in. Sit. You want tea?”

“I want to know what you’re hiding,” I replied, stepping inside.

He laughed, too quickly. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“You’re British. You only make tea under emotional duress.”

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. And that was when I knew. I turned slowly, my heart already racing — faster than it had in years, faster than it ever did with Max. George moved to open the door, and for a split second, I thought I should run. But then the door opened. And there he was.

Charles.

He hadn’t changed. Or maybe he had, but in all the right ways. His hair was slightly longer, curling at the edges. The lines around his eyes were deeper, not from age, but from ache. He wore a cream sweater and tailored trousers, simple and quiet, like he didn’t need the world to notice him — he only needed one person to. And for a moment, neither of us spoke. Rain dripped from his jacket, pooling onto George’s polished floor. He held a single white flower in his hand — delicate, already starting to wilt.

“Hi,” he said.

My mouth went dry. “Hi.”

I didn’t move. Neither did he.

George cleared his throat. “I, uh… I’ll just go check on the tea.”

Coward.

We stood in that tiny sitting room with too much space between us.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“I hoped you would be,” Charles said, voice quiet, steady. “But I didn’t want to force anything.”

I looked down at the flower in his hand.

He offered it to me. “It’s from my garden. Not the best choice, maybe.”

I took it.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

He looked at me, really looked at me, and it was like the air between us shifted. Everything unsaid sat heavy in the space we didn’t dare cross.

“I’ve thought about this moment,” he said. “For years.”

I swallowed. “And?”

“And now that you’re here… I don’t know what to say.”

I smiled, fragile and real. “You could say hello again.”

So he did.

—

Later, George would return with a tray of tea no one touched. The rain would ease off. The sky would open into a strange sort of stillness. And Charles would sit across from me like someone who had forgotten how to breathe, afraid that if he blinked, I might disappear. And I—I would hold the flower in my lap, petals already starting to bruise, and feel something begin to bloom again inside me. Something I had buried beneath vows, race weekends, and careful smiles.

Something with his name. The rain hadn’t stopped. It had only softened — now a light drizzle clinging to the marble streets of Fontvieille, making everything look like it belonged in a memory. George had conveniently vanished somewhere inside the apartment, muttering something about emails and phone calls that didn’t exist. I knew what he was doing. I was grateful for it. Charles stood by the window, hands in his pockets, watching the mist slide down the glass.

“I don’t like tea,” he said, without turning.

I laughed. “You drank it.”

“I drank it because you were there.”

That silenced me. Not because it surprised me but because it didn’t. I looked at him, really looked at him. The way his shoulders sat differently now, heavier somehow. The way his voice had dropped half an octave, like life had carved itself into him.

“I’ve missed the rain here,” I said, quietly.

He turned toward me. “Would you like to walk in it?”

I hesitated. But then I nodded. We didn’t speak for the first few minutes. The streets were nearly empty. The rich don’t walk in the rain — they send their assistants or wait it out behind tinted glass. But there we were, side by side, moving slowly past shuttered cafes and blooming window boxes, both pretending not to notice how close our hands were.

“You used to say you hated the rain,” Charles said finally.

“I used to say a lot of things.”

He smiled without looking at me. “That summer, you always carried a red umbrella. Even when it wasn’t raining.”

“It matched my lipstick.”

“It made you look like you belonged in a movie.”

We kept walking. At one point, I slipped — just a little, my foot catching on the wet stone — and he reached out, instinctively, his hand catching my elbow. His touch was warm even through the sleeve of my sweater.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

I didn’t pull away.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize you,” he said, after a long silence. “That time had… changed you into someone else.”

“And?” I asked.

“And then you laughed.”

He stopped walking. I did too.

“You laughed,” he said again, “and I knew you were still mine. Somewhere.”

The air around us felt still, even as the rain clung to our clothes. My heart was loud in my chest. His eyes held mine like a question he’d been too afraid to ask for years. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t. So instead, I reached for his hand. And this time, I didn’t let go. I didn’t know we were walking there until we arrived. One moment we were side by side in the rain, hands barely touching — and the next, we were standing at the tall black gates of a cliffside villa that seemed to rise right out of the sea. Hidden behind cypress trees and ivy-covered walls, it looked more like a dream than a home. As if someone had taken all the fantasies of a boy in love and pressed them into stone and glass. Charles didn’t say a word as the gates opened. I stopped walking.

“You live here?” I asked, breathless.

He glanced over at me, almost shy. “It’s not far from yours. I thought maybe, someday… you’d notice.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. We stepped inside. The foyer was quiet, grand in that effortless European way. White walls. Warm oak. A chandelier that looked like dripping light. Music floated in from somewhere — soft piano. I followed him past rooms lined with art I recognized from magazines, sculptures I’d once seen in Florence, and windows that opened straight onto the ocean, the sea stretching out in every direction like something eternal.

“I bought this place two years ago,” he said. “Did most of the designing myself. I wanted it to feel like… something alive.”

“Alive,” I echoed.

He nodded. “Like it was waiting.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. He led me through the living room — two stories high, all soft neutrals and open space — and up a staircase that curled like a seashell. Every room looked untouched. As if someone had spent years preparing them for a moment that never came.

“This is my favorite,” he said, pushing open a pair of double doors at the end of the hall.

It was a library — soft lighting, shelves that reached the ceiling, a single armchair facing a massive window that looked directly across the bay. And there it was again. The green light. Blinking. Waiting. Watching. My throat tightened.

“I put it there for you,” he said, quietly.

I turned to him.

“You couldn’t have known I’d ever come.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But hope doesn’t need permission.”

The rain had stopped now, but everything still glistened with it — the rooftops, the glass, the sea itself. The entire city looked like it had been held underwater and brought up gasping. I stepped closer to the window.

“You’ve made a world here,” I said. “And you filled it with ghosts.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched me.

“I don’t know if I belong in it,” I whispered.

“You do,” he said. “You always did.”

In the quiet, I could feel the ache between us — years stretched taut like thread. The kind that doesn’t snap. The kind that holds. Outside, the green light blinked again. And for the first time, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to reach for it. Not as a memory. But as a future. After the library, I thought we’d seen the most intimate part of the house.

But then Charles said, “There’s something else.”

He led me down a narrow hallway that curved behind the main stairwell — away from the grand rooms and the sea views. The air was cooler there, and quieter. More honest. The door he opened was simple. Pale oak. No dramatic flourish. Inside, it was nothing like the rest of the house. It wasn’t a gallery. It wasn’t a showroom. It was a museum of memory. Of me. A wide, sunlit space, lined with glass cases and shelves. There were old photographs, carefully framed, some I remembered, some I didn’t even know existed. Candids from that one summer in Saint-Tropez. A photo booth strip from a race after party. A polaroid from a yacht where I’m half-smiling at someone off frame. Him, probably. And then there were the things. A pair of vintage sunglasses I’d once admired in a shop window, he had found them again, in Milan. A perfume bottle in the exact scent I used to wear. A red scarf I lost years ago in the back of a cab in Paris. Somehow, he had found a copy of the book I lent him that summer, still dog eared on the chapter I said made me cry. I stood still. Silent. On a low shelf, I saw a gold ring with a delicate emerald set into it.

My breath caught. “This was—”

“You left it at my apartment. The night before you left for London.”

I touched the glass, fingertips hovering over the memory.

“This isn’t healthy,” I said, but my voice cracked halfway through.

“I know,” Charles replied, quietly.

I turned to him. His expression was unreadable but calm, composed. But his hands were shaking.

“I wasn’t collecting things,” he said. “I was collecting time. Moments. Proof that you were real. That we were real.”

“You don’t need proof,” I said. “I was there.”

“Not anymore.”

That silenced me.

“I thought if I built it all — if I gathered every thread — maybe, someday, you’d walk in and recognize yourself in it. And maybe… we’d find our way back.”

I looked around the room again. Every object shimmered with what ifs. With love held too long in clenched hands.

“Charles,” I whispered. “This is…”

But I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Beautiful? Heartbreaking? Obsessive? Pure? Maybe it was all of those things. He crossed the room then, slowly, until he was just in front of me. He didn’t touch me. Just stood there.

“I didn’t ask you to feel the same,” he said. “I only ever wanted you to know.”

And in that moment, I did. All of it. The waiting. The building. The aching. The hope was shining like the green light across the bay. The air between us felt too full to breathe. I stood there, surrounded by pieces of my past, feeling more exposed than I ever had. Charles’s eyes were locked on mine, searching, waiting, trembling with something I could barely name. Without a word, he stepped closer, he was slow, deliberate. The space between us shrinking until the heat of him was impossible to ignore. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to remind myself of everything I had built with Max, with my life. But I didn’t. His hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear— gentle, careful, like he was afraid to break me. And then his lips were on mine. Soft at first, questioning — like two people relearning how to touch after years apart. But underneath that softness was a storm, a desperation, a longing too fierce to contain. I felt the weight of the years between us fall away. The promises made and broken. The dreams that never died. When we finally pulled apart, my breath was shallow, my heart pounding in my ears. Charles rested his forehead against mine.

“I’ve waited for you,” he whispered.

“Me too,” I said, barely above a breath.

The world outside the window — that damn blinking light, the rain-wet city — all faded. There was only this moment. Only us.

—

For weeks, it had felt like a secret suspended in time… stolen moments between Charles and me, wrapped in rain-soaked evenings and whispered conversations. Our affair unfolded like something fragile and forbidden, a delicate thread we both tried not to snap. We met in quiet corners of the city — a hidden café near the marina, a secluded terrace overlooking the Formula 1 paddock, the back room of a gallery where no one looked twice. Charles was different then — more open, more himself. And I could almost forget the world I’d left behind. Almost. Because the truth was always waiting. Max.

The first time I saw him after everything began was like a punch to the chest. We were at a gala, the kind where every flash of the cameras felt like a spotlight on my shame. Max was there, tall, confident, the man who had built our life like a fortress. His eyes swept the room, then locked onto mine. There was something in his gaze that I couldn’t quite read…suspicion? Hurt? Or maybe just the weight of knowing. I could feel Charles tense beside me. Later, as the night grew long and the crowd thinned, Max pulled me aside.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low but steady.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t beg. He just looked at me, eyes searching, the fight draining out of him. He reached out for my hand, the first time he has touched me in weeks.

“Do you want this?” he asked quietly. “Us.”

I couldn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. Because the heart is a dangerous thing when it’s pulled in two directions.

Back at Charles’s place, the silence between us was heavier than the sea air.

“I saw him tonight,” I admitted.

Charles’s jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “But I don’t want to be your secret.”

—

The night had already stretched thin, taut with everything unsaid. Max wasn’t one to lose control easily, but tonight something broke inside him. We were at our penthouse overlooking the harbor — a fortress of glass and steel, cold and imposing. Charles stood by the window, his back to us, staring out at the lights shimmering on the water. Max’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“So this is him,” Max said, not looking at Charles but speaking to me. “The man you’ve been sneaking around with.”

I flinched. Charles turned slowly, calm but guarded.

“I’m not here to fight,” Charles said. “But I’m not leaving either.”

Max laughed, bitter and sharp. “Of course you’re not. You think you can just walk in and take what I built? What we built?”

Charles met his gaze evenly. “I’m not here to take anything. I’m here because she matters.”

Max’s eyes darkened. “She’s your fantasy, Charles. A ghost you’re chasing across the bay.”

Charles stepped forward, the quiet storm inside him finally breaking. “She’s real. More real than you ever cared to see.”

Max’s laugh was hollow now. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. And I’m done waiting in the shadows.”

Max moved closer, dangerous. “You think I’m just going to step aside? Because you showed up with a fancy house and a light?”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “It’s not the house. It’s not the light. It’s her.”

Max’s eyes flicked to me. “Is it worth it, YN? All this pain? This secret? The lies?”

I swallowed hard, caught between the two men who had shaped my world. Charles’s voice softened, almost pleading. “It’s worth everything.”

Max shook his head, a mixture of anger and something like despair. “This ends tonight.”

—

“Everyone’s dazzled by the mansion, the charm, the green light. But you forget — you built all that on lies.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Max’s voice dropped, low and venomous.

“I know about your offshore accounts. The unregistered sponsors. The shell companies hiding money that should’ve gone to the team — and probably a lot of other places you’d rather I didn’t mention.”

Charles finally looked at Max, his eyes dark but steady. “And what if I did?” Charles asked. “Is that supposed to scare you?”

Max laughed, harsh and bitter. “It’s not just me. It’s the entire paddock, the press. Everyone waiting for you to slip. And now you’ve dragged her into your mess.”

I felt my stomach twist. Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I did what I had to. For us.”

“For us?” Max echoed. “You don’t get to use her as a shield.”

Charles stepped forward. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

Max’s glare was ice. “Then maybe it’s time you face the consequences.”

—

It was supposed to be just another race. The sun baked the streets of Baku, the asphalt shimmering with heat, the grandstands roaring with anticipation. I stood above it all in a VIP suite, flanked by cameras and champagne and people who smiled with perfectly practiced ease. But none of them mattered. Only two people on that track could ruin me. Max. And Charles.

Rumors had been circling for weeks — about Charles’s money, about the investigations, about shady ties to foreign sponsors. Whispers of suspension. Disqualification. But nothing had stuck. Until today.

—

I didn’t know what Max had done. Not exactly. But I knew he had done something. He’d been too quiet before the race. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes your skin crawl. I asked him if he was okay. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’ll see.”

—

On lap 38, it happened. Charles was closing in on second, tires screaming around the hairpin, when Max’s teammate, a rookie on a two-year contract, desperate to prove himself — suddenly cut across the racing line. A move that made no sense. A move that could only be explained by orders. Charles reacted instinctively — too fast, too much. Carbon fiber exploded across the track. The other car spun, slammed into the barrier. Smoke. Debris. Yellow flags. But it was the radio crackle in the chaos that broke me. Charles’s voice.

“I didn’t see him. I swear. I didn’t—”

And then static.

—

The fallout was immediate. Headlines exploded across the world.

LECLERC UNDER FIRE FOR RECKLESS CRASH.

INSIDER SOURCES CLAIM ONGOING INVESTIGATION INTO ILLEGAL FUNDING.

MAX VERSTAPPEN: “IT WAS BOUND TO HAPPEN.”

No one said Max planned it. They didn’t have to. He knew exactly what he was doing.

—

I saw Charles once, days after the crash, holed up in his estate, the gates locked, the windows dark. He didn’t look like himself. Not the golden boy with the green light in his eyes. Just a man unraveling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he told me, voice barely a whisper. “I only ever wanted a future.”

I wanted to believe him. God, I did believe him. But the world didn’t. And neither did the sport.

—

The days after the crash blurred into one another — soft, grey, and quiet. The kind of silence that feels like mourning, though no one had died. Not technically. But something had. Maybe it was the illusion. The version of me Charles had built his entire world around. I visited him once more. The house felt different. Not grand, not magical — just empty. A shell. He met me at the edge of the garden, by the sea, the green light across the bay flickering faintly through the dusk.

“You haven’t been answering,” he said.

“I know.”

He studied my face like he was trying to memorize it again, afraid I’d disappear.

“You said once that you waited for me,” I said quietly. “But I think what you were waiting for wasn’t… me.”

He blinked, thrown.

“You waited for an idea. A version of me who never changed. Who was frozen in that summer we first met.”

He stepped toward me, panicked. “That’s not true.”

But it was. Because the real me — the me who had grown tired, who had doubts, who sometimes missed Max even in the middle of Charles’s arms — that version made him flinch.

“I needed you to be perfect,” Charles whispered, as if realizing it himself. “Because if you weren’t, then all of this… was for nothing.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

The breeze picked up off the water, cold and salty.

“I thought I could love you the way you wanted,” I said. “But you don’t see me. Not really. You see what you needed me to be.”

His eyes dropped to the ground.

“And Max?” he asked, the word bitter in his mouth.

“I don’t know if I love him,” I admitted. “But he knows who I am. And somehow, he still stays.”

Charles didn’t speak. I reached out, touched his hand once more, gently.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Then I walked away.

—

The movers came early in the morning. Low voices. Heavy boots. Boxes filled with a life carefully built, now undone. The house echoed with emptiness — a hollow kind of silence that clung to the walls. The garden was overgrown. The green light across the bay was gone, drowned in the thick fog rolling in from the sea. Charles stood in the driveway, watching the team pack away what was left of the dream. And then Max arrived. No warning. No announcement. Just the quiet hum of an engine and the sharp click of expensive shoes on stone. Charles didn’t flinch when Max stepped out of the car. He didn’t even look surprised.

“I thought you might come,” Charles said.

“I wanted to see it for myself,” Max replied, his voice flat. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

I stood just inside the threshold of the house, wrapped in a sweater, hands clenched at my sides. Watching. Not speaking. Max’s eyes flicked toward me. Just for a moment. Then he turned back to Charles.

“You really thought she was going to leave it all behind for you?”

Charles didn’t answer. “You’re not in some storybook, Leclerc. You’re not the hero.”

Charles’s voice, when it came, was soft. “No,” he said. “I’m the fool who believed in one.”

Max smiled without warmth. “You had your moment. You lost.”

Charles stepped forward once, just one pace, his eyes dark and unreadable. “She loved me,” he said, quiet and certain.

“And now she’s coming home with me,” Max replied. “Because no matter how many lights you chase, no matter how much money you throw at the past—some things don’t come back.”

I closed my eyes. And stayed still. Charles looked at me then — really looked at me — like he was still hoping I’d ay something. Anything. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t. Because maybe Max was right. Or maybe I was just too tired to keep chasing something that had already drowned.

Max turned, gestured for me to follow. He wrapped an arm tightly around my waist, quietly glaring back at Charles. I hesitated. Just long enough for my heart to whisper his name. And then kept walking away. Not with joy. Not with triumph. But with resignation.

Behind us, Charles stayed where he was — unmoving, alone — as the movers took the last box away. The gates of the house swung shut. And the dream ended, quietly, like it always would.

—

georges final epilogue 

I stood by the harbor the day Charles Leclerc left Monaco. There was no press. No goodbye. No scandal headline screaming his name. Just a quiet departure. The kind that didn’t belong to someone who once lit up the coast with champagne and chandeliers. Who threw parties for ghosts and watched the shoreline for a girl who was never really his. He was gone before the sun broke through the clouds. The city barely noticed. But I did. I always noticed. I remember the first time I met him — all charm and mystery, like he stepped out of a dream and into real life. I remember how he looked at her — the way his entire world bent in her direction. And I remember how it all fell apart. Not in an explosion. In silence. In slow, inevitable erosion. She never spoke to me about him again. Not after that day. She returned to Max, to the life she had built. She smiled at the right events, wore the right dresses, laughed just enough to make everyone believe the story had ended well. But I saw it — that flicker in her eyes, just now and then, when someone mentioned green, or rain, or the sound of a Ferrari engine in the distance. I think she loved him once. But love wasn’t enough.

And Charles? He faded from the headlines. The house was sold. The lights turned off. He became just another myth this city buried beneath champagne and secrets. But I remember. Because someone should. Sometimes I walk by the old estate. The one by the water, where the grass has grown too long and the wind whistles through the broken glass. I think of him standing at the dock, eyes fixed on a green light that never really existed — a symbol of a past that could never be reclaimed. We’re all chasing something, I suppose. Some dream. Some version of love. Some perfect beginning we tell ourselves we can return to. But we can’t. So we move forward. Bearing the weight of the past. And pretending it never mattered.

[everyforkedroad]

Why Shine Might Be Set in 1969: A Story of Resistance, Silence, and Defiance

*sorry, folks, this is a long one, based on one humble inter fan's desire to understand

As we eagerly await the release of Shine, one intriguing detail stands out: its setting in Bangkok, 1969. 

Thailand in the late 1960s was not exactly a beacon of visible queer liberation. So why choose this year, this precise moment, to set this series? The answer may lie not in what was happening in the open, but what was burning just beneath the surface in Thailand and across the globe. That "light that lingers just beneath the shadows" that would turn a spark into the flames of social unrest.

1969 was a year of rupture and revolution. Across the world, young people were taking to the streets—angry, idealistic, determined to wrest power from corrupt systems. From the anti-war protests in the United States to student-led revolts in France, Japan, and Mexico, the air was electric with resistance. Music, fashion, and film reflected these seismic shifts, capturing the spirit of rebellion in psychedelic color.

In Southeast Asia, the Vietnam War raged just across the border. American troops passed through Thailand on their way to and from the front lines, and the Thai government, under military rule, maintained close ties with the United States. The social tensions of this geopolitical alignment were palpable between the rising tide of youth culture and a government suspicious of dissent. This tension was felt as well between imported modernity and deep-rooted tradition, agrarian poverty and Bangkok's concentration of wealth. All of these serve as a pressure cooker of tensions that was ready to explode.

In Thailand, student activism was gaining momentum. The seeds that would later blossom into the mass protests of the 1970s were already being planted in 1969. University campuses, especially Thammasat and Chulalongkorn, were becoming incubators for radical thought, as young intellectuals began to question military rule, wealth inequality, and the suppression of free speech.

Though the mass protests that would shake the monarchy and the junta had not yet occurred, the sense of unease was growing. Student publications, underground gatherings, and whispered debates signaled a generation preparing to stand up. It is into this world—a world tense with possibility—that Shine may drop its characters.

Half a world away, in June of 1969, a police raid on the Stonewall Inn in New York sparked several nights of defiant resistance led by trans women, drag queens, and queer people of color. It became a watershed moment in LGBTQ+ history, a symbolic ignition point for the modern gay rights movement. News of Stonewall may not have reached every queer person globally in that moment, but the reverberations would be felt by an entire generation.

