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lvrclerc · 1 month ago

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JOB REQUIREMENTS

summary: when you signed up to become f1's new rising star isack hadjar's personal assistant, you didn't realize that taking care of his three-year old daughter was going to be part of the job requirements.

F1 MASTERLIST | IH6 MASTERLIST

pairing: young single dad!isack hadjar x pa!reader wordcount: 2.2K content: alternative universe - single dad, toddler behavior, fluff, use of y/n note: wrote this in one sitting who am i. this is more of a pairing exploration than an actual fic, the idea just attacked me. lmk if you want to see more of them!

EVENT MANAGEMENT THRIVED on a few core elements, but in the high-octane world of motorsports, less was always more: organization, determination, and adaptability. These three qualities were preached like holy gospel to every employee, an anthem you recited with choir-like devotion.

You adored it.

You prospered in the rhythm of conscientious planning, relishing the sight of your carefully color-coded folders transforming into seamless hospitality experiences for the Racing Bulls team. A rainbow gradient arranged each of them following their respective topics, and your notes were written in neat 1.5-line spacing with a smooth gliding blue pen.

What started as a side hustle to earn additional money had become the heartbeat of your life, so much that your college degree in marketing had shifted to online classes so you could commit yourself fully. After all, a student’s timetable was rarely vacant, and availability was another salient currency when you dabbled in a world as tumultuous as Formula One. Combining event management with its adrenaline was a gamble, one you’d taken with hungry hands, much to your parents’ overly vocal dismay.

Your work ethic would have eventually led to a promotion; you were sure of it. Although you hadn’t quite expected that promotion to be a spot as Isack Hadjar’s personal assistant.

The reason for the switch had been told through hurried whispers, something about his PA quitting right before the season opener, leaving his calendar messy and unattended. The team scrambled to find a replacement. A day in, and your name had apparently come up, your expertly organized folders had spoken for themselves, and next thing you knew, you were managing Racing Bulls’ up-and-coming talent.

You didn’t speak much to him during the first few weeks. Mostly, they were about cleaning up the mess his last assistant had left behind: you wondered how they’d managed to get anything done with the thousands of stray, half-written notes left around on crumpled paper, each one threatening you with an aneurysm. Still, amidst the handful of emails you exchanged and the scattered conversations you had, you managed to gather a few keywords that could classify what kind of man Isack Hadjar was.

Easygoing. He never fussed about the social media obligations you threw his way and partook in them with blinding enthusiasm. He happily interacted with the crowd, would quickly fire off replies to your emails about an upcoming event, and always ended them with an unprofessional (but oddly charming) smiley face. Shy, awkward. As confident as he appeared in his car or around the team, Isack often stumbled over his words in more intimate settings: the few times you were by his side to run through his daily schedule, he’d give you half-answers with cheeks flushed pink, followed by an horrid attempt at a joke, and inevitably a water bottle knocked somewhere. Young. At twenty-one, the same age as you, he often hovered between friend and boss, hesitant to treat you like a subordinate or even as a colleague.

It was part of the reason you were so astonished upon learning he had a whole daughter. See, Dad was not a keyword you’d planned to add to your mental files.

“I’m very sorry to ask this, really,” Isack had apologized on media day during the Bahrain race weekend, his eyes earnest and rimmed with exhaustion. “But I couldn’t find a daycare that would take her in, and no family member could babysit.”

You blinked at him. The request replayed in your mind like a broken record. “I’m not a babysitter, Isack. I’m your assistant,” you said, but your mind was halfway there.

He offered a sheepish grin. “Technically, you’re already babysitting me.”

“You’re a grown adult,” you deadpanned, deeply unamused. “You don’t need me to change your diaper, unless you forgot to tell me about a pharmacy run for incontinence medicine.”

“She’s three,” Isack said, his brows knitting together, and he looked more offended at your accusation toward his daughter than your jab at him. “She doesn’t need diapers anymore. She’s very capable. I just— I need my assistant’s assistance to take care of her. For one weekend, just one.”

Assia Hadjar was a beautiful girl, truly. With thick brown curls, wide hazel eyes that reminded you of a startled deer, and freckled tan skin, she was the spitting image of her father. She’d looked so shy the first time Isack first introduced you, hiding behind his legs and shifting nervously in her sparkling blue shoes. It had fooled you into thinking that, even though your gift didn’t lie in childcare, you could manage it for a single race weekend. You heard Isack’s weak “Oh putain, merci” when you nodded.

What naivety.

You’d expected that one weekend with Assia would be the longest forty-eight hours of your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer mayhem that ensued.

First, there was the meltdown over the blue cup. You’d given her the green one: same shape, same cartoon princess (Tiana, if you’re interested in any precision), but somehow the wrong color. Cue tears, snot, and decibels you imagined an opera singer could reach, not a three-year-old. You’d tried to explain that all the cups were the same, even offered to swap them, which was deeply ironic coming from someone who wouldn’t write on anything other than squared paper, but by then, she’d upgraded to the “lying on the floor and wailing” stage.