For closeted individuals in Thailand, especially students and intellectuals already questioning other forms of repression, Stonewall represented something radical: the refusal to hide. Even if unspoken, it stirred something. It suggested that queerness and protest were not incompatible. That the same voices raised against political injustice would teach a future generation of queer people to fight for the right to love freely.

Thailand decriminalized homosexuality in 1956, over a decade before Stonewall. On paper, it was a progressive move. But legal tolerance did not equal cultural acceptance. The 1960s remained a deeply conservative era for queer Thais, especially in professional or public life. While kathoey ("ladyboys") had long been part of Thai cultural visibility, their presence did not signify broader acceptance of queer identities—particularly not of men who loved men or women who loved women outside of comedic or marginalized roles.

There were no pride marches. No activist networks. No formal advocacy groups pushing for LGBTQ+ rights in the way that began to unfold in the West. In fact, Thailand’s first gay rights organization, Anjaree, would not be founded until 1986—seventeen years after Stonewall, and almost two decades after the year Shine is set.

So why choose 1969 for a queer Thai story?

Because it is a liminal moment. 

A time before everything cracked open, when truth still had to live in shadows, but shined just as bright. A time when love, especially queer love, had to be coded through through music, poetry, unspoken gestures and looks. It’s a rich emotional landscape for drama, for longing and repression, desire and danger, all set against the backdrop of political awakening.

If Shine follows queer characters navigating this moment, their love story is not just personal, it’s political. Their very existence becomes resistance, not through protest signs or riots, but through every act of tenderness they dare to share in a world that tells them to stay invisible.

By choosing 1969, Be On Cloud may be offering a tribute to all the queer people in Thai history whose stories were never told. The ones who danced and sang behind closed doors. Who whispered their truths in journals and poems. Who watched the world begin to burn and wondered if there would ever be space for them in its new order, until they came into the awareness that they would have to build the world they wanted themselves. One love, one protest at a time.

So that future lives could Shine in the open as well.

[xavissky]

Kiss | Rafayel

Timeline; Modern | Reader; Any MC user

When Rafayel kisses you, it feels like drowning- until it doesn't.

(A short 300 word thing)

It's consuming, and you wonder how long you can hold your breath, until your lungs burn and your chest aches, but then it feels like breathing.

You start to realize why the sea god's kiss grants breath and life. Without his kisses you wonder how you'd breathe at all. It's soft, and warm, mindless and easy, it laps in passion like the push and pull of the tide.

You favor kissing him under water, just to feel the goosebumps gathering on his skin, when you notice that he sinks under your touch. The sensation of water caressing you- and it somehow all feels like him- like the very current is mimicking the way he holds you up under the waves. It's almost more natural than being on land.

But your favorite part? When you notice sometimes a flick of his hand, commanding the waves around to be still, so you can have a moment of peace with him, no push, no pull at your back, nothing to tug you deep, just stillness, and quiet.

When you break and before you can admire the coral pink on his cheeks and the red where your lips had been, he's turning around, and you notice a blue glimmer in his eye.

"Hello? I said, a little privacy? Thank you??"

Some fish scatter. And you laugh.

He pulls you closer because he loves the way your laugh sounds like this. Bubbly. Free.

So he's kissing you again. And you're drowning and breathing all over again.

[reasonsforhope]

"For the first time in almost 60 years, a state has formally overturned a so-called “right to work” law, clearing the way for workers to organize new union locals, collectively bargain, and make their voices heard at election time.

This week, Michigan finalized the process of eliminating a decade-old “right to work” law, which began with the shift in control of the state legislature from anti-union Republicans to pro-union Democrats following the 2022 election. “This moment has been decades in the making,” declared Michigan AFL-CIO President Ron Bieber. “By standing up and taking their power back, at the ballot box and in the workplace, workers have made it clear Michigan is and always will be the beating heart of the modern American labor movement.”

[Note: The article doesn't actually explain it, so anyway, "right to work" laws are powerful and deceptively named pieces of anti-union legislation. What right to work laws do is ban "union shops," or companies where every worker that benefits from a union is required to pay dues to the union. Right-to-work laws really undermine the leverage and especially the funding of unions, by letting non-union members receive most of the benefits of a union without helping sustain them. Sources: x, x, x, x]

In addition to formally scrapping the anti-labor law on Tuesday [February 13, 2024], Michigan also restored prevailing-wage protections for construction workers, expanded collective bargaining rights for public school employees, and restored organizing rights for graduate student research assistants at the state’s public colleges and universities. But even amid all of these wins for labor, it was the overturning of the “right to work” law that caught the attention of unions nationwide...

Now, the tide has begun to turn—beginning in a state with a rich labor history. And that’s got the attention of union activists and working-class people nationwide...

At a time when the labor movement is showing renewed vigor—and notching a string of high-profile victories, including last year’s successful strike by the United Auto Workers union against the Big Three carmakers, the historic UPS contract victory by the Teamsters, the SAG-AFTRA strike win in a struggle over abuses of AI technology in particular and the future of work in general, and the explosion of grassroots union organizing at workplaces across the country—the overturning of Michigan’s “right to work” law and the implementation of a sweeping pro-union agenda provides tangible evidence of how much has changed in recent years for workers and their unions...

By the mid-2010s, 27 states had “right to work” laws on the books.

But then, as a new generation of workers embraced “Fight for 15” organizing to raise wages, and campaigns to sign up workers at Starbucks and Amazon began to take off, the corporate-sponsored crusade to enact “right to work” measures stalled. New Hampshire’s legislature blocked a proposed “right to work” law in 2017 (and again in 2021), despite the fact that the measure was promoted by Republican Governor Chris Sununu. And in 2018, Missouri voters rejected a “right to work” referendum by a 67-33 margin.

Preventing anti-union legislation from being enacted and implemented is one thing, however. Actually overturning an existing law is something else altogether.

But that’s what happened in Michigan after 2022 voting saw the reelection of Governor Gretchen Whitmer, a labor ally, and—thanks to the overturning of gerrymandered legislative district maps that had favored the GOP—the election of Democratic majorities in the state House and state Senate. For the first time in four decades, the Democrats controlled all the major levers of power in Michigan, and they used them to implement a sweeping pro-labor agenda. That was a significant shift for Michigan, to be sure. But it was also an indication of what could be done in other states across the Great Lakes region, and nationwide.

“Michigan Democrats took full control of the state government for the first time in 40 years. They used that power to repeal the state’s ‘right to work’ law,” explained a delighted former US secretary of labor Robert Reich, who added, “This is why we have to show up for our state and local elections.”"

-via The Nation, February 16, 2024

[mandalhoerian]

the shape of grief.

as far as rafayel is concerned, pygmalion's is a horror story, not a myth. guy decides all women are beneath him, quite literally designs and builds one for himself, and somehow his narcissistic prayers for her to live are granted. what humans define as love and the stories they tell about it are always so revealing of their selfish nature. he only ever gets the appeal of it when he looks at his faceless galatea unable to take shape in his clay-sodden hands, and thinks, what wouldn't i give for you to open your eyes so that i could remember their exact color.

♯ ⸻ pure angst, sfw, 3.7k, read on ao3

note: directly inspired by this post about rafayel trying to sculpt mc/reader but not remembering her face. a bit late to this but i was hit with the procrastination fairies LMAO . i wrote this in a feverish delirium without caring for any canon at all, i apologize if rafayel is ooc !! this work assumes he has his memories of his life as the god of tides, you can think it as an AU if you believe he has no memories of it in the main timeline (yet.) This also takes place before the Addictive Pain anectode (if you like nitpicking and think why he doesn't have a photo of her and that this could have been avoided HAHA)

but without further ado, i hope you enjoy, please let me know what you thought!

The gallery Thomas had to basically bribe him to attend was cold with intention. Whitewashed walls were almost blinding beneath the overhead lights, each fixture angled to make the sculptures glow faintly at the edges like relics, a violin track playing at a volume calibrated for reverent hush with the crowd adjusting its voice accordingly. Somehow, the worst of it was that they'd scented the room with something floral and expensive, and it was clinging so offensively to the back of Rafayel’s throat and wouldn't go away no matter how much he swallowed or sipped on the drink glued to his hand.  

The exhibit was titled Breathed to Life: The Divine Muse in Modern Form. He’d read the placard twice, though once would’ve been enough. Wherever he looked, Rafayel couldn't escape from the oozed hauteur for the attempts at capturing a miracle, sculptures of taxidermied epiphanies resting under glass that was tempered with more care in Rafayel's opinion, preserved with just enough light to make the delusion shine. Words like transcendence, revelation, and worship had been worked into the catalog copy, and even the bubbles of champagne he was swirling in the flute glass was more interesting as he idly moved through the space.

He passed a piece labeled Galatea No. IV — a full-bodied woman in bronze, lips parted in awakening, arms half-lifted as if to greet the man who had imagined her, the texture of her skin smoothed to impossible precision, idealized down to the the pores with not a single wrinkle or mole.

One of the critics standing nearby called it sublime. Another said, "She looks so real I almost expect her to blink."

Rafayel said nothing. He kept walking.

A curator caught him between rooms. She was in something backless, dark green, dripping with confidence. “You must feel at home here,” she said, beaming. “Mr. Rafayel, you're the Pygmalion of our time."

He looked past her to one of his own works, mounted near the final archway. A man slouched on a low stone, arms folded, spine curved with a kind of refusal, turned away from something but looking up at it at the same time in criticism, his face gaunt with a pinch of displeasure, half-shielded by a fall of hair. No awe or supplication.

His was the only Pygmalion in the entire exhibit, and no one seemed to realize it. Rafayel had heard some talk about how progressive it was to genderbend Galatea for gay representation, or that this could be the moment Galatea came to life and rejected her maker in a plot twist. 

Rafayel had left it up to interpretation if his Pygmalion was looking at Galatea at all. He was staring past her — past all of them, really. Every woman he ever imagined beneath him, too dull or too much or too sharp to matter. A man convinced that the thing he made was a compromise, that he’d been forced to shape it because nothing real had measured up. Neither a lover, nor a muse. A reflection bent to fit him. And maybe resenting how much of himself had ended up in the marble anyway. Nothing of the yearning saint the myth preferred. 

The gallery had tried to soften this image of human ugliness within the divine benevolence of Galateas all around, projecting wind through bare branches beside the figure, trying to frame the posture as meditative. They titled the piece Invocation. Rafayel wasn't even asked before they changed the name and he was definitely having a talk about it with Thomas after.

He offered the curator a a dismissive hand. “A flattering comparison. Though I hear his success rate depended entirely on divine intervention.”

She laughed, unsure whether it was flirtation or rebuke. “Still, what an honor. So many of us see ourselves in the myth, don’t we? The ones who love so deeply we bring our muses to life.”

He excused himself with a nod that meant nothing. Her perfume followed him down the corridor.

The flowing hallway was a blur of marble, alabaster, glass, bronze, the women luminous and soft, the men always absent — except in the titles. The Sculptor’s Prayer. In the Hands of the Maker. Love Before Breath. One artist had suspended a torso in resin, veins threaded with copper, the heart cavity open and waiting with the accompanying quote that read: “She lives because I saw her clearly enough.”

Rafayel stopped in front of it. The figure inside was beautiful and fragile, designed to be admired.

He traced the edge of the plinth with one fingertip and thought: She lives because you needed her to. Not because she wanted to.

He left the gallery floor and stepped into the auxiliary corridor lined with donor plaques and black-and-white photographs. One showed a young couple posed beside a sculpture mid-process. The woman’s face was amicable, and the man looked directly into the camera, his hand on the small of her back. The caption read: The original Galatea — forever immortalized by love.

He looked at it until the focus dissolved, and the polished surface of the frame stopped reflecting anything but his own cold expression.

Pygmalion was granted his wish. That alone was enough to make Rafayel despise him. 

A man shapes greed with his hands, pulls at the skirts of heavens like a petulant child, and the gods — watching from a distance they rarely breach — clap their hands in glee and say yes.

The myth pretended that mercy could be earned by longing, that a body sculpted by a beholder who sees himself so above others is owed because he called it love. There was no weight in that kind of miracle, only cruelty dressed as grace, a prayer granted just to mock the millions that weren't. 

Pygmalion was the epitome of human selfishness, the final limit where want transformed into greed for more than the world could grant. Only his statue, made by his own greedy hands and given life through someone else's breath, was beautiful, because only she embodied perfection to him, not because she was worth desiring but because he desired her. Pygmalion's love didn't reach past his self, it served only to feed himself and satiate him with the sight of his narcissism, like any other creation brought to life by humans for their own benefit; machines built to kill, guns painted gold so they look like art when killing — all just tools made to feed men's hunger for more.

But he would have never cared about Pygmalion if it wasn't for the gods.

Because Rafayel envied those gods, all too human in their vanity, for the power and might they wielded to give so easily like that. Their ability to move mountains without ever being touched by grief, to pull strings that bind worlds without fearing losing something of theirs; it was unfathomable to someone so bound in mortal tethers such as he.

It must feel so freeing, living like that, he thought. Must feel so good, pulling at other lives like they are your playthings. So easy to get lost in those dreams.

The same way he did back then.

The disdain covering Rafayel in a second skin as if he was an oil-soaked seagull was fuel enough to get back to work after that travesty of a gallery.

He’d been developing a concept for a painting — a large-scale composition of a coral-devoured, bleeding cathedral submerged in the sea, its steeples fractured and stretching toward the surface in a gesture that evoked both surrender and yearning, an image meant to convey the contradictions of loss and reverence, a symbolic convergence of decay and devotion. At least that’s what the so-called critics were about to yammer on about. It in fact was the fate of a certain buyer Rafayel was targeting, and the message was meant for his people and his people only.

The draft lived on the sketchbook propped against his raised knees, his legs crossed on the high stool, charcoal gripped tightly in one hand and smudging downwards the length of a pillar as he added textures and shadows to create depth. It was a hasty thing, but effective at illustrating what he envisioned, complete with notes scribbled around the edges, jotted reminders for little details here and there he needed to add to truly flesh out the piece later on. Rafayel was so distracted by a couple more things to add to the sketch that the canvas already prepared beneath the dome skylight felt neglected despite the brushes sitting ready and dipped in paint atop a palette of bruised violet scraped from stormclouds, diluted ultramarine, blue fog, a soft grime green of oxidized copper, rotten ivory, a sliver of warm rust, a cold pink scraped from the underbelly of spent roses, and more.

And yet, when he finally got up to start for good, his gaze drifted elsewhere.

Toward the bust armature.

Rafayel stood beside it, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, head tilted sideways with one hand playing with it in thought. He loosened the buttons of the white dress shirt he wore after flinging off that horrid tie, sleeves pushed to mid forearms as he dragged a stool and took a seat before the armature, right elbow propped atop the round table to the side holding supplies, chin resting on knuckles, now gazing up at the base of the clay cast while chewing the inside of his cheek.

He had always told himself he would return to it when he was ready, when time had softened the raw, exposed nerve endings of loss, when he could render your likeness with a steady hand instead of a shaking one.

But then months stretched into a year, days faded into seasons which blended together into a period of numbness broken occasionally by an intrusive thought here and there while he focused on Lemuria and Lemuria only, and then — nothing. Until it was easier not to think about it at all. He became absorbed in his mission, dedicated to getting revenge, and avoided thoughts of you, for all intents and purposes, until moments like these where he simply sat in silence looking up at a form without feature to remind him why exactly he did what he did.

Galatea, huh?

He crossed the room with the same distracted focus he used to summon bruyous, hands rummaging through the storage shelves until he found the sealed bag of clay, not expecting it to be heavier than he remembered, dense with neglect. Dumping it unceremoniously beside the armature, he sliced it open, letting the block fall onto the slab table with a dull, resistant thud, finding it cold to the touch, too stiff to yield immediately, so he pressed it between his palms, wetting them, working the material slowly until the top layer lost its brittleness.

He didn't sit right away, hovering over the lump with furrowed brows, kneading it down into something usable, folding in water from the bowl on the side, rotating it as he moved, pushing and turning until the tension bled out. Once softened, he dunked the mass onto the metal plate mounted over the dented and sluggish, old man of a banding wheel. Only then did he sit, lowering himself onto a battered wooden stool, one bare foot braced against the leg of the wheel’s base while the other nudged gently to angle it.

All done. He reached for the wire loop tool without thinking or looking over, fingers already coated in the dull slip of moisture and clay.

The first lines came quick and confident. Indents for the eyes. The line of a nose. Just scaffolding, clearing a space where you might return to him, the only sound in the room the soft grind of his tools and his breathing. 

He narrowed the chin, adjusted the brow. Then sat back, frowning.

Too young. This was closer to the child at the beach who had hooked pinkies with him. 

He scraped the forehead flat again, thumb dragging clay down like peeling skin. The smoothed face stared up at him in blank reprieve, a temporary erasure before he tried again, less baby fat on the cheeks, sharper cheekbones this time, a more adult curve to the jaw, something more defined around the eyes, though he wasn’t sure what. A firmer mouth, perhaps. A stronger line. He reworked the nose — it ended up being too straight the first time and he chided himself for the mistake, then he decided it was too narrow, crooked it just slightly at the bridge, something he'd sworn felt right.

It wasn't long before the moment slipped from his fingers, and all the revisions felt more like mistakes than anything, tilting the whole balance of the face into something uncanny. He could pretend it was nearly familiar, but only in the way dreams pretended to be memory.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Rafayel tilted the wheel. Leaning in with an emotion-tense strain in his spine, he angled the bust toward the overhead light until the shadows shifted and spilled away from the features he’d laid out like a confession.

He stood up for a burning stretch to contemplate, stepped back, squinted with his head tilted, and stepped forward again.

Was it just him? The angle? The lighting? The fatigue of the gallery distorting everything?

After he sat back down with more determination to get over whatever this slump was that made him get you wrong over and over again, one adjustment in the temple led to a collapse in the jawline, and the later correction to the mouth made the chin too long.

The realization that the eyes looked distant now and he couldn’t tell if it was him failing the depth or the absence of something deeper was particularly worrying. Rafayel had always trusted the process, but this didn’t feel like a detour into arriving at the same destination, the clay was actually resisting him in a non-art block way and it was starting to actually bother him. 

He scraped again, set the brow differently, ignoring the thing niggling at him at the back of his head and brushing against some the internal nerve. Was it ever really that shape? Or had he once wanted it to be, and kept telling you about how doing your brows that way would compliment your features better when Algie had sat you down before the vanity in your room to try out some dresses for the ceremony and work on make-up to go along with each one of them?

The clay warped gently beneath his fingers as he tried to trust the sensation, but every stroke seemed to subtract rather than add. The frustration Rafayel hadn't sensed had made its way into his hands like fire following the path of a wick, making the cheekbone dip under the tool, and he had to sit back straighter with a huff from his nose. 

His eyes flew all over the features of the bust, the whole incomplete face. Rafayel couldn't even call it yours. One mistake or two could be expected, even pictures could be unflattering. But it was worse than that — he couldn’t figure out where it had gone wrong. The structure was exactly the same, proportions were what he remembered. The surface was close to reality enough to breathe, but the person who would come to life if they did wasn’t you, and he didn't know where he had gone wrong. 

Rafayel stared longer. A pressure grew behind his ribs, and it was beginning to feel like trying to hum a melody he hadn’t heard in years. The more he reached for it, the more the silence beneath it yawned open.

He reached up and pressed his palm against the clay, not to shape, just to feel if it might suddenly remember for him.

It didn’t.

This was someone else. Too much of him.

He looked down at his hands, coated in slip and streaked with fine dust, and flexed the fingers slowly as though wondering how long they’d been disobeying him.

He pressed the backs of the base knuckles of his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes. Into the tear ducts.

Where was the scar you used to trace absently while thinking? He tried to recall the way your mouth moved when you were amused but trying not to smile. Was it one side that curled first? Or both? He had drawn it once, years ago, sketched it from memory with absolute certainty. But when he reached for it now, he found only doubt.

The chair scraped backwards and nearly toppled as he sprang to his feet, crossing to the small cabinet beside the canvas where he kept what little he dared to revisit. He almost flung the drawer halfway through the room when he yanked it open, pulled the first sketchpad he could reach, pages flipping too and frenzied to register until he paused and kept going through them slower to make sense of it. 

Eyes, alone. Dozens of them. Glancing sideways, gazing directly, lowered in thought, every single one of them slightly different in expression, none of them quite right. A nose rendered in three-quarter view with a soft crease that might have been tension. The arch of a brow, mid-expression — concern, maybe? Hair texture studies in every style you wore it that he remembers. A mouth caught in a smile with no cause. Hands more frequently than anything else — folded gently, held in motion, reaching out. The gesture of a wrist mid-turn, the curve of a knuckle mid-thought. A sketch of a nape that vanished into the shadows of the page’s lower edge.

None of them carried your name. But they were you. Bits of you. Shards. And every one of them had been committed to the page when he hadn’t even meant to — absentminded, between tasks, in the margins of other projects. A fragmented archive of heartbreak he’d been too cowardly to complete. As if assembling you would demand an answer to where you had gone, as if seeing it finished would require confronting what it meant for him to have stayed, inviting something too vast and unhealed to fit back inside him without breaking something else a lie in full.

Rafayel had underestimated the sheer amount of notebooks he'd gone through for years now, like paper towels one would wipe away their tears with. The grudges he'd immortalized left to collect dust and avoided religiously.

He could only look through a draft of your eyes and hold on to the sketchbook for dear life when his vision blurred and something trickled down his cheek. One by one, the tears solidified into pearls, striking the floor and rolling away into obscurity among the chaos of his studio.

Dropped right into the throes of a realization far bigger than he could accept.

Like a dream that slipped away upon waking, your face had receded to the place where Lemuria had sunk — unable to be grasped fully or played back clearly unless he called them forth, the rest reduced to snippets and gestures instead, images that flickered through his mind like slides projected on a screen, ephemeral and fading faster the harder he fought to keep hold of them. What remained was abstraction — softness that used to be hair, the dimple of an incisor tooth, a tilt of the mouth that belonged to laughter. Those fragments still possessed color. What they lacked were definitions that would allow him to shape the clay in your image.

He went through more sketchbooks until the last of it joined the pile around him and he was left standing motionless in the wreckage of graphite and paper spilling open across the floor like overturned reliquaries, pages fluttering mockingly gentle under the breeze nudging through the half-cracked windows, reflecting back a half-you, or an almost-you. He stared at them for a long time without moving, eyes dragging from shape to shape, as if willing one to speak with your voice.

What answered was a notification pinging in his pocket, a sound so mundane amid the shambles of his misery. He pulled his phone out in a detached daze, swiping at it with no thought.

Thomas: Pygmalion and Galatea gallery photos are up on their page! Your attendance was well publicized and people are talking about your piece, so I expect requests for interviews soon. Just letting you know 😃

 His knees gave out before the grief did, he caught the armrest at the very last possible second, and slid down the length of the sofa's side.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough. Those words barricaded his mind like blood rushing to fill a bruise.

Rafayel was a creature built from ripples, shaped by a lineage of memory so ancient it existed without written record, a primordial awareness of past pains and future sufferings alike, generations upon generations worth of invisible scar tissues patching him up like a rag doll. Cities had fallen and crumbled behind him, yet he could name their street corners and the songs sung during their funerals.

So why — how — had you slipped from him this way?

The thought unspooled inside him slowly, a wet thread tugged from a wound so raw that Rafayel didn’t dare touch it. He had thought, in some arrogant, buried part of him, that if he ever tried, truly allowed himself to miss you more than he mourned his people, and stopped tormenting himself by creating puzzle pieces of you out of scraps in his refusal to obtain a photo of you living your new life, he would be able to rebuild you perfectly. Even the gods who breathed life into Galatea would turn green with envy.

His gaze crawled back to the Frankenstein's monster of a bust, all unrelated bits and pieces that had looked like you when isolated but made no sense when he put them together, taking the shape of grief itself.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough.

He tossed the phone aside without giving Thomas an answer, threw his head back to lean on the lip of the couch, and covered his face with a forearm.

And at last, bitterly, he realized he was no different than Pygmalion: longing for the memory of a woman to etch itself into life.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Grinding, Dry-Humping, Premature Ejaculation, Coming Untouched, Switch!Jayce, Rough Kissing, Biting, Shower Sex, Angst, One Bed

Notes: I love my pathetic son Jayce, so I needed to make him just a bit wetter and sadder for… reasons. This is a two-parter, because it was looking too heavy as a one-shot and the second part still needs a bit more attention. I need to stop having too many multi-chapter projects at the same time before I go insane. Anyway, enjoy ❤️!!

(Chapter 2/End)

You tap your fingers on the wooden countertop, trying to remain calm despite the growing pressure inside your skull.

“And you're sure there's not a single other room left ?” you ask with a tense smile, your teeth grinding against each other almost audibly.

The receptionist gives you yet another blank stare. She's hardly older than seventeen, probably helping out her parent's business, and clearly not paid enough to care about whether or not you stay or go.

“No, ma'am, there are no other rooms available for the duration of your stay,” she repeats robotically. It's as if you've been stuck in the same dialogue tree for half an hour with a badly programmed NPC. “We're a family-owned business, and we only have ten rooms available at once. Your reservation was for a single bedroom, not two.”

The exaggerated sound of her slowly chewing gum is driving you insane. “She's just doing her job’, you have to remind yourself. It's not her fault, you know that; plus, if there's anybody to blame, it's Jayce.

You turn towards the culprit in question, large shoulders slightly slumped and eyes escaping your glare. Pathetic.

“Seriously, Jayce?” you state in disbelief. “I asked you to do one thing for the trip.”

Jayce visibly takes offence to that, raising one stupidly large hand in objection:

“That's not fair, I was also taking care of bringing the prototype!”

“And I signed us up to the conference,” you hiss back. “I prepared our lecture. I got our bus tickets here and back. I made our itinerary for the whole three days. I even wrote down where we could go to bring back souvenirs for Sky and Viktor!”

You point an accusing finger at him, tapping it against his chest:

“The only thing I wanted you to take care of was the fucking motel. And you couldn't even do that right!”

He throws up both hands in exasperation, rolling his eyes. If there wasn't a minor in the same room, you'd have no qualms about punching him.

“Fine, alright, I messed up, what do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry I'm such an idiot'?”

You exhale in frustration, throwing him one last resentful look before turning back to the receptionist: “Yeah, that would be a good start”, you scoff under your breath.

He makes a dramatic groan of annoyance behind you, like this entire situation isn't his fault.

The Academy barely gives you enough budget to attend two national mechanical engineering conferences a year. You had originally planned to go to this one with Viktor, specifically because of its location: nice and remote, the air fresh and relaxing, the few roads leading to the major cities surrounded by millennial trees and mountain peaks. The perfect place for a spark of romance to ignite between the two of you.

Unfortunately, Viktor had already scheduled a weekend seminar on the exact same date as the conference. Sky, your fourth and youngest lab partner, wasn't equipped enough to help you present all the complex features of the university's mechanical arm project. Only one other person could.

Jayce fucking Talis, and his magical ability to never do anything right.

“We'll just get our money back and find another place to crash,” he argues, walking up next to you to the counter, resting his weight against it; it creaks disapprovingly. “It doesn't have to be a whole thing.”

“I'm sorry sir,” the teen flatly interjects, still smacking the gum between her brace-clad teeth. Squish, squish. “But we require cancellations to be made 24 hours prior to the reservation. We cannot reimburse you as per the politics you have agreed to on our website.”

You'd probably get more interactive answers from a chatbot. Jayce kneads the lines on his forehead, his practiced megawatt smile starting to crack from fatigue. The girl stares at him with neither sympathy nor sadness; she brings her lips together to form a small pink bubble, letting it burst after a few seconds. Pop.

“Okay, you know what,” Jayce sighs in defeat, “I'll pay for our rooms somewhere else. It's on me. As an apology.”

This would be an excellent time to not subtly sneak in a remark on how he's always using his parent's money to get himself out of the messes he's created, but the teen speaks up again before you get a chance to:

“Sir,” she adds with her irritatingly nasal voice. “You should know the only other motel in the area only accepts new reservations until 9 pm.”

She nods pointedly towards an old grandfather clock on the wall, and the two of you look at it in sync: it's 9:06.

Now you're genuinely hesitating between strangling her or Jayce.

“You really know how to make a guy feel better, huh?” Jayce attempts with a weak laugh, the plastic smile crumbling a little further.

She only gives him a vacant gaze.

Your legs are aching from the long ride in the overcrowded bus, and the arduous walk to the motel with half the disassembled prototype on your back. You've been dreaming of laying down on a bed for the last three hours, and even if another inn was open nearby, you doubt you'd have the will to carry everything there.

“I don't care anymore,” you sigh, massaging the side of your temple to relieve some of the built-up tension. “I'm exhausted, and we need to rest if we want to be any good tomorrow morning. We'll just figure it out upstairs.”

Jayce makes a non-committal sound of agreement; if you had more energy, you'd angrily ask him if he has any better ideas he'd like to share. But you don't, so you just focus back on the unexcited receptionist. Ironically enough, the letters on her cropped shirt spell ‘GOOD VIBES ONLY’.

“We'll take the room,” you conclude, worn out.

The teen barely blinks as she inputs something into her old computer, the vintage monitor buzzing unpleasantly before she hands you two scratched keycards mechanically.

“Room 207. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Grizzly Country Motel,” she deadpans.

You mumble a thank you, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore it in favour of going back to her cell phone, like your entire interaction had been nothing more than chasing away a couple of flies.

Jayce at least has the decency to grab both your luggage and his before you both head towards the stairs; if he’s got all those muscles, he might as well put them to use. You feel a pang of annoyance at how easily he carries the bags that you struggled to hold the entire day.

“Don't you think it's weird when they say ‘we’?” he mumbles pensively as you go up the stairway. “It's like everyone who works at a hotel is in a hivemind.”

You can't even find the will to look back and glare at him.

“No, Talis, I was actually thinking about how I'd fix all the problems you've created,” you reply drily.

You reach the second floor, knees buckling. Room 201, 202, 203…

“You'll just take half the bed and I'll take the other half,” Jayce pipes up from behind you, grunting as he pulls the last bag up. “We'll put a pillow in the middle. It'll be like nothing even happened.”

Oh, to be in the mind of Jayce Talis, where the universe is so fucking simple and accountability is a myth.

You hate how he always has an answer for everything, like it’s all so easy for him. You've fought hard to reach this point — to earn your place in the Academy, to be seen as a true scientist, breaking through barriers in a field where women remain the minority. It’s taken blood, sweat, and tears, years of effort that people like Viktor and Sky understand and respect.

Room 204, 205, 206…

But for Jayce Talis, it’s all sunshine, rainbows, and candy-colored skies. His family owns one of the largest metallurgy companies in the country, and has stocks invested in some of the biggest steel producers on the globe. He’s never had to work a single day in his life to put himself through school, never had to sacrifice anything for his dreams. You don’t think there’s a single thing he’s ever actually had to put effort in: he barely studies and still aces all his classes, hardly puts any care into his appearance, yet always looks like he’s out of the cover of the Times’ 50 Most Desirable Men. It’s infuriating to an unspeakable degree.

Room 207.

You tap one of the keycards on the handle, letting out a small sigh of relief when the mechanism beeps joyfully. Today hasn't been ideal, but at least, you're only a few feet away from a soft, comfortable bed.

You open the door, walking in with little decorum. It's small and bare, as you expected: a single window dulled by years of exposure, a box TV taken straight from the nineties, a dingy light fixture barely illuminating a greyed-out wallpaper of a forest scene, and…

“Talis,” you pause. He almost bumps into your back, fumbling with the bags in his arms.

“What?” he asks in confusion, peering over your shoulder. “Oh,” he simply says when he sees the issue.

“Talis,” you repeat slowly, trying to maintain your tone even, despite how badly you want to scream. “This is a single bed.”

Indeed, not only is there only one bed, it's evidently sized for a single person. It's ridiculously tiny. It doesn't take a genius to see that with someone of Jayce's stature, you'd have to practically sleep on top of him if you wanted to share the bed.

“Wait, I swear I asked for doubles for both of us-” he protests immediately.

“It's fine,” you cut him off, despite it being the exact opposite. The headache is getting worse, and you don't feel like arguing with him any more than you already have. “I'll take the bed tonight, and you take the floor, and we alternate tomorrow.”

Jayce puts all the bags down on the carpeted floor, visibly dejected.

“Again, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles, and even though you can tell it's genuine, it doesn't make you feel any better. Every ambigious prejudice you might have had against him has just confirmed itself: he’s a spoiled mama’s boy, who isn’t able to navigate the real world alone, and who’ll simply cry when he messes up things for everyone else.

“Whatever,” you grumble, sitting tiredly on the edge of the puny bed that groans painfully under your weight; it doesn't even have the decency to be comfortable. “Just means I'll have to take care of everything if we ever do symposium together again.”

He looks like a scolded puppy, unmoving, eyes avoidant, his large frame blocking the doorway. Jayce is extremely talented at making people pity him, with his huge citrine eyes and perfectly rosy cheeks. It almost makes you hesitate before adding the next words, but bitterness takes the upper hand: “This is the kind of mistake Viktor never makes.”

He doesn't reply.

You can tell that hurt him just as much as you intended with the way his body slightly curves inwards, his fits visibly clenching inside his pockets. Well, good. He's old and smart enough to know actions have consequences. He's supposed to be your partner, not a child you're babysitting.

“I'm…gonna go take a shower,” he hesitantly adds after a few tense seconds. “I'm still sweaty from the bus ride. Is that… okay with you?”

You shrug with disinterest; you know you’re just being petty now, but thinking of everything that could have been, had it been Viktor on this trip and not him, is leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Fine by me. I'll take mine right after.”

He waits a moment, like he's expecting you to add something else; maybe extend the olive branch. When you don't provide, he sighs, making his way to the bathroom door and closing it behind him.

You let your body fall back on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’. It's not as uncomfortable as it first seemed; it's firm, but the covers are soft, and the single pillow feels nicely fluffed. A couple might actually be pretty cozy in this bed, one body on top of the other, their libs entangled lovingly. It could have been you and Viktor.

Viktor.

Viktor, and his honey-coloured eyes. Viktor, and his teasing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Viktor, and the way his long fingers twirl in his chestnut hair when he's focused, the way he absentmindedly licks his bottom lip when he's lost in thought. Viktor, and-

“Hey, um,” Jayce's booming voice from the other room interrupts your reverie. “C'mere for a sec?”

You groan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend he isn't there, he'll disappear all on his own.

“No, seriously,” he insists.

No luck. You get up lethargically, cursing the man under your breath.

“Left side with the red is hot, right side with the blue is cold, Talis,” you ironize. You open the door to the bathroom to see him standing in front of the shower door, thankfully still fully clothed. “Do you need help opening the shampoo bottle, too?”

He glares back at you in annoyance:

“Fuck off. Look.”

He nods towards a paper sign you hadn't noticed tapped on the glass panel, amateurishly plastified with a clear file folder.

[PLEASE DO NOT USE THE SHOWER MORE THAN ONCE A DAY. 10 MINUTES OF HOT WATER PER ROOM]

Well, you were wrong. Jayce Talis isn't just a forgetful idiot with bad luck.

He's a fucking curse.

“The room and the bed, I could forgive,” you start, fuming. But the shower?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” he yells back melodramatically. “You told me to find something cheap to not go over budget!”

You shove him in frustration, only getting more annoyed when it doesn't make his stupidly huge body move a single inch:

“I didn't mean you should book a fucking dumpster!”

A loud, pointed knock echoing from beyond the bathroom wall silences you both.

Delightful. The neighbours can hear everything.

You move a step away from Jayce, the width of the bathroom not allowing much in terms of distancing.

“Sorry,” you mumble under your breath. You aren’t, but it's that or getting kicked out of the only open motel in miles for a noise complaint. “Yelling isn't gonna lead us anywhere. You can take five minutes, and I'll take the other five. It's gonna be short, but that's probably the best we can do.”

He at least has the decency to look appreciative, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

“I can give you the whole ten minutes, to apologize. This is my fault,” he admits. It’s always like this with him, as if his never-ending self-pity cleanses him of any possible wrongdoing. You despise that.

“And have you stink up the whole place smelling like a football locker room? No way,” you scrunch up your nose. Just by sharing a workspace with him, you know Jayce has the hygiene skills of a teenage boy who thinks Axe body spray and cologne make sweat magically vanish; the sheer power of the unholy combination would keep you awake all night.

“Or…” Jayce trails on for a few uncharacteristically long seconds. He's usually more the type to say things before reflecting on them, but he's pinching his lips tightly, clearly hesitant about what he's going to add next. “…We could share the shower?”

You look at him with an expression frozen between incomprehension and disgust: “What?”

“I mean, it's big enough for two people to stand without touching,” he quickly justifies, raising his hands innocently. “I could take the flexible hose, and you'd just go under the showerhead. That way we'd both get ten minutes!”

He's using the overly excited voice he takes on whenever he's giving someone his sales pitch for a new, stupid idea he's had. It might work wonders on most, but you know better than to fall for it.

“So you're that desperate to see me naked?” you sneer.

“I'm trying to be helpful here!” he complains.

If you're being honest, it's not that bad of an idea. The shower is small in width, but it's quite long, making it a very viable option for two people to use at once. If you manoeuver everything right, it'll almost be like you're taking a long, nice ten-minute shower on your own.

“Fine,” you capitulate, making sure to enunciate the word painfully slowly so he knows you're not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. “But if you tell anyone this happened, especially Viktor, I'm cutting off your balls and using them to-”

“Yeah, got it, wouldn't want Viktor to think you like me,” he taunts mockingly, puckering his lips in a false kiss at the other man's name.

It's the first time you've agreed to an idea from Jayce, and you're already regretting it.

“Just shut up and get in the fucking shower,” you spit out, going back to the main room without sparing him another look. “Face the wall and call me when you're done. There’s no reason for this to be weird.”

—

He’s hard.

Very obviously and undeniably hard.

Jayce has been splashing his face with cold water for the last few minutes, to no avail. He's tried every technique he can possibly think of: running in place, breathing exercises, imagining his abuelita naked, nothing is working.

The only thing he can visualize is your body, completely bare in that shower, only a few inches away from his. The water pouring down from your hair to your shoulders, to your breasts, and then alongside the curves of your thighs, and your ass-

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself in the empty bathroom.

It's not a secret to anyone that Jayce likes you. Neither is it a secret that you're utterly uninterested and only have eyes for Viktor, except perhaps for Viktor himself. It's kind of unfair how two-thirds of Viktor's lab partners are in love with him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get it, and that his eyes never lingered on that little mole above Viktor's lip for longer than they should have. But damn it, he wants you. He wants you to want him. Is that such an unfair thing to ask for?

You've got so much fight, so much fire in you, and he gets dizzy off the smouldering look in your eyes whenever you disagree with him. And disagree, you do: he wants to use lithium batteries, you want to use sodium. He wants to focus on reducing energy intake for the prototype, you want to focus on adding new components to it. He offers to order pizza for the group after a long day of work, you'll hear of nothing but sushi.

It drives him insane, but less in a way that makes him despise you, and more in one that makes him angrily rub his cock raw every night at the thought of that angry pout on your lips.

“-ayce! You alive in there?” comes your voice from the other room. He groans in frustration. This is a spectacular disaster in the making, and he's sitting front and center for it.

He's made his own bed and now he has to lie in it.

“You can come in!” he yells back with a noticeable crack in his voice. Not a great start.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the door creak open and close. The rustling of clothes being taken off one by one, the sound of pants dropping on the tile floor, and the unmistakable click of a bra being unhooked.

The door to the shower slides, and he feels you enter the confined space. It's ridiculous how close you are to him; he can smell the sweat off your skin, the faded scent of your perfume. His cock gives a small twitch and he glares down at it in betrayal. ‘Not now!’

You don't say a word as you turn on the faucet, the old plumbing in the walls hissing slightly before water starts to pour down on the both of you. He's not usually one for the cold, but it's refreshing, washing away the feeling of stickiness on his skin. He hums under his breath in delight; maybe it'll actually just be an awkward but relaxing shower, in the end.

The temperature rises slowly but surely, from cool to tepid, tepid to lukewarm, and then… it stops. He waits a few more seconds, throwing a discreet glance behind him to find you haven't fully turned the faucet on the hot side.

“Could you… put it warmer?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“It's plenty warm enough as is,” you reply flatly.

Now you're lying just to go against him; it's barely any warmer than if he was bathing outside in the lake.

“Why would you even fight for the hot water if you're not gonna use it?” he mumbles.

You moan dramatically in complaint: “Fine, princess, I'll bump it up.”

He sees your hand reach for the faucet, grab it… and bring it less than a centimetre closer to the warm side.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, seriously, now start washing your greasy hair before there's no hot water left at all,” you scold him, like he's nothing more than a snivelling toddler, and not a man twice your size.

Alright, enough is enough.

“What are you-” you protest at his sudden movement, his bicep pressing up against your shoulder.

“I'm turning the hot water on so I don't die in here,” he snaps back, trying to get a feel for the faucet while still looking away from you for the sake of modesty.

“Absolutely not, stay on your side!” you admonish him angrily. You attempt to push him back, pointedly refusing to look in his direction as you blindly slap his arm away. “Wait, Jayce-”

It happens too fast for either of you to figure out what's happening. One minute you're back to back, a respectable distance from one another, and the next you've both slipped, his arms boxing you into the narrow side of the shower with your legs bumping together.

Your eyes are locked into his for a few long, painful seconds. Neither of you are moving. You're trapped in a precarious game of jenga, where you can't even see which parts can safely be removed without you collapsing on each other.

“Whatever you do,” you exhale slowly. “Don't look down.”

You visibly regret your words as soon as you say them; you must have forgotten it’s Jayce you’re talking to.

He immediately looks down.

You put an arm up over your chest with an indignant yelp, and he quickly defends himself:

“Why would you tell me to not look down? That's like saying ‘Don't think of an elephant’!”

You're staying silent, your lips into a tight line, but he's certain you're thinking of an elephant right now. He smiles boastfully and you shoot him a deadly glare, before looking away to the side. It's the first time he's ever seen that awkward little blush on your cheeks without the conversation being about Viktor. That's a win in his book.

“It's fine,” you repeat once more like a broken record, and it’s definitely more meant to reassure yourself than to keep up a pleasant conversation with him. “I'll just… squish back against the wall while you close your eyes, and I'll direct you back to the other side. No problem.”

You sound less convinced than he's ever heard you before. He must have succeeded in turning the faucet to the side during the whole debacle, because the water has grown noticeably warmer, clouds of steam starting to form in the air. The atmosphere inside the shower is shifting ever so slightly.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want to close his eyes.

The colour of your cheeks has grown darker from the heat, your lips slightly parted around every audible respiration.

“Would you wanna stay like this… if it was with Viktor?” he asks breathlessly.

You look back at him with genuine confusion, and he's honestly just as surprised as you are.

“What?”

“I…” It's getting harder to think. All his blood is rushing south, leaving him dangerously light-headed. What is he saying? “I… asked if you'd stay like this if it wasn't me in the shower. If it was Viktor.”

Your frown deepens. Your eyebrows always do this cute little thing where one furrows just slightly more than the other, but he's never gotten to observe it from this close. He lets his thoughts travel into dangerous territory. Do you wear that same expression when you're on your knees, sucking some other guy off? Would you look like that for Viktor?

“I don't see how that's relevant,” you retort harshly, but your gaze is elusive. You can't hide from him, not when his face is merely inches away from yours.

“Humor me,” he requests again.

“Fine, yeah, I would! Are you happy now?” you snap, eyes locking back into his with fiery resentment.

You're embarrassed.

He's never seen you rattled like this before. The energy in the shower is electric, now, coursing through his veins like a drug. ‘There will never be another moment like this’, the voice in the back of his head provides, syrupy sweet. It’s without a doubt the worst idea he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I could show you what he's into,” he almost whispers, the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic flooring almost too loud for him to hear himself.

He knows that you've heard him with the way your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I mean, guys, we talk,” he explains, the words now coming out of him like the rambles of a madman. He’s in too deep to back out: it’s sink or swim. “About the stuff we like, the stuff we dream about. I could tell you what he's told me, and you can practice. On me.”

An eternity passes before you speak again, mouth just barely agape. But you're not yelling at him. You're not slapping him in the face. In fact, you're not even frowning; the expression you’re wearing is oddly vulnerable and open, like you're seeing him in a different light than you ever have before.

“You're fucking gross, Talis,” you breathe out slowly. “You really think I'm that easy?”

This*,* whatever this is, is so fragile he’s scared of shattering it by being too loud. Like he’s talking to a wild animal.

“I don't,” he promises in a low voice. “But I think you're smart, and dedicated, and you wouldn't let an opportunity to know something so personal about Viktor pass you by.”

The steam has fully blurred the glass panels around the both of you, and it feels like you're inside one of those snow globes Jayce's mother used to bring back for him from her travels when he was a kid. It's weirdly ethereal, warm and cold, frozen out of any known space and time. He’s never heard you stay silent this long, and the anticipation makes his throat burn.

“Fine,” you finally say. “But if you tell anyone-”

“Yeah I know, you'll cut my balls off,” he lets out with a small laugh, slightly delirious. He's half convinced he's dreaming. “Are we good?”

You nod without a word, shifting your head to the side slightly to avoid his gaze. He hesitantly brings a hand to your chin, holding it like you're made of glass. You don't recoil at his touch, so he gently presses it upwards, making you look at him again.

“Viktor likes it when people kiss him softly,” he smiles shyly, his heart beating as loudly in his chest as it did for his very first kiss. It’s like he’s watching a movie, like none of it is truly real. He closes the gap between the two of you slowly, waiting for you to pull away; but you don't. Your lips meet his, and it's everything he could have ever wanted.

You taste of rainwater and cherry chapstick. You’re soft in the way described by jazzy love songs, smooth and electric, a puzzle piece that just feels so unbelievably right. He wants to wrap his arms around you, hold you so tight this never has to come to an end, leave marks on your skin no shower could ever get rid of.

But he doesn't. He can't.

This is a fantasy that’s only animated by mutual gain. It’s not the climax of a romance film where the hero finally gets to kiss the heroine under the rain.

But God, does he want to pretend it is.

You pull away first, and he doesn't miss it: the millisecond where your eyes open and you look at him like he's the one you want to be kissing. The almost imperceptible moment where you're still imagining you're kissing Viktor and not him, where your irises shine brightly with so much happiness and love.

But it's already gone, like it never even happened, and you quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You’re not in a beautiful London street amid a gentle downpour with your soulmate: you’re in a cramped shower in a motel, with a guy you don’t even vaguely care for.

“You should shave your stubble. It's annoying,” you mumble.

‘Viktor doesn't have one’, the sentence heavily implies. It stings, but he's not about to back off just from that either. Not when he's been given a chance like this.

“Viktor also likes it when kissing is a bit of a fight,” he adds, sounding much too eager and desperate for his own liking. “Biting, tugging hair, that kind of stuff.”

It's not a lie, per se; he's only ever seen Viktor kiss someone once, when they were undergrads. It was an end-of-semester party, and Viktor had had way too many vodka red bulls for a man of his stature and health. Jayce had found him on a couch, limbs entangled with a stranger who seemed equally as drunk, and absolutely devouring their face off.

Viktor had asked him to never let him near caffeinated cocktails again the next morning.

You look slightly skeptical, analyzing him for any signs of deception; it looks as though you find none, because you're the one who initiates this time, and there you are, the fiery woman he's fallen head over heels for.

You're going to war on him, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, savagely shoving your tongue in his mouth, one hand entangled in the hair at the back of his head while the other ferociously holds his throat in place, nails digging into his heartbeat. He responds eagerly, letting you mistreat him, encouraging you with muffled groans.

It hurts, and he wants it to never end. He can taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tinge making him dizzy, and he's so hard he could cum if you just touched his dick with a finger. He whines pathetically when you break the kiss for air, disoriented, a strand of saliva connecting you both still.

“A-aouch,” he can only manage to say jokingly.

You lean back against the tile wall, slightly breathless; you wipe away drops of red on your lip, smudging them down towards your chin, the look of a feral animal in your pupils. He feels his already rock-hard cock twitch. Hot.

“This is about what Viktor likes, not what you like. Toughen up, Talis,” you spit back.

Before he has time to formulate a reply, you're back on him, and now he's incapable of stopping himself from humping your thigh like an animal. You don't refuse him or push him away, even mercifully angelling your hip to the side to give him easier access. There's nothing but you, all over him, inside of him, tearing him apart and putting him back together. It's absolutely pathetic, and he knows it, but he can feel his release arriving in the pit of his stomach. He's wanted this for so long, there's just no way to delay it anymore.

It only takes a few more seconds before his orgasm hits him hard, the wave of pleasure making his whole body still as a plank, while you're still sucking harshly the vein on the side of his neck. He cries out once, broken and wanton, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He comes down from the high in time to see the last of his cum painting your hip white before it gets washed away with the water. You detach yourself from him unceremoniously, putting some distance between your bodies with a frown.

“Did you just…?”

There's no room for pretending here. He's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life from nothing but a fucking kiss from you. It's like he's a teenager all over again, face redder than a tomato and eyes escaping yours guiltily.

“You came. You came by just making out with me,” you repeat, visibly caught halfway between incredulity and mockery.

“I just haven't gotten laid in a while, that's it!” he justifies vehemently. He needs to change the topic quickly, or you’ll never let him live this down. “I'm always busy at the lab doing the paperwork you always skip out on!”

That thankfully seems to take your attention away from his premature accident; he's never been so grateful for your short temper.

“Seriously? You’re going to bring that up right now?” you bark, shoving him in the chest angrily.

He can still turn this around. He might not have much control over his first release, today ridiculously so, but he's been blessed with excellent stamina and a very short recovery period. Jayce is good at selling himself with speeches, and even though you're usually immune to anything that comes out of his mouth, he's willing to cheat this once and use the one chink in your armour he knows about.

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed,” he tempts you in a tone of indifference.

Your silence speaks volumes; he's got you again. Yes, it's incredibly manipulative, and when this is over he's going to spend hours turning over in his bed and despising himself. He’s always believed in doing things the fair way, the right way, and that one day he’d manage to lower your defences and etch a place into your heart all of his own merits.

But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

What kind of man does that make him?

That’s a thought he’ll just have to keep for later.

Taglist Darlings: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, @urfavlarry , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth

[chimeracomicscollective]

Chimera Comics Collective Itch.io Sale!

Hi all! Below the cut is the first set of creators for our itch.io ebook sale, starting this Monday December 2 and running for two weeks. All proceeds will go to the artists! We have several more to introduce as well - this bundle will be QUITE the bang for your buck!

Daughter of the Lilies - @bludragongal

Masked mage Thistle finds herself hired by a band of mercenaries - but the world seems to hate and curse her at every turn. Why does she see herself as a monster?

Hazy London and Nigh Heaven and Hell -@scottycomics

Hazy London is a LGBTQ+ slice of life webcomic about bandmates navigating relationships - and Nigh Heaven and Hell, a medieval horror about trying to kill god. It's safe to say, Scotty can do it all!

Ghost Junk Sickness - @feathernotes and @spacerocketbunny

Trigger and Vahn are bounty hunters in a galaxy full of supernatural mysteries, but their next bounty - the elusive Ghost - might be the key to solve them all.

Heroes of Thantopolis - @strontiumsun

When Cyrus gets mysteriously transported to the City of the Dead, he finds a vibrant and colorful afterlife plagued by troubles. But why did a living boy end up there in the first place?

Godslave - @godslavecomic

When Edith frees an Egyptian god from a canopic jar, she receives some of his power in return for her service. The Egyptian pantheon clashes with the modern day, and Edith's going to have to kick a lot of divine butt.

Phantomarine - @phantomarine

A ghostly princess must sail across a haunted sea to save her soul from a devious death god known as the Red Tide King. But is he as monstrous as she thinks he is? ...Well, yes. But also no? Maybe???

[illusiomagnificentia]

modern - turning the tide

Agnes Locket is a savvy and ambitious businesswoman known for her sharp instincts and ability to thrive in competitive industries. Born into a family with a history in commerce, Agnes was taught from an early age to value innovation and hard work. She studied business management at a prestigious university, where she excelled in marketing and corporate strategy.

After graduating, she joined a start-up and quickly rose through the ranks due to her innovative thinking and ability to adapt to ever-changing markets. Her knack for identifying untapped opportunities allowed her to build a portfolio of investments that positioned her as a key player in the business world. Agnes founded her own consulting firm, specializing in turning around struggling companies, and later expanded into real estate, tech, and luxury goods. Her reputation for turning small businesses into profitable enterprises earned her the respect of both her clients and competitors.

Despite her professional success, Agnes has faced personal challenges, particularly in balancing her career with her personal life. She remains a private individual, keeping her personal affairs under wraps while maintaining a strong public image of confidence and authority. Agnes is known for her strategic mind, calm demeanor in high-pressure situations, and relentless pursuit of success, often using her network of contacts to stay ahead of industry trends.

[lotties-ashwagandha]

WASTING TIME

agatha x rio x reader, 1.1k words.

NSFW! having sex during a trial on the witches’ road is NOT recommended… the three of you do it anyway. part of my birthday event, linked here!

“We shouldn’t,” you argue. “Not here. Not when we have half an hour to get out of here.”

Agatha tilts her head at you, surveying you with a terrifyingly mischievous expression. “Come on. Death is on our side, remember?”

You don’t oppose her point, but you’re still not convinced that Rio can save you here. Not in a trial on the Witches’ Road, in a pristine and modern mansion that is so elegant it becomes daunting. You should be working to get through the trial — not fucking in some office you found upstairs. But you sit on top of a cleared desk with Agatha standing between your thighs and half of your clothes on the ground. And though you’ve protested on behalf of your chances of making it out of here, you don’t really want her to move away — just to reassure you that everything will be fine.

On cue, Rio emerges from the shadows. She circles the desk, taking in the sight of the two of you before her. She meets Agatha’s eyes. “You pulled her back here without me.”

Agatha shakes her head. “I knew you would find us.”

“And you know I can save you here? You think I can bend the rules for you again and get you out of a trial if it closes?”

“Can’t you?”

Rio shrugs. She motions for Agatha to step back, and then takes her place standing between your knees when she does. She still speaks to Agatha, but she’s looking at you, giving you her attention in the way she runs her hands over your thighs and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. “We have twenty-five minutes to get out of here and the others are going fucking insane down there.”

Agatha doesn’t respond, just looks at Death and crosses her arms like a child.

“The Witches’ Road is meant to be a group effort, Agatha.”

“Then make this a group effort,” Agatha steps forward, gives Rio a teasing look and kisses you in front of her. Your shirt is already on the ground, one less obstacle when her hands snake up your sides as she fights for a better position to reach you from with Rio still so close. She addresses her again, talking about you like you’re not there. “Twenty-five minutes is easy. I could make her cum in ten.”

Rio scoffs. “You’re wasting time.”

“Time and tide wait for no man,” Agatha quotes sarcastically. “Or whatever the fuck it is.”

Rio rolls her eyes, and you’re preparing some quip of your own when Agatha starts kissing your neck and the words dissipate. You sigh, pleasantly this time, closing your eyes and letting her nip and suck at your collarbones — one way or another, they will take care of you. They will not let you die here.

While Agatha is working at your neck, Rio kisses you. Though she keeps lecturing you about time, her kiss holds the same hunger as Agatha’s, and you can tell she wants this just as much as you do. It’s Rio that pulls off your pants and lets them fall to the floor, Rio that is racing against the clock most fervently.

Agatha pulls back, watching the two of you for a moment before checking the clock. Then, when Rio pulls back from kissing you, she meets your eyes. “Before this trial is over, we are going to make you finish.”

Her tone is laced with sureness, but somehow the statement still contains a question – both of them wait for a confirmation from you, if you’re really unhinged enough to stake everyone’s lives on this.

To their joy, you are. You look back at the clock. “You have… eighteen minutes.”

“That’s more than enough.”

Agatha pulls you down off the desk. Before you can get your footing steady on the floor she turns you around, pushing you down so that you’re bent over the face of the desk. She leans down over you, whispers something to you about how beautiful you look beneath her that you can barely comprehend with the wave of urgency rushing through you, not because of your limited time but because of the need that comes over you when she dips a hand between your thighs and starts rubbing your clit.

Every touch is too slow, agonizingly so, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. You squirm under her, causing her to let some of her weight press down on you to keep you still as she keeps going.

“Listen to her,” Rio says to Agatha, but from where you are you can’t see her. Your senses are limited to the feeling of Agatha’s fingers circling your clit, ever so often dipping down as if she’s going to slide them into you before changing her mind.

You gasp when she finally does shove two in, dragging them out of you and pushing in again with a similarly torturous slowness. Your back arches as you try to get more from her, but Agatha is patient, giving you nothing more than what she wants.

“Hurry up,” Rio urges. You can hear the impatience in her voice. “Let me have her, we don’t have much time.”

“This was my idea.”

“Move,” Rio pulls Agatha back from you, and suddenly you’re left with nothing.

You don’t resist when Rio maneuvers you to stand up straight again, and you’re eager to lay back for her when she hoists you up onto the desk and pushes you down. You are becoming a little disoriented with the constant repositioning, but you do anything you can to drive yourself closer to release at their hands.

“Time’s running out,” Agatha reminds her.

Rio ignores her, ignores the narrowing time limit when she starts fucking you in place of Agatha, finally giving you what you’ve needed from the beginning. “Such a good girl, taking everything we give you.”

You suck in a gasp, every inch of you burning at the edge of release. Faintly in the background you hear the ticking of the clock, a quiet disturbance beneath the praise flowing from the two women above you so freely.

Rio checks the clock and then looks back down at you, taking in how your body is tense as your orgasm comes nearer, how your attention is limited to the pace of her fingers drawing in and out of you. The sight of you brings softness to her voice. “Let go for us, my love.”

It comes over you in a wave. You release a breathy moan, letting her work you through it, listening halfheartedly to the praise both of them give you.

A slow exhaustion settles over you, and you relax against the surface of the desk, taking in a deep breath. Rio parts from you before guiding you to sit back upright on the desk again.

Agatha checks the clock, and suddenly the three of you realize the gravity of your situation.

“We have to get the fuck out of here.”

thank you for reading!!! if you’d like to see my masterlist, click here! smut is not my strong suit so be patient with my little fics.

agatha all along taglist: @webism @szczurkanalowy @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf

[hivemuthur]

Tightrope - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!, frenemies/academic rivals to lovers, modern university AU. This is part of a request for @pxszels

Ch.1. | Ch.2.

word count: 6,2K

tag: #tightrope

summary: You and Viktor are tethering the line between friendship and rivalry, Jayce being one amongst the few common factors you both acknowledge (of course more is there but for the smart people you are, you tend to be very stupid about things). Oh, and you have to do a project together.

author's note: @rennethen thank you for beta reading! This has a teeny-tiny bit of angst, just for the good measure.

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In the next couple of days, you learn a new, deeper meaning of the word unbearable. The universe works against you in the most scrumptious ways, making sure you and Viktor never get a second alone. Worse, it cripples your brain into missing the opportunities that do arise.

“Guys, I am dying. You wanna grab something to eat together?” Jayce offers, stretching and patting his belly, riding that peaceful tide of you and Viktor being on your best behaviour the whole week.

“God, yes,” you say, barely audible. But you hear it—the dry click of Viktor’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. And then you see it—the eye roll, the wince, meant only for himself as he hunches further over the workbench. Eyes closed, he looks like he’s bracing himself, and after a few very long seconds, his expression smooths into something closer to fake contentment. When he turns to Jayce, he sighs, “Why not.”

“Yay, quality family time,” Sky quips with mock enthusiasm—not from exasperation, but exhaustion. She and Jayce have hit a few bumps in their project that Viktor has gladly helped with. Overall, things started looking better three days ago, when Sky absentmindedly threw out, “Oh, how glad I am that you guys gave up on your bickering so miracles like this can happen now.”

A knowing look exchanged between you and Viktor earned you a pair of raised eyebrows from Jayce. Yet he didn’t pry, perhaps worried that pressing too hard would shatter whatever illusion you’ve created for him and Sky to feel comfortable in the workshop.

Illusion or not, the thing remains unaddressed. You share lunches in the cafeteria, where you catch Viktor staring at your hands while you do your crosswords. You could swear he’s in physical pain each time Joe picks you up for a walk or a study date. When Joe invites you to a game while dropping you off at the lab, Viktor’s hand wavers on the blackboard, and the chalk he’s holding gives a bone-chilling whine. In class, you are civil—nodding, backing each other up. You almost miss the thrill.

You work next to each other, passing tools and notes, and every time Viktor’s touch ghosts your fingers, a jolt runs up and down your spine, momentarily turning your brain off. And you have no idea if offloading some tension was the missing ingredient in your strange dynamic, but somehow, the edges of your interactions have smoothed—so much so that, currently, the calm waters begin to look disturbingly suspicious to you.

The first time it happens, you let it pass. “Very well, let’s try it,” Viktor replies to your utterly stupid idea.

You had suggested using a secondary, low-power capacitor array to stabilise fluctuations in the main circuit, arguing that it might smooth out the inconsistencies in energy output without requiring a full recalibration.

But the moment Viktor inclines his head—agreeing—your own logic catches up with you.

“Wait…” You frown, staring at the board. “On second thought, it probably won’t work because the capacitance mismatch would create a delay in discharge, which could—” You grimace. “Yeah. Let’s go with yours.”

Viktor nods, completely unfazed. “As you wish.”

But the scientist that you are, you do not let it pass entirely, do you? You try again. And again. Making your ideas intentionally just a little bit ridiculous. It’s subtle enough that Jayce and Sky don’t catch on, but you know for sure that Viktor—a man who absolutely revels in any opportunity to put you back in your place—would notice.

Until one day, you completely outdo yourself. “We could try harnessing residual static charge from fabric friction,” you suggest, dead serious.

Viktor slowly turns to you, blinking. “Fabric friction.”

“Yes,” you continue, undeterred. “Imagine if we line the internal casing with silk and rely on movement to generate small, supplementary charges. It would be incredibly efficient.”

Jayce, bless his soul, hums in thought while packing up his bag, ready to leave. “You know, there are studies on triboelectric—” He shrugs and holds the door open for Sky. “You could do some research there,” is all he says before waving you both goodbye.

“Well, what do you think?” you probe Viktor, who is visibly fighting a demon inside of him. Possibly a couple—one that wants to swat you across the head for suggesting something so idiotic, that’s for sure. One that feels, for whatever reason, that he should agree with you once more. And the one that wants to bend you over the workbench and fuck this idiocy out of you.

“We could… look into it, I suppose,” he says through gritted teeth.

And once your suspicion is confirmed, something crestfallen crosses your face. “Could we now,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “How very kind of you.”

A realisation forms in Viktor’s expression, and he looks almost relieved. “Thank God, I was worried I fucked your brains out. In literal sense,” he smirks and your breath catches, the thing being addressed so bluntly for the first time.

“I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, not letting the heat between your legs to distract you from getting your justice.

Viktor exhales sharply, rubbing his temple as if warding off an impending headache. “Explain myself? Why don’t you explain to me the source of all those ridiculous ideas that, I might add, set us back at least a week?”

You scoff. “Well, why do you fucking endorse them?”

“I’m… trying to be nice to you,” he admits, but the words land awkwardly, like they’re foreign to him.

Your arms tighten across your chest, nails digging into your sleeves. “Why can’t you just be nice to me without buttering me up?”

Viktor’s jaw tenses, his fingers twitching where they rest on the handle of his cane, and he twists it into the floor. “I want to. I’m just not very good at it.”

You let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Oh really? Is there truly nothing nice you have to say to me outside of lies, Viktor?”

“That’s not—” He falters, his eyes darting away.

“That’s not what?” you demand, stepping closer. “Are you this desperate to get your dick wet that you have to lie to my face?”

For the first time, something shifts in his expression—his usual sharp defences giving way to something quieter, almost wounded. His gaze flickers down for a fraction of a second before he speaks your name, a soft plea, his eyebrows scrunching in worry. “Have you thought that maybe not everything is about you?”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t let it show. “Forgive me, Viktor, but I fail to see how you buttering me up is somehow not about me.”

He exhales, fingers come to pinch at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “We’ve already agreed that I think you are smart. Or brilliant, even—”

“I don’t remember us ever agreeing on that.”

He hesitates, but continues, as if you are not being the biggest pain the ass he’s ever had. “…So I was hoping you would notice it could be about me not feeling… secure enough around you.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly. “Why wouldn’t you feel secure around me?”

Viktor presses his lips together, his gaze flicking somewhere past your shoulder before returning to you. “Well.” He offers a small smile.

“Other than accidental electrocution, please,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Viktor huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eh, well, I would say that is a good enough reason.” He tries for a laugh, but when you remain unimpressed, expression flat and expectant, he relents with a sigh. “Alright, alright. You don’t really see me as anything else but annoying, do you?”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard. “That’s… not true…”

His gaze sharpens, watching you closely. “Do you regret kissing me?”

Your jaw clenches. “We’ve done more than kissing.”

“Do you regret kissing me and then doing more than kissing?”

You falter for a beat. “You… you kissed me back. Don’t blame this on me.”

“Blame?” Viktor lets out a dry chuckle. “I am far from complaining. But if it’s a competition, you kissed me first.”

“You shoved your fingers in my mouth.”

“You let me.” His voice is smooth, unwavering, answers coming faster than you can challenge him back. Your breath catches in your throat. You’re both teetering on the edge of something—anger, desire, frustration—blurred and indistinct.

“So…” you start hesitantly, voice quieter now. “We agree that this was a misunderstanding, then?” No idea why this pops into your head, of all things. Also, no idea why you lap at it like a dog and then present it to Viktor, all slimy and bitten, expecting the opposite of what comes next.

He stills. “W-what?”

“Well,” you swallow, trying to steady yourself, “clearly having a… fling is harmful to our work ethics.”

For the first time, Viktor doesn’t have a sharp remark ready. His lips part slightly, but no words come. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Oh. I see.”

And it’s the sadness in his face, the way his eyes drop just for a second before he masks it, that twists your gut.

Desperate for anything to break the moment, you twist the knife instead. “I would expect more from you than reducing me to another stupid girl who needs to be stroked on the head.”

His jaw tightens. “A mistake, it seems,” he mutters, his voice low, restrained. “One that I am not able to fix now.” And the triumph is bitter on your tongue, achieved by kicking someone who is already fallen. As you can’t take it back you just stand there, staring at him.

A tense silence stretches between you before Viktor exhales sharply, stepping back toward the workbench. He gestures at the scattered notes and tools, his tone clipped but controlled.

“Let’s pick this up—” he swallows, shaking his head slightly. “Later. Let’s pick this up later, if you would be so kind.”

You nearly groan. Nearly. Nearly walk up to him and shake him by the shoulders. Nearly cup his face and shove your tongue into his throat, ruin his hair again and pull the shirt out of his pants to snake your hands beyond the waistband. Nearly. Instead, you still yourself and say only, “As you wish,” before picking up your back and leaving.

***

The cry you give yourself after fleeing the lab is possibly one of the ugliest this planet has ever witnessed. By the time you are done, you can barely see—your eyes swollen and aching, your nose clogged irreversibly, or so it feels, and your cheeks pulsing in rhythm with your frantic heart.

How it has gone so badly, you don’t know. Or rather, you do, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself. You have your right in this, of course—being in STEM is hard enough as it is, and it becomes infinitely harder when you’re a woman. So the blow of being patronized by someone almost closest to you burns right through your chest.

Which, of course, doesn’t mean Viktor deserves all the artillery you’ve aimed in his direction. The image of his face—sad, defeated, utterly betrayed—refuses to leave your mind, and you scowl as another round of sobs wracks through you, muffled into your pillow.

For the next three days, the only thing that greets you in the lab is a bullet-point list in Viktor’s precise, slanted handwriting:

Adjust calibration on the generator. (Values listed.)

Double-check insulation before running tests.

Run equations on conductivity using corrected parameters. (Underlined twice, just in case you miss it.)

Report findings in the log.

No sign of him. No stray coffee cups, no muttered commentary, no sharp remarks that you’ve started to crave like an addict craves their next hit. Just instructions, cold and impersonal, waiting for you each morning like a list of chores.

You aren’t stupid. He’s been coming in at night, working under the cover of darkness just to avoid you.

In class, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence, doesn’t flinch when you speak, doesn’t even seem to register that you exist. The only sign that anything is amiss is the deep exhaustion in the tight lines of his face and the way he favours his good leg more than usual.

The first chance you get, you try to corner him. After class, when the students file out, you seize the opportunity and step into his path. “Viktor—”

He doesn’t slow down. Instead, he shifts toward Jayce as if he’s bracing against the tide, latching onto him like a lifeboat. “Jayce, there is something I must discuss with you,” he says, completely ignoring you.

Jayce hesitates, clearly caught in the crossfire, then shrugs helplessly. “Uh, sure, man.” He throws you an apologetic glance as Viktor all but drags him away.

“Traitor,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your arms as you watch them leave.

A few more times, you attempt to siren-call Viktor into sparing you a second of his attention—staring at him intensely during lunch breaks and lectures, willing him to just look at you. You consider passing him a note, but it would probably only add to the already negative value of your deemed immature behaviour. You even text him, once. No response.

Finally, exhausted and out of ideas, you decide it’s time for a brief reprieve.

It comes in the shape of a rugby player with a big smile on his face and a hand that pats your back as soon as he sees the sodden look dragging down your features.

Your name follows, formed as a question, and all you can do is offer a half-smile and a sigh.

“Seriously, what is it?” Joe probes, poking at your ribs playfully. “Is it the project?”

“Uh, I guess you could say that. We don’t need to talk about it,” you say, swatting his hand away and trying your best to produce a convincing smile. But somehow, Joe sees right through it, his curiosity refusing to let the subject drop.

“Is it your scary friend?” he asks—more statement than question. “The one that keeps you on a short leash and gets impossible every time you’re late?”

“Joe,” you plead, tugging at his sleeve as the two of you stroll through the university campus gardens. You kick a stray rock in front of you, shoulders hanging sullenly, unable to even look at him. The thought of Viktor hating you has stuck to you like a piece of chewed gum in some misfortunate soul’s hair.

“Come on, you can tell me. I know a thing or two about guys, you know.” Joe bumps his shoulder against yours.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare but don’t pull away. “Satan, leave me alone.”

He chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, as you wish.”

You hesitate, the words crawling up your throat before they finally spill out. “Uh. We… kissed?”

Joe nods slowly, considering this with an unreadable expression. “Okay.”

His nonchalance throws you off. You blink at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step in a conversation that should have been more dramatic. He catches the look on your face and bursts into laughter.

“I’m fine with that,” he says, grinning. “I said I wanted to be friends, and I meant it.”

“Okay… well, we kissed and, uh—” You shift uncomfortably, rubbing your arm. “And more, but not the way you think. And then he was… too nice to me.”

Joe deadpans, voice flat as he stares at you. “Outrageous.”

You groan, shoving his arm. “Oh, shut up, it’s not the way you think again!”

He just laughs, effortlessly dodging your half-hearted swat. “Well, why don’t you explain it to me like I’m the halfwit that you think me to be, then?”

You huff but finally surrender, relenting to his insistent curiosity. You lay it all out—carefully skirting around the more intimate details but being extensively thorough about Viktor’s behaviour afterward. Joe listens attentively, nodding along almost too ardently, as if he’s pretending this is a particularly complex puzzle.

Just as you’re about to groan and declare that you’re never telling him anything again, he shrugs and says, “Seems easy enough to me. He likes you.”

You whine his name, dragging out the syllable in protest. “Joe.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered.

“Well, what should I do if he keeps avoiding me?”

Joe taps his chin in exaggerated thought before offering, “Dump tackle?”

You groan as he bursts out laughing, swatting away your desperate weak punches with ease. “Fine, fine! Do you know where he lives?”

You shoot him a dubious look. “That’s a bit desperate, isn’t it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you not desperate?”

“Joe, I am never desperate.”

He snorts, completely unimpressed. “You seem pretty desperate to me.”

Could it really be that you were growing a little bit desperate? Once the anger has simmered down, the vision of Viktor’s expression when he said, Let’s pick this up later, is all that remains. His sunken chest, his head bowed low.

You hold onto that image as you walk through the dorm corridors in the evening, telling yourself it’s only for the sake of a basic, decent apology. You repeat it like a mantra while hesitating at his door, debating how to knock. You’re still lost in your mind when the decision is taken out of your hands—the door swings open, and you’re suddenly face to face with Viktor.

His startled expression is the first thing you register. Your name tumbles from his lips, unguarded, as if he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh…” You fidget, shifting on your feet. “Can I come in?”

He hesitates, considering you for an agonizingly long moment. Then, with a sigh, he steps aside. It’s not an invitation, not really—more like an exasperated surrender. But you take it, nonetheless, slipping past him into the room.

You glance around, taking in the organized chaos of his space. Books and notes stacked in precarious piles, bordering on neatness but arranged by a logic known only to Viktor. You smile faintly at the familiarity—you do the same.

On his desk sits an assortment of unfinished food—a half-eaten sandwich, the remains of a banana, the last bite of a protein bar resting on a plate with what looks like a massacred cake, most likely courtesy of Jayce Talis. His cane rests hooked over a drawer handle. You take a slow, uncertain stroll toward the desk, tapping your fingers against its surface before turning back to him. He still lingers by the door, guarded.

“I don’t have much time,” he says abruptly, glancing at the clock.

“Right. Your night shift at the lab begins soon, I presume?” You huff, leaning against the surface, arms hanging limply at your sides. You do your best to look remorseful without overdoing it.

“What can I say? I do not wish to endanger your work ethic further.”

“Viktor.” Your voice softens. “Will you at least hear me out?”

He exhales sharply. “Go on then.” Waves a hand at you, an awful dismissive gesture.

You swallow, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I… I was mean to you. I treated you horribly, and it wasn’t fair.” The words come out unevenly, hesitant. “I got frustrated, and I—I should have handled it better.” All the rest remains trapped. In your brain, in your chest, somewhere in your vocal chords that refuse to release the words from the prison of thought: I hope that you like me. I hope you want more than just to get your dick wet.

Viktor watches you, expression unreadable, but he nods. Thinks for a moment longer and the silence almost has you crushed.

“Thank you. I accept,” he says finally and limps towards the desk, stopping just a step away from you. “For what it’s worth, I also apologize—for making you feel like your brain is worth less than your other… merits.”

His words also come out quiet. They also seem clipped, but you might just be dreaming. For some reason, his acceptance is underwhelming. It’s almost too easy to get this forgiveness and the following apology out of him. “I… might have overreacted a bit,” you say stiffly, waiting for his reaction.

“Hm.” A noncommittal sound.

“Does this mean we can get back to finishing this project together?” And the other project as well? It itches your tongue, yet you don’t dare say it. No space for begging, you tell yourself.

“I suppose. Yes.”

“Okay.” You nod, unsure what else to say. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” A surrender. Bitter and hollow on both sides, as no romantic outburst follows. Completely different to what you’ve dared to imagine, and you scold yourself for being such a girl.

Nothing else comes from him, and you prepare to leave, but then—Viktor leans past you, reaching for something on the desk. His cheek lingers beside yours, warm, and his breath ghosts over your skin as he murmurs, “You have something on your face.”

“What—” Your question cuts off as his thumb swipes across your lip. Instead of wiping something away, he smears the cream from the desecrated cake on your mouth, and the touch is so gentle it has your breath trapped in your throat.

The speed with which you conform to playing along is almost embarrassing. Your fingers ghost over a spot nowhere near your lips. “Here?” you ask, sounding genuinely confused, breathy and pathetic, stupid girl mode overrides all the genius of your mind.

Viktor shakes his head, his gaze hooded, heavy. He’s so close that his nose brushes against yours, another warm hand comes to rest in the crook of your neck. “No.” Voice a low murmur. “Would you like some help?”

“Please,” you breathe, shamelessly.

Viktor hums, eyes dark, and lifts his hand again, his thumb brushing over your lip in another slow, deliberate stroke. But instead of cleaning the cream away, he only smears it further, dragging it to the corner of your mouth and your eyes flutter shut.

His head tilts, mouth quirks at the mistake. “Oh, would you look at that?” he mutters, gaze flicking to yours. “My method is proving useless.”

Your breath shudders out in response. “Change the method then.”

For a moment, nothing happens. He just stands there, close enough that the warmth of him presses into your skin, close enough that you can see the way his pupils have swallowed the gold of his irises. Then, slowly—so unbearably slowly—he leans in.

His lips part, and before you can brace yourself, his tongue flicks out, warm and wet, dragging over the cream at the corner of your mouth.

You still, even though all you want to do is lean in and push your mouth against his. His hand, now cupping your jaw, tightens, fingertips pressing into your skin. He lingers, lips hovering just above yours, exhaling softly into your mouth.

Heat pools between your legs at impossible speed and you feel the urge to cross them. His hair tickles your cheek, breath mingles with yours, each inhale you take filled with him.

You let out a shaky chuckle, nervous and giddy, and Viktor’s lips barely, barely brush against yours, not quite a kiss, but just as devastating. Your chest rises sharply, pressing into his, and you don’t miss the way he sways infinitesimally closer, as if drawn in against his will.

“Better?” he asks, voice low, a whisper against your lips. A hopeful one, inviting and needy.

You swallow hard. “I don’t know.” Your voice is just as quiet, nearly lost in the space between you. “Maybe you should try again.”

“It seems I myself am in need of aid,” he says quietly, his thumb already pressing against your lips. A ghost of a memory, as you part them, close your eyes, and hum, licking the sweet cream off—but you don’t stop once it’s gone.

Both your hands wrap around his wrist as you press against the heel of his palm, taking his fingers in, one by one, sucking on them obscenely. And Viktor—oh, he tries to hold on, but his hips buck into yours as he lets out a pretty, small moan, committing to memory the shape of your lips devouring his hand.

Heat coils low in his stomach too, lances across him, as your tongue flicks over each knuckle, your mouth hot and slick around him. The pressure of your lips, the slow drag of them down to where his fingers become a palm before you slide up to the tips—unbearable. He can feel the back of your throat. The base of your tongue, soft and wet. Warm to the point of his pulse pounding in his temples, in his ears, in the tips of his fingers where they disappear between your lips, and he realises he’s gripping your jaw too tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he might shake apart entirely.

Abruptly, he pulls his hand away, only to seal his mouth over yours. Fingers are exchanged for his tongue, his grip on your jaw tightens despite him, and teeth clack against each other in haste. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, puts his foot on a stack of books beneath the desk and presses you down onto his thigh.

“Use me,” he rasps into your mouth, swatting your hand away when you try to palm him through his trousers. “No. I want to see you come first.”

His fingers clasp around your hips, guiding you as you rock against him. The fabric of your skirt rides up with every movement, baring more of your legs, the rough press of his trousers a sandpaper against the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He is solid and hot beneath you, watching as your eyes grow heavy-lidded, your breath quickening, his smile turning wicked when you fist his shirt—a plea, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for. The friction is dizzying, the pressure relentless, and Viktor keeps studying you with dark, hooded eyes, drinking in every quiver, every gasp falling from your lips.

He kisses you violently, lips brutal, his tongue hard and wanting, retreating only when you moan into his mouth. He pulls back just enough to watch your chin tremble, to let the broken sounds fall freely between you, before crashing back in to swallow them. His hands slip under your skirt, fingertips searing where they dig into the swell of your hips, urging you to move faster, harder.

"You are making such a mess of me," he breathes, voice wrecked, and you can feel it—how thick and rigid he’s grown beneath his trousers. The thought of how much precum must have pooled into his underwear makes your mouth water. His thigh is soaked with you, the evidence of your pleasure smeared across the fabric, and when you slide back and forth, letting him catch a glimpse of it, he moans roughly. His teeth come to your bottom lip, then down to your jaw, your throat, marking you between kisses—each more desperate than the last, each less of a kiss and more just the press of his wet mouth against your skin. "Look at you," he rasps, eyes fevered as he tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet. "Come for me, just like this."

And you hope, hope, hope, this want is backed up with something else than just blood draining of his body, pumping between his legs. You hope it’s for you, not just for anyone, when he rasps into your mouth and holds you close.

You shift forward, pressing your thigh against his hard, aching cock, and the sharp hitch in Viktor’s breath is almost enough to send you over the edge. His grip tightens at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as if he’s holding himself back from rutting into you.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you bury your face against the damp skin just beneath his ear, your panting breaths mixing with his. The friction crests into an unbearable shattering, and when you come, it’s with a choked, desperate, “Fuck, Viktor—”

His name leaves you in a broken gasp, and it ruins him. A slow, sweet smile curves his lips, his hands are nothing but gentle as they slide up your back, gathering you closer against him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, warm and syrupy, coaxing the aftershocks from your trembling body. “You did so well for me.”

One arm wraps firmly around your waist, holding you steady as he noses along the side of your face, breath fanning over your wet skin. “Such a pretty mess,” he croons, lips brushing over your temple, your cheek and jaw. “You look so pretty when you come. So harmless.”

It’s possibly the prettiest thing Viktor has seen, your face undone with bliss, so different to all those times when he’s seen you pissed with him or rolling your eyes at something he’s said in class. He likes those faces, too, yet the way your eyes roll when you fuck yourself on him definitely dethrone all the other versions.

He rocks you against himself lazily, your damp knickers dragging over his thigh as your body trembles in the aftermath. “I like it when you say my name like this,” he purrs, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your ear. “Say it again for me.”

“Viktor,” you breathe, kissing his mouth sloppily. “Viktor,” comes softer when your legs weaken, and your hands find his. “Viktor,” when you drape his arms around yourself and guide him toward the bed. Finally, “Viktor,” when you sit him down, kneel at his feet, and undo his belt.

You tug at his trousers, and he—awestruck—leans back on his arms, lifting his hips for you.

And what reveals itself is more than you could have hoped for—a wet stain marking his underwear, the fabric nearly see-through, revealing the shape of his head beneath. You press a kiss to the tip through the damp cotton, and Viktor shudders, groaning as his fingers slide into your hair.

Like a delicate gift, you unwrap him from the clinging fabric, peeling it away to disclose him in the warm glow of the bedroom lamps, his cock throbbing and pink at the tip, leaking for you. With pretty hair circling it at the base, and a prominent vein running along the underside, waiting for your tongue to trace its path. You’ve missed so much in the dark confines of the storage room.

“Hm, Viktor,” you hum, inhaling his scent and trailing soft kisses along his length. “Is it a yes, then?”

“Huh?” His lower lip hangs heavy, no coherent thought managing to push through the haze fogging his mind. He strokes your warm cheek with his thumb, gazing at you so longingly it nearly renders you dumb.

“To gagging,” you say sweetly. His breath stutters and this time it’s his eyes rolling back as he groans and bucks forward, cock brushing against the curve of your nose.

“Yes,” Viktor breathes, nodding vigorously. “Yes,” he says again, sliding his tip across your tongue. “Oh God, yes,” he groans as he pushes into your mouth, and once more, you hum in approval, hands tightening around his sharp hips.

His breath stutters as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your lips stretching around his girth. His hand trembles where it cups your cheek, thumb stroking reverent circles against your flushed skin.

“Ah—ah, you take me so well,” he murmurs, voice dazed, head lulling on his shoulders. Hand slips lower and fingers brush along the column of your throat. When he presses, just lightly, he can feel himself inside you—his own hardness encased in the heat of your mouth, the thought alone enough to send his head tipping back with a low, wrecked moan.

You hollow your cheeks, drawing him in deeper, until he’s nudging against something that makes your lashes flutter and your eyes well with tears. The sensation makes him groan, long and low, his grip on your throat tightening. “Fuck, just like that,” he breathes, his accent curling thick around the words. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the soft sounds you make sending another shudder through him. “My sweet, brilliant girl.”

This has you clenching on nothing as you moan against him, strangled and loud and Viktor’s body jolts, curling toward yours. His hips shift, making his cock press into you until your nose brushes against his base. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice unsteady, reverent. His palm presses more firmly against your throat, feeling the way you take him, the way you let him fall apart. “So beautiful like this—taking all of me—”

His words break into a curse when you swallow around him, the sound raw and desperate, and when he looks down to find you watching him, his eyes are glassy, and he’s nearly done for.

Was this all that you needed to feel like this? To be seen as a whole, both brilliant and pretty? Was this praise worth more because it’s coming from him? You don’t know, but something within you unravels as Viktor writhes and pants above you, his hand cradling your throat, another stroking your hair with admiration as he repeats how lovely you are. How good, how sweet. Nobody calls you sweet, ever. Oh, how nice it feels to be a girl stroked on the head by him after all.

It’s the honesty of his touch that nearly breaks you, when you can no longer be sure if the streaks of tears glistening on your cheeks are caused purely by the gag reflex. It’s the eyes that look at you reverently, and his mouth hanging open for you, his body exposed in ways you have never seen before. And he is so beautiful like this. So different from the man who lashes at your throat during endless debates over capacity and utility of designs. Yet it’s almost as if one couldn’t exist without the other. Tethering that tightrope together.

You let him slide in and out of your mouth, as you save all the sounds he makes in the bank of your brain, especially the one that announces him reaching his peak before the warmth of his cum coats the inside of your throat.

Viktor comes with a broken moan of your name, fingers tighten in your hair, and he shudders when his cock retreats from your mouth with a quiet pop. He immediately pulls you onto his lap and nuzzles into your neck, his arms hooking around you tightly.

“Is everything about you genius?” he hums in a deep breath, blissfully spent.

“If it were, I would’ve worked this out sooner,” you reply, dragging your finger down his chest.

“How are you?” he asks, cupping your cheeks and brushing his nose with his. A silent thank you, spoken in the language of warm skin.

“Would you avoid me for eternity if I didn’t come over?” you ask in a small voice, wincing at how expectant it sounds.

“I don’t think I’d be able to,” Viktor chuckles. “I was already breaking, to be honest,” he adds, smiling sheepishly. “I’m glad you came. So, so very glad.” A sigh, another earnest sound. He rolls you both to the side and kisses your neck. “I promise to be sweet to you from now on.”

“No,” you shake your head in his embrace. “No, I want you sincere, Viktor. Tell me when I’m fucking up. Promise me.”

And the look he gives you is where you land after your fall—slow, gentle, and firm. A space for your imminent fuck-up, welcoming and free of scolding, full of room to fix and learn. “I promise. And I would like the same of you.”

You nod and kiss him for it. The tightrope snaps gently—not under pressure, but cut precisely where you want it, another person holding it so it doesn’t slip out of your grip. Viktor holding you, as if he wants all of you. As if he’s wanted you for the longest time. You land in each other’s arms and a solid ground is beneath your feet.

He pulls you closer, his arms encircling you like a protective shield. The weight of his body presses into yours, steadying you both in a moment. You breathe in deeply, the air between you filled with a new kind of warmth. His thumb brushes your cheek, gently wiping away the remnants of your tears.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick with intent, as if he's thanking you for something more than just tonight.

You nod, resting your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a soft reassurance. "No more half-truths," you murmur, a promise just as real as his.

For the first time, you feel truly seen—not just for the things you’ve done, but for who you are. And in that, you find something more precious than you expected.

[satorusugurugurl]

Could I request JJK men helping you masturbate? More specifically, it's late at night and reader masturbates, they wake up but are too tired to actually do anything so they just whisper in ur ear or just guide the toy with their hand 😇 Modern AU with Nanami, Gojo, Geto, and Sukuna if possible, thank you sm I love ur writing it gets me GOING everytime you post teehee!! 🩷😁‼️

Guide You

Summary: A modern!au when during a late night solo session gets spicy as JJK men help you get off. 🥴

Characters: Nanami Kento, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ryomen Sukuna, AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,492

Warning: Spicy, smutty stuff, masturbation, toy use, praising, language

A/N: Hi Nonnie! Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoyed it! I hope it wasn't too repetitive I kinda struggled for a bit in a couple of places! 🥲 but I loooove you thank you!! 💚💚💚

Nanami Kento:

Your husband was the best pediatric ortho doctor in the city, which came with its positives and negatives. He was paid well, loved what he did, and was able to spoil you. Rotten with gifts and luxurious trips. The downside was the hours and overtime he hated to put in and the fact that you rarely got to see you some nights.

This was one of those challenging weeks while he was on call because it seemed like every child in the city decided this was the week to break their bones. By the time his week was finally over, your poor husband was exhausted, mentally and physically

You lay in bed, gently stroking his snored into his pillow. His features were finally relaxed as he dreamed peacefully next to you. You loved seeing him relaxing, with a gentle look on his face as he finally got the rest he deserved. The poor guy was tuckered out, and when he got home, he promised to make up for the long week to you this weekend with his mouth and his cock

And you were desperate to have him

You both made several attempts this week to have a quickie in the morning, the kitchen, and the car ride to work, but each attempt was interrupted. It was like the worst kind of edging. When Nanami had gotten home tonight, you had the full intention of riding him until he passed out, but the moment you saw how tired he was, you decided your pleasure could wait until he was well rested.

That’s what you kept telling yourself: to not jump his bones, you could wait. You weren’t some Horndog that needed to be consistently fucked within an inch of her life. You could function as a normal human. Telling yourself that helped for a second before thoughts of pushing you against any surface and having his way with you had your short soaked and your pussy throbbing

Maybe you weren’t too strong

Squeeze your thighs together, rubbing some relief, but it was suddenly too hot, and your brain was buzzing too loudly at one in the morning. You needed to get off, but you didn’t want to wake your exhausted husband, which meant you needed the hell of your trusty wand vibrator

You pulled the blue toy out of your nightstand before slipping under the sheets. An orgasm would be enough to tide you over for the night. Tugging your shorts down your hips, pulling them around your thighs, you press the tip of the wand against your clit, turning it on the lowest setting. The buzzing vibrations had you moaning softly, tilting your head back against your pillow.

The simmering desire between your legs began to increase to a boil, fire, throbbing, making your legs twitch and tremble as your eyes tight, imagining being the one to touch you, bringing you this delicious pleasure that was burning hot. You pictured him slotted between your legs, tongue torturing the little bundle of nerves, while honey-brown eyes stared into yours, eagerly eating you out and driving you towards release. That image of your husband had you turning the speed to the toy up. The buzzing grew louder as you chewed on your bottom lip to hold back the moans, trying to

While you did your best to keep your moans silent with the sound of the vibrator muffled by the sheets, it was the squirming of your legs that caused your husband to stir next to you. Nanami hummed his eyes, opening them just in time to watch your mouth fall into an ‘O’ shape while your eyes shut tight. He blinks lazily, trailing down the curves of your trembling body, listening to the soft humming buzz of your favorite toy

His poor wife must be pent up. As much as he would like to roll over and fuck you into the mattress, he was too tired. He might not be able to fuck you, but he could still offering and helping hand.

You were in your fantasy that you didn’t realize Kento was right next to your ear. His breath flushed over your cheeks, his lips pressing against it. Feeling his warmth next to you and his lips on your skin, the smell of his body wash had you whimpering as you spread your leg

“Mm, that’s it, baby. Does that feel good?” Nanami whispers in your ear. “You’re trembling, and it must feel good.”

“It feels really good, Kento, so good.” Your leg shakes more as he buries his face in your neck, kissing it gently fuck

“Turn it up higher. Don’t tease yourself like that.” As Nanami’s hand wraps around the wand, he presses one of the buttons, increasing the speed to a higher setting. “You’ve been such a good girl. You deserve to cum.”

Your hips buck forward as your left-hand grips the sheets. You could feel the burning fire growing hotter and hotter between your legs, spreading down to the tips of your toes to your abdomen, where the kindling flames grow hotter. A coil tightened. You were so close, and Nanami was sleep-deprived, could tell. He turned the speed up higher with a moan, grinning against your skin as you inhaled sharply, legs clamping together as you gripped his forearm with your hand.

“Oh-Kento! Oooh fuck~ fuck I’m gonna cum! !”

“That’s right, let it go cum for me.”

“Nnngh!” Nails dug into his skin as waves of pleasure washed over you. “Oh my god! Oh my god, c-cumming~!.” Your husband chuckled, his breath warming the skin on your face as you both worked yourself down from the intense orgasm.

“Pent up, darling?”

You hum, nodding as you pull the toy away, turning it off before putting the wand on your nightstand with a pleased sigh. “Yeah, I’m sorry I woke you up.” Large, calloused hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his body.

“No, you’re fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help out more.”

“That was hot enough to tide me over until you get some well-deserved rest.”

Nanami’s lips press against yours in a kiss as he shuts his eyes. “Then you better get some sleep. I have a week to make up for, so you’ll need all the rest you can get.” The promise of him ruining almost how you want, but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had you falling asleep with him in your arms.

Gojo Satoru:

Gojo Satoru, your boyfriend, was well known for his company, Six Eyes. A game developing company that produced some of the best video games of the era, making your rich boyfriend even richer. Gojo was constantly whisking you away on spontaneous trips. If you saw some new viral dessert in Canada, you both were off to try it. If you were stressed, no worries; a weekend in Fiji would fix that.

While his job paid exceptionally well and was stable, he also went on many business trips. The Jet Lag was real, but your boyfriend made it a point to try to readjust his sleep schedule whenever he got home, which sometimes meant he’d stay up close to twenty-four hours to do just that. Some nights when he got home, like today, he had been up so long that he was out like a light the second his head hit the pillow.

You didn’t mind. Just sleeping next to Satoru, wrapped in his arms, made up for the two weeks he was away. But being wrapped in his arms like you were right now also had downsides. His breath was hot against your neck as his chin rubbed that sweet spot where your shoulder connected to your neck, and his leg was firmly pressed against your sex.

God, you were so horny you felt like your whole body was on fire. There was no way you could fall asleep like this wet and needy. It would be awesome if your boyfriend was up and able to help you with your situation. But the rumbling of his snores clued you in that there was no hope for two A.M. quickies.

Taking matters into your own hands, you crawled out of his koala grip, reaching into your nightstand and pulling out your g-spot vibrator. God, you were so wet you didn’t even need lube. All you needed to do was rub the toy up and down over your folds before dipping the tip inside of you. You hissed out in pleasure before pushing the toy deeper inside of the tip, pressed firmly against that sensitive, spongy spot inside of you, the one that made you squirm. With a whimper, you turned it on and began thrusting it in and out of your tight pussy.

It felt so good, and it made your body burn hotter. The familiar coil in your abdomen began twitching to life. You hummed, rocking your head forward as you laid on your side gently, thrusting in and out of you faster, working yourself up to release, but you ran into the same problem you always did with a toy like this.

It got too intense.

You’d feel yourself getting close; your legs would clamp down together, making it nearly impossible for you to move the toy when you were trying to rub circles around your twitching clit. You would struggle to keep the rhythm pace and ultimately end up edging yourself endlessly.

“Fuck!” A harsh whisper sounded as you felt your orgasm slipping away again, your legs clamping together tighter. “Come on.” You were so close you could almost cry. The sweet release was just within your grasp and kept slipping away.

Biting down on your bottom lip, watching your trembling legs try to clamp together for the third time, making it almost impossible for you to move the toy in and out. If your vibrator were charging, this would have been much easier to do. But alas, your toy was dead, meaning you had to use your fingers while trying to thrust your toy in and out of you, feeling your orgasm for the third time. You were about to give up when an ivory hand reached between your legs, finding your clit with ease.

“H-Haaah, Satoru!” you gasped out as the warmth of his body snuggled closer against your side.

Gojo had been dreaming when you cried out in frustration, his eyes open, finding you struggling to reach that sweet release. He lay there momentarily, eyes still heavy as he debated oncoming to sleep when your voice broke. You sounded like you were going to cry and not in the way. So, fighting against the drowsiness, he inched closer to you, deciding to give you a helping hand.

The sharp circles you loved around your click while he forced his knee between your legs, forcing them to stay open, giving you the chance to fuck the toy faster into your heat. The stress and struggle on you were lifted as Toru rubbed his chin over that sweet spot on your shoulder before he trailed kisses down your neck.

“I got you.” his voice was thick sleep. “I got you; you can relax, sweetheart; you can cum~”

“T-Toru—” you whine out your hand, moving faster. “Satoru!”

Your boyfriend is leaning over your body, watching you drive closer to release. “That a girl~ don’t it up, don't stop.”

“B-But—”

“Shh~ relax, baby.” Gojo’s other hand reached under your body, his hand wrapping around yours that was thrusting the toy. “Keep moving like this, just like I do with my cock. You like it when I do that, right? When I that tight little cunt?” his lips brush over your shoulder as he moves the toy at a faster speed.

Your head tilts back as you feel the coil in your abdomen tightening.” C-Close—!” you whisper, eyes rolling back into your school as you beat up.

“Yeah? Does that feel good, sweetheart? You gonna cum?” His husky breathes as you nod. “Good girlfriend, that’s it. I can feel your leg shaking. You’re gonna cum so hard.”

“T-Toru!”

“Yeah, yeah, baby, good girl, such a good girl~!” Satoru causes your body to convulse as your breathing catches in your throat. “Mhmm fuck!”

Your pulse was racing, causing both you and Satoru’s hand to still as you cum. Waves of pleasure send you rocking back against him the entire time you cry and shake, littering your shoulder with kisses until you gently pull the toy out with a satisfied cry. His hand rests over your hip, gently holding you as you toss the toy to the foot of the bed. There was always time to clean it later; you were afraid if you tried to get up on wobbly legs, you would most likely collapse on the floor.

Opting out of leaving the bed, you roll over to face Satoru. His eyes are heavy as he looks at you through white, luscious lashes with a gentle smile. Grabbing Satoru’s handsome face with your hands, you kiss him deeply, making him hum happily as he lazily kisses you back before you pull away.

“Thank you, Toru.”

“Mhmm~” his eyes finally shut as he rubs his face into the pillow before squeezing you closer to his body. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Satoru. Get some rest, honey.” Before those words leave your mouth, your boyfriend snores softly against the pillow with a gentle smile.

Geto Suguru:

The problem with dating an EMT was the fluctuating hours. Some weeks, you and Suguru worked the same hours on the same days, while others had him on the night shift. This week had been nothing by the night shift. You couldn't complain, though. At least he would have the next four days off to spend with you. You could go out on dates, fuck each other, and he could rest, catching up on the sleep he had been deprived of. You both usually did that, but tonight, there was a problem.

You were currently ovulating and unbearably horny.

Suguru had worked his ass off this week, having been on calls nonstop for the entirety of his 12-hour shift. Usually, he’d be raring to go, needing to take his frustrations out on you, but today has been hard, rough call after call. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes as a kid tissues off and made it straight to the bathroom to take a hot shower, but we’re probably passing out face first in bed.

You lay down next to him, pressing your lips together as you stared at his sleeping face. His hair fell over his eyes, and he hugged his pillow tight as his sweats hung low on his hips. One leg was underneath the sheets, while the other was bent near his chest. How was it legal for him to be this fucking hot. That wasn’t even the hormones talking. That was a straight fact.

The hormones were telling you to breed you until you cried. But Suguru’s pale skin in the dark circles under his eyes prevented you from waking him. Waking him up to satisfy your needs was cruel when you were perfectly capable of satisfying yourself.

As long as you could see his handsome face and his breath, it would be to keep you in the moment. He was out so hard he wouldn’t see you staring at him like you were some pervert while you got yourself off lying on your side facing him; you bit back a moan as you rubbed your favorite flexor toy over your opening before sliding it inside of you with a shiver

The toy was pressed firmly against your g-spot and clit. When turned on, it would flex, mimicking fingers moving inside of you. It was your favorite toy, one your boyfriend had bought specifically for you, which made this even hotter. Small whimpers left your mouth as your eyes focused on Suguru, who slept soundly across from you.

Doing something like this, masturbating in front of him without him, knowing had your walls twitching in pleasure

“Haaah—” wind, one hand, gripping the pillow behind your head while the other grasped at the sheets. The curling motion and vibrations made you wetter than you already were, which seemed almost impossible. Your arousal seeped out of you, coating your folds, thighs, and your favorite pink toy buried inside you, and the pleasure of doing it in front of your handsome boyfriend without his knowledge had you squirming, resulting in the toy slipping out of you.

“H-Huh?” The feeling of the vibrations against that spongy spot inside of you vanished. “What the?” reaching down, you pushed it back in place, but your wet walls had it slipping out again. “Y-You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You repeated the same process, pushing the toy inside, but it continued slipping out, turning your very steamy solo session into a much more frustrating scenario. It was hard to get into the moment when you were constantly having to push your favorite toy back inside of you. You finally reached down, holding it firmly in place with one hand. So you could handle the situation. Before you could lose yourself in the pleasure, you glanced back up to admire your boyfriend, only to meet his dark gaze, watching you with a lazy grin.

“S-Sugu!”

“Oh~ don't stop, please~ I love watching you get off.” he hummed with a smirk, snuggling closer into his pillow. “Could wait for the morning~ had to get out your toy?”

“Y-Yes—”

He glanced down, “Need a hand?” You can only nod as he reaches down, replacing your hand with his own. “Fuuuck~ baby, you're so fuckin’ wet.” he pushes the toy deeper inside, holding it snuggling in place.

“I-I was I-imagining you, f-fingering—nngh—” Your mouth falls agape as you watch Suguru as the vibrator flexes against your clit and g-spot perfectly. Your hips buck, and your leg trembles as you cry out softly.

“Yeah~ you always get needy for my fingers.” he gently rocks the toy black and forth, making a whimper crawl up your throat. “Does that feel like me~? Rocking my fingers against that spot?”

“Ooooh fuck S-Suguru, Sugu~”

Your boyfriend’s thumb presses the button, increasing the speed to the highest setting. “Oooh baby~ you sound so pretty, moaning my name like that.” He smirked as you grip his bicep, digging your fingers into the muscle. “You’re gonna cum~ I can tell.”

“Y-Yes! Please, Sugu, please, please, I need it!”

As much as he would like to edge you, keep this going, he was still tired. So he rocks the toy back and forth, faster and harder, drawing out the loudest moans from you. It felt so good. It felt like he was touching you while guiding a toy he had purchased for you. Your nails nearly broke the skin as you clinched your hand around his bicep, the coil in your abdomen tightening harder and harder until it finally snapped.

“I'm cumming!” screamed out legs, trembling and shaking as you gushed all over the toy. “C-Cummin’ cumming!” Subaru couldn’t help but chuckle as you arrived against the mattress; you were so sensitive, so easy to please, because he knew you like the back of his hand.

As the rippling contractions of pleasure ceased, your grip on his arm loosened before gently rubbing away the crescent moon shapes you left behind. “Feel better?” Suguru asked as he gently removed the toy from inside you.

“Yeah, it's your fault—ahh—” your words cut off as you watched your boyfriend slide his tongue slowly up the toy collecting your cum off of it. “W-What are you?!”

“A midnight snack should be enough to tie me over until I fully devour you in the morning.”

Your boyfriend nonchalantly placed the toy on his side of the nightstand before hugging his pillow and shutting his eyes as if he hadn’t just done something so sinfully hot! If it weren’t for the mere intensity of your orgasm, pulling you into dreamland, you would’ve taken him right then and there and told him to relax while you did all the work. Suguru was right; you would have to wait for a proper meal in the morning, and you would beat him to it.

Ryomen Sukuna:

Ryomen Sukuna, you’re hot, tattooed, and pierced boyfriend, was snoring next to you in bed. His right arm was in a black brace courtesy of the sofa. You had begged him to wait until you got off a call to help him move it, but he insisted that he would be fine alone. And he was until the damn thing nearly crushed his little brother Yuuji when your back was turned.

It was a hairline fracture that would quickly heal in six to eight weeks. Plus, with the hairline fracture, Sukuna could still do simple things like piercings and scheduling appointments at Geto’s tattoo shop. Your boyfriend had been lucky that he had a lot of muscles to take the blunt of the hit from the massive sofa. Your boyfriend wasn’t fortunate enough to avoid your wrath when he said he could care for himself and his brothers alone.

Hearing him say that caused you to blow a fuse. It was bad enough that he had tried to move a sofa alone! Then he dares to tell you he doesn’t need help around the house. Sukuna told you he would be fine nursing a hairline fracture while working and caring for his brothers, which caused you to tell him to shut up and stop being an asshole. That’s how you found yourself with your bags packed in the corner of his room as your ass was planted firmly in his bed while he slept off his pain meds.

He could fight you all he wanted, but you wanted to be there for him.

With a heavy side, you brush back some of your hair as you glance at the clock on the wall. The adrenaline had been pumping through your veins, keeping you wired most of the evening. You were wired after taking Sukuns to the hospital, picking up his brothers, and packing a bag to bring. Seeing that it was now one in the morning, you had a couple of choices to help with your insomnia. You could pull an all-nighter and take a nap on the day, or you could relieve the tension with an orgasm and fall asleep that way.

Having to choose between sleep, deprivation, and pleasure wasn’t a hard decision. Without any other thoughts, you reached into Sukuna’s nightstand, pulling out the vibrator he kept there for you. With that bad boy, he would be able to cum in no time. You had just laid on your back and went to turn it on the highest setting for it to do absolutely nothing. You gave it another click, finding your favorite toy dead.

“No,” you whine, leaning against the pillows. “Fuck no.” as much as you hated it, you would have to go back to the ages and get off with your hand if that was even possible.

With a soft side, you pull to the side before your swollen clit with ease. You gently began rubbing it with your forefinger and slowly teasing circles. Your toes curled as you pressed down on the bundle of nerves with a whimper. It felt good, but you weren’t sure if this would be enough for you. Your boyfriend had not only been your first for almost everything, but he has successfully ruined you for anyone else

And the smug bastard knew that, too

Rubbing your clit faster, you spread your shaking legs with a shaky sigh. Touching yourself, of course, felt good. It always did, but it wasn’t enough, whether it was the lack of callouses or how your fingers were much smaller than your boyfriend's. Or it could just be the fact that your hand wasn’t his. Those thoughts only made it harder for you to focus on the pleasure,

“Kuna,” you whispered, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes~” You were trying to mimic his fingers over your swollen bud, picturing his mouth on your tits, sucking at your nipples. “Fuck.” imaging that only increased the pleasure, making you rub yourself as fast as your fingers would allow. The pleasure only seemed to intensify, urging your hands to grab the sheets instead of continuing to get you off. “Fuuck.” They were about to slow down when Sukuna swatted your hand away and replaced it with his left one. “Haaah!”

Looking up, you found your groggy boyfriend sitting on his knees, the right hand pressed close to his chest while the other rubbed furiously at your clit. “Gotta move your fingers faster than that kitten.” his voice was deep and groggy from the sleep and the medication he was on. “You’re never gonna cum like that.” Your hands dug into the sheets and snapped your fingers faster and harder. I guess that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”

“What? You were begging me to do so. This is what you wanted, right?” Sukuna moves his hand as fast as he can as you bite down on your bottom lip when the pleasure becomes almost too much.“Then do it, cum all over my fingers like the good kitten that you are.”

“I-Im gonna—!”

“Yeah? Gonna finally cum now that your boyfriend’s helping you out?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Yeah, your fingers aren’t as rough as mine, are they?”

“No!”

Sukuna presses down on your clit harder, rubbing circles around it. “Awe, so honest~ come on, baby cum, you deserve it for telling me the truth and helping me out today. Consider this one of the many ways I plan on repaying you,” you scream, eyes going wide as your orgasm hits you with the promise of more pleasure to come.

Your body rides and arches off the mattress as you cum all over your boyfriend’s hand. You grip the sheets, eyes clamping shut as your tights clamp around her hand. Sukuna slows his fingers down, grinning as he watches your face go from scrunched up with pleasure to a more relaxed expression. His quick circles turn into lazy strokes until, finally, your legs shakily release the vice grip on his hand.

“Mmm.” he licks his fingers clean as you fix your shorts. “You taste so sweet.”

“Mhmm,” you respond almost lazily as he pulls you into his chest. Drowsiness creeps up on you, making your eyelids heavy, and Sukuna sighs heavily. “Night, Kuna; let me know if you need anything.”

Sukuna hums in response, watching as you slowly drift off to sleep on his chest. Would asking you to move in be too much to ask? Because you were everything he needed.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3

[riveredmoon]

even when i slip away | c. kamo

pairing: choso kamo x gn!reader

synopsis: in a world where memories could be erased, choso clings to the pieces of a love he barely knew how to hold. even when you both forget — something in him remembers.

contents: modern au — inspired by the movie, non curse au, angst, post breakup grief, relationship troubles, altered reality, memory loss, themes of loss, longing and emotional isolation, suggestiveness, talk of medical procedures, no usage of yn or gender, quiet ending (open to your interpretation)

phy’s memory: this is my first complete writing piece for our cho! i hope i did his voice justice. i’ve really enjoyed writing this piece and i hope you enjoy reading it! :)

wc: 7K

italicized indicates flashback

“You don’t tell me things Choso.” 

The sun is barely peeking above the horizon. The room is still dark besides the corner closest to the window — where your chair of miscellaneous things is. An opened book that wants to be closed, the words snuggling together in the safety of the book’s spine. The orange sweater you wore the first time you two met, the sleeves dipping into the slight touch of light filtering in. 

The room is quiet besides your breathing and Choso’s fingers tapping on your thigh. He’s laying on his back — the palm further from you is gripping the sheets below. You’re lying next to him, hiked up on your elbow. He’s grateful for the position — his head could easily tuck into your armpit. The tips of your colored hair tickles his nose. He wants to wave it away, tuck that strand behind your ear but he thinks you’ll be too far away if he moved it. 

“I’m an open book and you’re barely a bookmark.” 

Your voice is tired, and understandably so. The clock on the bed side table is reading 5:34 am. The night was taken by your plight of hums and little conversations that couldn’t wait till morning. Your laughs inch Choso’s eyes open whenever he felt that he was drifting into a slumberland. One where your voice drifts away like a tide at the beach. So, he fought the tiredness to listen. To hear the real version. 

“I like to listen to you.” He hums, his fingers near your thigh tapping in morse code. What is he saying? He doesn’t know. He almost never knows what to say to you. 

“All my life that’s all people offer.” Your voice has this soft bitterness to it. Your chest heaving inwards when you let out a long exhale. He watches the way your heart beats against your chest from the corner of his eyes. The tank top you’re wearing is clashing with the dark that is seeping in from behind you but welcoming the warm light driving in.

“I want to be the listener. Especially when it comes to you.” 

“Nothing I have in my life is interesting to talk about.” His hand is gripping the sheet below rather tightly. He hopes from your position you can’t see how white his knuckles are becoming. “The most interesting thing I have is…” 

“Cho..” 

“You.” 

The room is quiet again. He turns his head, his face snuggling into your chest. He skips your eyes, but he feels then running along his face. 

Without the words, he hopes you’ll read his body. The way his breathing chills whenever his body comes in contact with yours 

“I don’t think constant talking is necessarily communicating.” 

You don’t answer, not even offering him a hum. He smells your body wash, it’s etched into the threading of the sheets below and everytime you breathe, it washes off of you and over him. 

He hears the clock’s hand tick by. You’re breathing stable, your hair now tickling his ear. His eyes are feeling heavy and he so badly wants you to lay your head on the pillow next to him — so that he can watch your eyes slowly droop as sleep takes over you as well. The streaming sunrise would give him the assist to see how your eye color looks in these hues of color. 

“It is.” 

You finally speak and once again Choso’s eyes fly open. His ears perk at your voice, trying to find any hidden meanings behind your tone or the words you chose to say to him. 

Sleep is slipping out of his fingers the faster the sun merges in. The more you keep up with your need to tell him everything that passes through your mind. 

“It’s about knowing what matters to you, Choso.” 

The strand of hair tickling his ear feels more like a drill now. The presence of it isn’t comforting anymore. He raises his hand to swat it away. 

“What makes you real.” 

He feels you shift, his eyes focused on the beauty mark on your chest. The sunlight is now sparking on your soft skin. He almost wants to reach over and place a chaste peck on the mark. He hopes that it will turn you away from this conversation. He missed when you talked about the beach. 

“What makes you mine.” 

He’s now staring at your back. Your body quickly moves along with the beeline of light that’s shining in. Your breathing slowed, your back rising in a melody he has memorized. 

He places the pillow he’s laying on over his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, one hand under his head, the other above the pillow. His leg carefully prods through the quilt, looking for yours. To let him know that you’re here. 

That you’re his.

The box of things in his hands is heavy — and not physically but emotionally. The tension is obvious in his shoulders and how his feet are dragging through the slush. Last night’s snow is already being ruined by commuters — the white landscape now grey and even black on some sides of the street. Bootprints and tire marks act as signatures on the snow. 

He wonders if you woke up excited to see the snow. Your eyes running to those rainbow mittens you wear as you run your hands among snow covered windows and trees. The white fluff falling at your feet like an offering to the gods. 

Then he hears the gloves calling from the bottom of the box. Actually, you must have woke up angry. A rare emotion that sometimes comes in these huge waves that neither you nor him knew how to handle. 

The colors mock him along with the other little debris of you rattling in the box. He wished you left even a smidge of something that wasn’t physical. 

The smell of your body wash has faded over the months. His ears erased the tilt of your voice, the bass of your laugh, the sigh that would ease out of you and wash over him like a spotlight. 

Instead, he has a box of your underwear, your gold rings that decorated every finger (besides the third finger on the left hand), mittens, a cookbook where you found the recipe you used for Yuji’s birthday cake last year. He hears the pictures in there flutter as a practically heavy gush of wind pushes him into the door that’s going to change everything. 

You’re going to be out of his mind. You’re going to live a free person that doesn’t have an impending Choso shaped cloud raining over you. You made it look easy, this should be a piece of cake. 

And he’ll be able to breathe — breathe in as hard as he wants without the want of your body wash to sneak into his airstream. He’ll sniff in the garbage he walks by without a daydream of your scent.

“Hello! How can we help you?” A white haired man greets Choso’s rigid body. The cold air that creeped in from behind him falling flat at the warmth of the man’s tone. 

The room is stuffy. Other people sitting with teary eyes and heavy boxes on their laps. The last bit of memories slithering into their thighs hoping for another chance to be kept. To be felt. To be real. 

He sways on his feet, his eyes not looking up at the other faces — at the start of life without you. 

A picture of you and him has found its way on top. Your smile is bright, as you always were. He is standing behind you, his eyes on you, lips tucked into a slight grin, his hands on your hips — like you’re fragile.

You were. He must have forgotten that. 

“I have an appointment, for the..” Choso cuts himself off. Eyes still on the picture, one of his hands coming from under the box to point to it. 

His nose is still sniffing out, searching for your scent like a guard dog. 

“Yes! Yes! You’re, let me check here…” Choso finally looks up. His feet are frozen, planted by the slush and dirty snow by the door. He can’t escape but he doesn’t think he could walk forward either. 

“Choso Kamo?” 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Choso’s voice is low. He feels his fingers gripping into the box with everything he has. Everything that still keeps him within your orbit — even if you decided to erase him from yours. 

“Well, the doc is ready for ya!” 

And there, Choso takes the first step. His eyes ignoring your bright smile. Ignoring the lady who’s holding a dog bowl while she weeps into a plaid collar. Just his legs are moving, arms screaming out in pain, and the snow slowly melting into the carpet below. 

“So, you’ll be going through with the memory erasure procedure process.” 

Choso is sitting in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs. His leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since he sat down — the box heavy on his thighs, his arms still protectively wrapped around your mementos. 

The room is warm, but uncomfortably so. The brown, peeling walls holding the heat in like a sauna. Stock photos plastered on the walls behind the desk where the doctor is sitting. He wonders if anyone left in the middle of the presentation. Taking their memories and pain, leaving their dignity (and hefty copayment since there are so refunds). 

He could picture you here. Your fingers dancing along the chair’s armrest. Your voice would be steady, calm. Your legs would be still, the box containing his memories would have been filled to the brim with the things you wanted Choso to have. 

Pages filled with those quiet words he just could never say out loud to you. Maybe you’ll throw your eardrums in there — in hope that you’ll finally hear what Choso had to say. Filling your memories with conversations that didn’t happen but tapped on his vocal chords and filled the blanks in the relationship. 

“This little box of things would be compiled into a memory casket of sorts.” 

Choso finally looks up at the doctor. Her long hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are distant, as if she’s done this a thousand times before. The qualms of heartbreak not affecting her in the slightest. 

“So I’ll have access to it?” His eyes feel heavy, those pesky tears brimming on his lash line. The thought of having access to you when his mind isn’t going to know you causes a hole to push through his chest. He’s not sure if he is crying out of relief or fear. 

Fear of not knowing you. Relief in leaving you behind, the way you did him. 

“Not right away. No.” 

Choso hums. Nodding his head towards her direction. His arms are hugging the box tighter. The doctor eyes his forearms around the box, her right eyebrow twitches in confusion. 

“Before anything, I like to have my patients tell me about the subject they want to forget.” Her hand rummages through a desk drawer. “It’ll be recorded. So the memory lives, it just won’t haunt your everyday life.” 

A recorder is placed in the middle of the table. Choso could only stare at the doctor’s nimble fingers pressing the buttons with ease. He wonders how a piece of metal could capture what is you. 

Words don’t come easy for him, that much is true. That is why he is sitting here, why his brain is screaming, causing the headache of the day to beat through his temples. Why does he feel sand in his shoes despite it being a blizzard last night? 

He thinks it’s a joke to sit here and think this box of things and this measly recorder could capture who you are. Not when you know languages and words he could never comprehend.

“Well they did this procedure. So I thought it’ll be fair to forget them as well.” 

The back of the chair feels hotter than before now. The box once again becoming heavier, his thighs feeling the wrath from those mittens. 

The doctor peeks up at him. He ignores the look, like how you ignored him when he went to “talk” to you last week. Your eyes looking him over with the stare you give a stranger who mumbles to themselves on the walk down the street. 

“Forgetting indicates growth. Being forgotten indicates heartbreak. Two outcomes you can’t steer from while living.”

“I didn’t want to forget them.”

Choso feels like he has to defend himself. Defend you. Because in what world is it reasonable that you out of all people should be forgotten? 

“Yet you’re here.” 

“They wanted to forget me.” 

“Or they want to forget you, forgetting them.” 

The perils he was holding on to slip. Hard and fast around his feet, into the box, out of his eyes. His eyes shedding his tears like how the ocean sheds its waves to you.  

“In all honesty, you weren’t supposed to know about their procedure. So I apologize for that.” 

He nods. Accepting the apology. Accepting that it happened — there’s nothing he could change now. Not as his back begins to stick to the chair. 

“Their personality carries me out of the mundane.” 

“Carried, you mean?”

He stops, ignoring the correction. His eyes are searching the meek room. Not for answers, he could write a two hundred page book about you without stopping. He’s searching for a reason to give you life in the room right now. Especially when he isn’t going to remember you tomorrow. 

“They just wanted to listen. That’s all.”

Yuji has run ahead, sand flying behind him as he runs to the group of friends ahead. His pink hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. His hellos are loud and real — his need to welcome everyone into his circle screaming louder than the beaming sun. 

Choso is sitting on the steps to an abandoned house. His toes touching the invisible line that cuts the sand off from his spot of safety and the overheated beach in front of him. Everyone he knows and should be communicating with suffering the stabs from the burning hot sun on the bottom of their feet. 

His eyes wander — spotting a seagull flying a little too low, a rainbow kite flying in the stale summer breeze, and a person. There are plenty of people here, but this one… he’s never seen and even across the beach, he feels like he knows you. Or he should know you. 

Your back is towards him and the group of people he does know and who know him. An orange sweater thrown over the top half of your body, you’re almost as bright as the midday sun. 

Your hands skim the waves rolling towards your shoe covered toes. Your colored hair swaying with the smoke from the grill closer to him. 

He hated sand. He hated the beach in all its entirety. It’s too hot, and too clingy — he hates finding sand in his shoes weeks later and hates that Yuji never wipes his feet correctly. It’s bright, no corner for him to hide from the scorching sun or the judgmental moon. Just the sand in his shoes and his eyes squinting at the light. Don’t even get him started on how loud it is. The waves are always crashing, no sign of rest, no lul quiet no matter how relaxing others may find it. 

So, he’s shocked to say the least when his feet tread through the sand. His steps are heavy and off balanced as if he’s walking through mud. Your back is still facing him and the party, but the inhale you breathe in snaps something in him. He knows you. He has to know you. 

The waves roll in, low and soft the sun letting the waves roll leisurely to your ringed fingers. Seashells crunch under his feet as he continues to walk to your back. The shouts of his friends mend with the battle cries from the seagulls screaming above. 

“Isn’t the beach just beautiful?” 

Your voice catches him off guard. It’s warm like honey and instead of the waves overpowering it, it flows together. Like you’re the one with the power of the waves and the intimacy of the sand sticking in places where they do not belong. 

“The waves call for everyone to listen. To feel. To even smell them.” 

He smells the salt water, it’s strong and wafting over his body he feels like he’s swimming in the water — your fingers toying at the wave. 

He’s closer to you now. The orange sweatshirt is even brighter than he saw when he was on those steps. When he was safe from the sand and the pull of your voice. 

“I think the beach is the only thing that allows me to just listen to it.” 

You finally look over your shoulder. And at that moment with your soft gaze running over his misplaced body and foreign steps — he wonders if you know him. Your ears trained on his steps as he sunk into the sand to you. 

He feels like this happened before but at the same time, it didn’t. At least not like this. Both of you have had time to tweak the words you say, the things you do, the wave you’ll grab on. 

“It wants nothing from me. And I don’t have anything to give.” 

Choso hums. His hands find their way into his pockets. Your hands continue to train the waves. Roll in. Roll out. Sputter here. Crash there. 

“I hate the beach.” 

You laugh, and it’s soft and melodic. The wave rolling into your palms at the moment acts as a backtrack for it. 

“I know.” 

You’re standing to your full height now. Wet fingers clinging to the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Your eyes are still staring into his from over your shoulder.  The sand sinking around you two — like it’s about to open up a portal for you to explore. Wet fingers laced around his fidgety ones. Sand pushes you closer to him, sneaking into the places you both can’t see. 

“You do?” 

“I think I know.” 

You’re turned fully around. Your smile is bright, rivaling the sweatshirt, the sun behind you, the blue of the water, Yuji’s pink hair hopping around in his peripheral view.  

It felt so intimate. Threading the line between strangers and lovers. The line between the sand and where the tide pulls and pushes the water. 

Choso finds himself sitting in a train car. Hushed conversations holding space with the chug of the wheels rattling below. 

He feels like he’s been here before. Right in this spot, the seat is swallowing him as if it’s aware of every slight movement his body has made before.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a woman mending to her dog. The dog is lapping at the snack being shoved through the gates of its cage. He smells the beefy smell of whatever his owner is giving him. A glimpse of a plaid collar makes him turn his eyes towards the dog. 

He’s been here before. Why is he here now? 

Before he could stare at the dog — maybe telepathically ask it how to work on his sniffing skills. He hears a voice. One that lives in his bones and scratches at his back when he feels nervous. 

“Do you think we’ll find each other in every lifetime?” 

And there. By the window. Your bright colored hair stuck to the window as your eyes trail the things that the train zooms by. Your fingertips are placed on the window — as if you’re trying to exit the train car. Have half your body here next to him, the other half feeling the wind and smelling the trees out there. 

You’re in shorts, a tank top that shows the constellation of beauty marks that litter on your back. He smiles at the thought of the planetarium he had in his bed — offering a nightly show whenever the moon shone just right. 

Before he could answer, tell you yes. That, yes! That is the hope. A voice that eerily sounds like him responds. 

“No.” 

Your eyebrows shoot up. Your face still inches away from the window. Just from watching the side of your face, he knows what’s your next movements would be. Your left finger is going to start tapping — like you’re sending a message to yourself and the trees. Your bottom lip is going to tuck in and you’re going to respond with a question. 

“No?”

He looks down at his black jeans, sodden winter boots with the remnants of your favorite season dripping from his toes. He feels the warmth from his winter jacket circling around his neck, a gentle hold that isn’t needed for where he is right now. 

The trees, full of life and green, are speeding past the window. Almost as if they’re running and the train is still. The day bustling by without a care of how uncomfortable or confused Choso may feel.

The voice that is his speaks up again. He leans in to listen, just like you. 

“Yeah, no.” 

Your left finger starts to tap and he feels his lips tick up in a knowing grin. But, an emptiness claims his chest. 

“In another life I most likely wouldn’t have gone to that party. You possibly could have never been born.” 

You turn your head to look at him. The sun shining through the window lightly kisses you. He’s almost jealous at how the sun lives on your skin without it saying a word. The shawls of light matching that orange sweatshirt, the gleam in your eyes, his apartment whenever you run in with a new topic to talk about. 

“Bleek way to look at it, Cho.”

“Not at all. I’m lucky that it happened in this lifetime. I think we deserve each other now.” 

You smile. He feels himself, or that version of himself smiling back at you. 

“Cho…” 

Your voice sounds far away. From the corner of his eye, the lady is weeping. The cage with the plaid collared dog is gone. It’s cold. Your eyes are planted out the window. The trees seemingly become bare, the sun setting behind a cloud. 

Then, it’s sudden darkness. A rush into a tunnel, his hands grip the armrest for some stability. The loud blaring horn of the train brittles his bones. 

He looks at your spot. Your normal hair color is weaving near your face. Your eyes are distant, but cold, never cruel. 

Your bare fingers are clinging to each other. He wonders if the box is nearby so that he could give you those gloves, protecting your frostbite fingers. 

“You’re not going to remember me after this, you know?” 

He opens his mouth to answer. Tell you that isn’t true. Tell you the only reason he is here is because you’ve erased him first. But, the lady’s weeping is getting louder. His stomach is curling into himself. He knows that you don’t expect him to say anything. 

He never does. 

And just as quickly as the winter cloaked in, the train merged out of the tunnel. The sun is back, the trees are lined with luscious green leaves. 

And you? 

You’re gone. 

Your eyes aren’t cruel but they’re distant. They’re not shining how they usually do. They’re not inching over his face, instead looking at your feet. 

Your hair is your normal color now. The bright color that saturated every single inch of the tub for three weeks washed down the drain along with the words on Choso’s words on the tip of his tongue. 

He feels like he’s on a boat in the middle of the Drake passage. His knees wobbly under him, wind gushing dangerously pulling and pushing him towards your shrunken body. 

He has to snatch his eyes away from you to make sure that you’re both in his apartment. Your orange sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, your colorful picture frames looking out of place on his wall with his tacked dark band posters. 

One picture on the wall catches his eyes immediately. Calming him down. Your eyes shining brightly — hair color just as bright. Your smile is real. He could almost hear your voice, your tone soft and happy. Not the heavy one you’re using now. 

“Choso. Please.” 

“This is it for us?” 

He hates how clipped his voice sounds. Especially when his knees want to cave into the carpet below, the one you chose just for him. His hands feel sweaty and they keep running through his black hair. He wants to ask you how many steps it would take for him to make it to the bathroom before he hurls.  

“We’re just two people who are meant to be alone.. even in a room full of people. Even with your hand in mine.” 

He feels the words slither themselves into his chest like a caterpillar looking for an apple to bury itself into. The little pockets of you flashing along his walls, under his feet, in front of him — aren’t so bright anymore. A complete dullness washing over him. Loneliness coaxing him into a ball of nothingness. 

“You’re not alone.” 

He could take the loneliness. You don’t deserve too.

You let out a dry chuckle and he feels his knees give out — his hand reaching for his bedpost to hold him up. 

“I don’t know who you are.” 

The words hit hard despite your voice being low and mellow. A hint of nostalgia wrapped around the words, even with the knowledge of the fact that you’re leaving because you have nothing to hold too. 

“That’s bullsh-“ 

“You sit here in silence. The words are always stuck in your throat.” 

Your voice has risen. Your shoulders meeting your ears as you shrug. Choso’s shoulders feel like they’re being pushed down — not to be grounded or find balance but to push himself into the ground. Have it swallow him whole. Maybe then you’ll understand the true meaning of loneliness. You’d be in a room that was once haunted by him. Him watching from below, no way to reach out. 

“You know every single embarrassing thing about me.” 

Sixteen steps. That would get him to the bathroom. Sixteen long strided steps. 

“You know every song I cry too. You know how I got that scar on my back in the seventh grade. You know I laugh when I’m about to cry.” 

You laugh. The one that you just mentioned. It’s wet and stuck in your throat. He wants to reach out for you. But he knows he’ll throw up on you. Maybe then all the words would tumble out. No matter how late it may be. 

“I don’t know who you are.” 

The words are sticking themselves to the posters. Wafting through the bedpost and crawling up his arms, caging him to the room where it’s happening. 

He can really see you anymore. The muted colors are not calling for him as it did all the times before. A blurry blob that’s you — he only knows because the body wash of yours is hanging above him like mistletoe. 

“I’m tired of making this version of you that isn’t being shown to me. It’s not fair to you or me…”

“So I’m a stranger?” 

You shake your head. He could barely make it out with how much water is pooling at his eyes 

A tear drops and he’s reminded of the sea. Of the way the waves come to you, lapping at your toes and weaving through your fingers. He can’t help but let the rest of the tiny parts of the oceans seep out of him. 

“No, we’re just two lonely people who love each other.” 

He thinks he smells the ocean coming from you. The salt dripped from your eyes and fell onto the carpet. Maybe you just could make an ocean just for you two. 

“I was never alone with you.” 

"You didn't let me swim in. You just watched me drift away.”

He walks into the apartment — or the memory of it. It feels like he is floating, his feet barely touching the ground. 

He hears the slick sounds of your bodies. The rhythm of it is a quiet devastation that's swimming in his gut. Like a soft knife twisting into an already airless balloon. 

He passes the bare walls, pockets of empty places fighting with the posters on his wall. Only one hook for his keys, as they swing and clink lonely. 

He peeks through the crack door of the bedroom — the blinds slightly peeled back. The ghost of the moon living above the bed. Where you’re in his arms, and he is in yours. 

He creeps into the room, not too caught up on the mess his boots are making or of his loud imaginary stomping. 

His eyes are sliding over every single aspect of this room. It feels like home. It feels lived in. But, it’s not real. At least anymore. 

He stares at the chair of random things, books and pictures piling up on it. Words that Choso never said finding a seat to stay withering away for years to come. He wonders if you put the chair in your memory casket box. 

He looks back towards the bed, your bright colored hair plastered to the pillows below. Choso’s face embedded in your neck as his tongue licks down the sweet column of your neck. Your back arches, one of your hands drifting from his face to tug at his hair. 

“Talk to me.” 

You whisper against his lips as you pull his face to yours. One of his arms holding him above you. The other one travels between the sheets to dip into you. 

Your eyes are bleeding into his. Looking for an answer. And even as he stands back and watches, he doesn’t know the answer. Or rather yet, if he had it for you. 

He hums against your lips. Choso walks over to the crowded chair to watch from there. His eyes falling to his fingers. His stomach feels empty. He doesn’t have to count the sixteen steps it’s going to take if he has to hurl. 

He doesn’t pay attention to the unnatural creak of the bed, or the moans that sound distorted. He’s willing to take this as the last time he is within your reach. 

“I never truly had all of you.” 

He looks up. You’re speaking to him from the bed. The other Choso’s hips are moving, grinding into you. He hears how wet you are. Skin slapping against skin. His muffled moans, your pleasing gasps. 

But you, you’re different. You’re… you. Dark hair. Soft eyes, distant but not cruel. The moon is shining on your face so gently, if he blinks he’ll miss it. The way it kisses the flutter of your lashes. The dimple in your chin. 

“Yes, you did.”

His voice is hoarse, like he’s been swimming with his mouth open all day. His fingers are still pulling at each other. His chest feels tight. His eyes hurt from looking at you. 

Your ringless fingers are gripping onto the other Choso. Your eyes watching him sweat in his coat. The way his eyes want to jerk away, he’s doing this to forget you. Not see you even more. 

“No, not when you could barely tell me who you were.” 

Choso wants to cover his ears, shut his eyes, and hide under the bed like a child. Escape the sounds of his body pleasuring yours, of your strong stare on him. He wants to get the memory casket back, live in the things that screams you — even if you want no part of him. 

Instead, he stares back. His chest caving in the process. He misses the orange sweatshirt. He misses the bright colored hair. He misses when you talked to him, not looking for an answer in return. 

“I was yours.” 

You weakly smile, so weak that if he was not staring at you he would’ve missed it. A sob racks through his chest and he hates that he can’t get the tears to stop. He left some in his memory casket, shouldn't they be there?

The bed is still creaking. Choso’s moans are needy, yours are desperate. He thinks he could hear just how close you are by the tempo of your breath. 

“I needed you to be more than just mine.”

Your response is kind, like you know how close he is from jumping over the edge. You were always good at bringing him back down. Your quiet sobs climbing over the sound of the bodies slapping into each other. 

“Why did you do it?” 

He nods towards you. His voice is still shaky from the previous sob. The other version of him is sucking on your neck, hoping to leave a mark to indicate that you’re his. He’ll skip the words and use his lips to mark and talk to you in different ways.

“It pained me to remember all the things you could never tell me.”

You shrug under him. The chair is starting to feel like it’s floating too. He hopes it floats away, following the moon’s call to the safety of the tides that wash along the broken rocks down by the pier. 

“I was remembering a version of you that you didn’t even introduce to me.” 

Your voice cracks, and he feels the crack in his chest again. And for the first time, Choso feels like he has some words to tell you. 

“I thought I was who you needed me to be.”

You shake your head no. Your eyes are heavy as you now look up at the Choso pumping into you. Your ringless fingers lightly prodding his face, so gently with so much care. 

Choso could do nothing but watch in the chair, hoping he feels a phantom touch. Your finger lining over the bridge of his nose, running along his eyebrow, maybe feeling the tickle of his eyelashes. 

“Why are you doing it?” 

Your hands drop, falling to the sides. Not affecting the other Choso. His moans are still deep and oblivious, his eyes staring deeply into the other you. He hopes they both feel the love. 

“Because I can’t imagine a life without you. Felt it was easier to erase you.” 

He answers honestly. His eyes began to water again. He knows even with you wiped from his memories, he'll look for you. His life would keep crawling to the little pockets he could find that keeps him orbiting around. Gone or not, his life would find a meaning for you in it. 

“Are you erasing the choso that is mine too?” 

He could hear you coxing your voice to come out calm and stable. He hears the tears that want to make an ocean right here. A clear line between the two versions of you both. 

“No. I’ll keep him around to enjoy the little bit left of you that I have.” 

You’re no longer under the other Choso. You’re walking up to him, in a winter coat. Your hair is still dark and your fingers are still bare. You’re floating too, to the chair of unsaid words. To him. 

He ignores the other versions of you both. Ignore the smiles and the gasps still easing from you both. Ignore the want to yank himself by the hair and tell him just to say something. 

But he sat on the sidelines. As you work the room, even as a ghost, a distant memory with so much nuance, he’s stilled to the chair. 

He’s always been on the sidelines. His voice gets caught in the roar that is you. His eyes are always tracking every movement, but despite that — he could never understand how you got from point a to point b. Everything about you pulled him to you, confused him. Like those pretty paintings you’ll drag him to see in an art museum. Both of you get different meanings out of the same picture. Your answer would always be more integrated, more lived in. 

“I’m already gone. You’ll be webbed in between the wedges of my brain like a song I can’t get the name of.”

Your eyes are still wet from the previous tears littering your cheeks. He wonders if he’ll be able to reach out and take one. 

“Like sand that makes its way in between your toes.” 

You let out an actual laugh. It’s hearty, coming from your gut. He can’t help but cry. Those sobs that puncture your chest punching through. 

He could barely see you. He wonders if you’re crying again too. Or did you forget how to do that as well.

“Let's meet again, at the beach.”

You sound hopeful, like you've played this out before. You know he’ll trudge through the dunes to get to you, to have you be his again. He doesn't know if he’ll ever find the words, but his body will always find you. His heart would always be in the waves that roll into your fingers, the salt that clings to your hair. 

“I hate the beach.” 

He hopes you catch the joke he’s trying to let out. He wants to hear your laugh again. Try to remember it the way he filters into the moonlight. 

“I don’t.” 

Wet eyed, tired, and solid. You both smile at each other. The silent understanding that couldn't drive the relationship further. 

“You won’t talk, so I won’t be able to listen. But you’ll know I love you and I will remember that you tried your best.” 

His heart swells at the idea of you loving him. You knowing that you love him, no matter if he's been forgotten or not. The waves will tell you who he is and what he means to you. 

“I think I could live with that.” 

The morning is cold and dark. One of those weary days that makes it hard to drag yourself out of bed. The days that make it easy to ignore work and the feelings that are pressed into your chest with no way to be let out. 

With a scarf wrapped around his neck, wet boots sloshing through the busy streets, and his hands shoved into rainbow mittens thar he has no idea where they came from. He makes his way to the one place on his mind. 

A place that holds no bounds. A place he hates, but maybe they could hate each other together. Hate the cold, sheets of ice trying to hold the water down. The sand lays stif, the salt clinging into the air like discarded snowflakes. 

The snow here is pristine. The steps are covered in it, no footprints destroying the pure essence of it. It’s quietish — the waves knocking into the sheets off ice. It sounds like thunder.

Just ahead, he sees someone. An orange hoodie is covering their head. Their back is straight as they look out towards the frozen waves, the water slowly rushing towards them. 

Choso feels this weird pulling motion. Like you’re the moon and he’s the tide that’s getting called back to you. His boots start to follow the footprints you established into the snowy sand. The steps he’s following are soft and ghostlike, like you desperately wanted to keep the snow as white as possible. 

“Do I know you?” 

His voice calls out to you. Your head quickly snapping from over your shoulder to look at him. Your eyes warm but sad — like you’re missing something you’re not sure you truly ever had. 

“I don’t think so.” 

You hum. Choso is now standing closer to you. His feet planted in the sand below him. His brain is running at full speed to reconnect to the moment. 

Figure out how he felt the color of your eyes instead of seen them. How your voice tugged lightly on his arm — offering him reprieve in the frozen, sandy waves rolling towards him.

You watch him. Your eyes are intense but caring. The wind whips an unnatural hair color out of your hoodie. It curls naturally around your face. 

“I love the beach.” 

“I know.” 

He whispers. He’s not sure why this is what he decided to tell you — a stranger. Your eyebrows rise in speculation, your face turning back to the ocean. Like it has a secret you want to pull out. 

“You do?” 

“I think I know.” 

You’re still facing away from him. And as if there’s is some distant memory off putting in the back of his mind, he hears the ghost of seagulls cawing in the back. Seashells cracking under his weight. 

He looks away, the sky clear of clouds and birds. The winter sun chilled in the sky, like a painting. 

“Why are you here?” 

You finally turn towards him. Your hands stuffed into your coat pocket. Your eyes webbing down his body. He feels his heart lurch, as if it’s supposed to be given to you. 

“I think we were supposed to meet. Why are you here?”

You respond confidently, tilting your head as you continue to assault him with your eyes. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable under your stare. He feels alive. As if you granted this specific spotlight before. 

“To be lonely with the one place that allows me to not talk back.” 

You hum, it’s quiet and thoughtful. Assessing his statement as if you heard it before. As if it holds meanings to both of you as strangers. 

“Then let’s be lonely together.” 

Choso walks closer to you. He smells your body wash — it’s comforting and a bit familiar. Like a smell he couldn’t get rid of even if he tried. 

His hand closer to you twitches in his pocket. Crawling out to grab the sand particles above you, or to grab your hand. 

“Even if you slip away?”

A huge wave crashes into a sheet of ice. The sound breaking off as an echo on the empty beach. Your breathing is still calm. Choso feels alive. 

“Even when I slip away.” 

© twilightsumu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.

[nomie-11]

Between Worlds

masterlist!

synopsis: When a shimmering portal pulls you into the magical city of Piltover, you forge an unbreakable bond with Caitlyn Kiramman, a curious girl who shows you her glittering world. Years later, the portal reappears, but the Piltover you return to is darkened by war, and Caitlyn is now a cold, battle-hardened general. As you struggle to rekindle your bond and navigate the city’s buried secrets, you must confront the scars of time and war to rediscover the magic you once shared—and the promise you made to return.

pairings: caitlyn kiramman x reader

You had read Narnia when you were six, everyone read it at some point in their childhoods where you were from. You had read Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and The Magic Treehouse, but magic wasn’t real. Magic was a thing of stories, a world that didn’t exist and a medium that wasn’t possible. But this, shimmering, shifting, living entity in your closet was magic. 

It looked like an iridescent web, shifting and gurgling every time you reached your hand toward it. It acted as if it would like to swallow you whole, to transport you to another world, another dimension. 

But still, you couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing your hand against its pearly white colors. You touched first with one finger, then pressed another one down, until your whole hand was flush against the entity in your closet, and then you pressed your arm into it, up until your elbow. 

It happened all at one. A pull—sharp, yet soft—like the tide dragging you into an ocean of light. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t think, only tumble into a spinning abyss of sound and color. When the world stopped tilting, you landed hard on your knees, your hands sinking into something cold yet soft. Grass. 

Looking up, your breath hitched. This wasn’t your room, your world. The sky above was a shade of blue more vibrant than you’d ever seen before, streaked with clouds that looked almost painted. Strange, towering gold buildings jutted up all along the skyline, their surfaces glimmering like glass. Even the air smelled different—sweet, electric, and sharp. 

You turned, your heart hammering. That’s when you saw her. 

A girl about your age stood a few paces away, her wide, curious eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was a cascade of deep indigo, tied neatly, and her clothing—a tailored vest and high boots—looked straight out of a storybook. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice crisp yet cautious. 

For a moment, all you could do was gape. How were you supposed to explain? Your clothes—a plain t-shirt and jeans—felt glaringly out of place, as if the entire world had turned to stare at your modernity. You opened your mouth, closed it, and tried again. 

“Are you a princess?” 

“A princess?” She echoed, tilting her head. 

“Yeah. A princess, like from Disney, or… England!” You snapped your fingers, hoping she would know at least what England was, even if Disney didn’t exist in this… universe(?) you had somehow fallen into. 

“I hate to be rude, but I’m not a ‘princess,’ whatever that is,” she replied, her lips quirking upward in a faith smile as if amused by the strange terminology. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman. And you… well, you’re not from Piltover, are you?” 

Piltover. You repeated the name in your head, trying to place it on the map that hung on the wall of your homeroom. Piltover, piltover… Piltover doesn’t exist. “I’m… not sure where that is. I mean… no. I’m not from here.” 

Her eyes scanned your clothes—your jeans, sneakers, and the faded cartoon character printed on your shirt. She looked utterly perplexed, but there was no malice in her expression, only curiosity. 

Before you could explain further, a deeper voice interrupted. 

“Cait, who is this?” 

An older man approached—a man with kind eyes holding a box of gadgets and cogs. You stiffened under his gaze, shrinking as you struggled to piece together a coherent explanation. 

“Jayce! She’s…” Caitlyn hesitated. She glanced at you, then back to him. “A traveler. I found her in the garden. I think she might be lost.” 

The man frowned but didn’t press further. “Come on, let’s get the two of you home. Your mother will know what to do.” 

—--------------------

The days that followed felt like something out of a fever dream. Caitlyn’s family assumed you were from a distant, eccentric city. They marveled at your strange dialect and unfamiliar clothing, but chalked it up to ‘cultural differences.’ 

Jayce, the older man Caitlyn was friends with, seemed weirdly interested in the Nintendo DS you had stuffed into your back pocket, asking how the screen worked and how the game played, despite you not knowing because you had bought it at a store and didn’t build it yourself. When you asked if he had a cell phone so you could call your mom to pick you up, he spent 20 hours interrogating your over cellular data and wi-fi and what a phone number was. 

And Caitlyn? She became your guide, your lifeline to understanding this glittering, bewildering world. She showed you the bustling streets of Piltover, the towering spires of the academy district, the clockwork marvels that hummed and whirred like living creatures. She laughed at your questions and called you “peculiar” with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

But as quickly as it began, it ended. 

One morning, you awoke to find the shimmering portal in Caitlyn’s room—a mirror to the one in your own closet at home—pulsating with light. A whisper in the back of your mind told you it was time. Time to go back. 

Tears burned in Caitlyn’s eyes as you explained. She argued at first, begging you to stay, but deep down, you both knew it wasn’t possible. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Promise me.” 

“I will,” you swore, linking your pinky with hers (another thing you had taught her one day when you made her promise to save you a cookie at lunch). “I promise.”

But promises made by children are fragile things. 

—-----------------------------------------

Years passed in your world, though they felt strangely muted. After stumbling back through the portal into your closet, you’d collapsed on your bedroom floor, clutching at your chest like you’d left your heart behind in Piltover. Your parents found you hours later, dazed and rambling about ‘clockwork cities’ and a girl named Caitlyn. They assumed it had all been a vivid dream, a figment of your overactive imagination spurred by too many fantasy books. 

At first, you fought to hold onto the memories—scribbling sketches of golden spires, random doodles of Jayce’s kind eyes and his gadgets, charcoal drawings of Caitlyn’s smile and the warmth behind her blue eyes. But as days blurred into years, doubt crept in. Had it been real? The glow of the portal, the hum of the streets, Caitlyn’s hand clasped in yours—was it all just a child’s desperate attempt to escape the terror of reality?

Life continued. Schools, jobs, growing up. Yet something always felt missing, like a part of you had been carved out and left in a faraway world. Your friends talked about travel, of finding their heart in a foreign country or a far off place, but no country on any map called to you. 

It wasn’t until you stumbled upon the cave during a hiking trip—its walls etched with shimmering patterns—that the memories flooded back. The portal stood before you, alive and beckoning, just as it had all those years ago. 

You didn’t hesitate this time. 

The pull was familiar, a spinning rush that left your stomach in your throat. When you landed, the air smelled of oil and smoke, sharp and acrid, and so different from the sweet electric scent you remembered. The skyline of Piltover had changed—darker, more imposing, with huge spheres rising up out of pillars, airships being shot into space with a beam of blue light. 

Clutching the strap of your hiking back, you made your way down the familiar streets of the once golden city down to the Kiramman estate. But as you rounded the final corner, your steps faltered. The once-grand house stood as a fortress now, its once open and ornate gates replaced with cold, closed iron and armed guards. 

You hesitated, lingering in the shadows as unease crept up your spine. This wasn’t the home you’d left behind. The Caitlyn you knew wouldn’t need walls to protect her. What had happened to Piltover?

Before you could decide your next move, the sharp clang of metal boots echoed behind you. 

“State your business,” an enforcer barked, his rifle trained on you. 

You raised your hands, stammering, “I’m looking for Caitlyn Kiramman. Please—I knew her years ago.” 

The enforcer’s face hardened. “You’re trespassing. Come quietly, or we’ll make this difficult.” 

Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but before you could protest, a voice sliced through the tense air. 

“Let her go.” 

The enforcers immediately straightened, their weapons lowering as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the iron gate. 

Caitlyn. 

Or at least, the woman she had become. 

Her indigo hair was tied up into a perfect ponytail. Her once curious eyes were colder, her posture rigid in a crisp uniform adorned with medals. She was taller, her presence commanding and distant. The girl who had laughed with you under Piltover’s painted skies was nowhere to be found. 

“Take her to the station,” Caitlyn said without sparing you a glance. 

Your chest constricted. “Cait, it’s me!”

She paused, her expression flickering for a split second before the mask of authority returned. 

“Take her,” she repeated, turning on her heel. 

You struggled against the enforcers as they dragged you away, shouting her name until your voice was hoarse. But Caitlyn didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until hours later, after being confined in a holding cell in Piltover’s industrial heart, that she finally appeared again. This time, she dismissed the guards before stepping inside, her boots clicking sharply against the cold floor. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone detached, but there was a tremor beneath it—a crack in the facade. 

“It’s me,” you whispered, stepping forward. “Don’t you remember? The traveler who stumbled into your garden? The one who promised she’d come back.” 

She flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice. 

“You… remember me,” you said, hope threading through your voice. 

Her jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. That was a lifetime ago. Whoever you think I was, she’s gone.” 

“No.” Your voice shook, but you stood your ground. “You’re still you. You’re Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the girl who taught me how to climb the academy steps without tripping. The girl who shared her sweets even when I didn’t ask. The girl who pinky-promised to save me a cookie at lunch. You’re still her.” 

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slumped. The mask she wore cracked, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried. 

“I waited,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For years, I waited. But you didn’t come back and things changed. People died.” 

“I couldn’t find the portal again,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “I thought it was gone forever. I thought maybe… I imagined it all. But I didn’t, and I’m here now.” 

Caitlyn’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You don’t understand what you’ve come back to. Piltover isn’t the same place you left. We’re at war and I’m the leading general. I’m not the same person.” 

“Then let me understand,” you said, stepping closer. “Show me.” 

For a long moment, she simply stared at you. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, “it’s too late.”

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