Then came the pasta incident. Who knew a girl no more than three apples tall could have such strong opinions on pasta shapes? Again, coming from the one person bossing the entire staff team around. Apparently, penne was a direct insult to her pride, and only the twirly ones were acceptable. When you’d asked her to demonstrate “twirly ones” with a picture, she’d drawn what looked like a worm on the back of your neatly printed itinerary.

By the end of one weekend, you’d found pasta shapes you never knew existed—and probably didn’t—, learned that the Pokemon theme song on repeat will break your sanity, and discovered that the N-A-P word was a threat to national security. You were certain you’d done a horrible job because, at some point, you’d shamefully texted Isack an emergency SOS about a crying tantrum when you’d forbidden her to adopt a random spider from the paddock.

But when Isack came to pick her up, Assia had run to him grinning, eyes bright, babbling about how “Y/N was the best ever” and you “made the pasta worms taste sooooo good”. You’d braced yourself for mockery, but instead, he’d looked at you with a relieved gratitude that made your chest ache.

The following day had entailed your full initiation to toddlerhood, which included watching Disney’s Mulan on repeat for the hundredth time. You wondered how she didn’t get tired of hearing the same song, with the same lines, over and over again (yes, you were still reluctantly humming along. It’s Mulan.)

Halfway through the hundred and first time, Assia had fallen asleep curled into your side, half-lying on the floor and back against the feet of your hotel room couch. Her sparkly blue shoe had been abandoned in a pile of her belongings, including an Umbreon plushie, next to your bed. You’d meant to get up and tackle your emails, maybe catch up on the sponsorship decks that were piling up, but somewhere between a shirtless Li Shang and the beginning notes of A Girl Worth Fighting For, your eyelids had grown impossibly heavy.

You woke up as the credits rolled quietly in front of you, a crick in your neck and a crayon in your hair. Looking around, eyes bleary and slightly dazed, you noticed Isack leaning against the doorframe of your room. His arms were crossed on the Racing Bulls compression shirt he was wearing, hugging his biceps tightly, and you found yourself staring a beat too long in the dim light of the room. A fond smile thinned his lips.

“Rough night?” he asks, and he must have taken your stare for confusion because he stumbled upon an explanation. “You— you gave me a duplicate of your key for the room. So I could pick her up after the interviews.”

“I remember, I remember, I just— Ugh,” you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and not speaking too loud so as to not wake Assia. “I fell asleep during a children’s movie. I think that’s a new low.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Isack laughed. His gaze drifted to the almost empty blue cup. “At least you figured out she liked the blue cup, this time.”

You glared at him, but reached for the water bottle on the table. “Contrary to popular beliefs, and by popular I mean mine, she likes a lot of things,” you grumbled, unscrewing the cap. “Except naps. Or any vegetables with funny textures. Or fizzy sodas. Or—”

You paused, catching the way his smile softened as he watched you. It occurred to you that you’d never had Isack like this in your presence: relaxed, not fumbling over himself. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just… I think you’re better at this than you think.”

“Right.” A snort escaped you, and Assia’s asleep form shifted against your side. It was late, Isack could still carry her to bed without waking her up, so you smoothed her hair with a featherlight touch, hoping to soothe her back to sleep. She frowned, small fingers clutching the crisp fabric of your carefully ironed shirt, and buried her face deeper against your ribs. “She’s so stubborn,” you murmured absentmindedly. You couldn’t help but add, “just like her dad.” The few months you’d worked for him had taught you the family resemblance was striking in that regard.

Isack arched a brow. A surprised chuckle fell out of his lips. “That’s rich coming from you.” He padded over quietly, sneakers muffled on the carpet, and settled himself next to Assia. Slowly, with a carefulness that constricted your chest, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “She’s never that… open. With strangers, I mean. She likes you.”

Your eyes darted from the small girl to her father in amusement. “Does she, now? The tears and screams could have fooled me.”

“She does, she couldn’t shut up about you,” he insisted, huffing out a laugh. “She, uh— she takes after her dad for that too.”

That time, your carefully maintained professional front cracked, a tiny fissure in the businesslike ice wall you so meticulously built over time. Your eyes widened, heat tightened your cheeks and crept up your neck, and your hand froze on Assia’s hair—right next to Isack’s. He wasn’t doing any better. The admission seemed to have robbed him of his usual confidence, leaving him unable to meet your gaze for longer than a second.

“I— I mean, I’m, I’m glad that—” You never stammered. You were composed, efficient— your voice carried, and your words were deliberate, measured. Now, you weren’t sure you even remembered how the English language worked.

Isack smiled to himself as the title screen to Mulan rolled on again. You wanted to throw a pillow at him. Yet, with Assia curled up and fast asleep between the two of you, you still sat through another hour of songs about fighting and honor.

You thought it would be the end of it. One ambiguous weekend, and you’d slip back to your usual schedule, rearranging Isack’s meetings and leaving his daughter to his capable family or caretaker. You could ignore anything ever happened that night, and pretend the glances you stole when you thought the other wasn’t looking was a figment of boredom during bland days.

But the next race weekend, Assia refused to go to daycare as a whole.

“She said she wants to be with you,” Isack said, looking ridiculously apologetic. Jesus, that little girl really had him wrapped around her finger.

You, on the other end, had been stunned to silence. “Me? She wants to be… with me?”

“She’s been asking for you all week,” he admitted, eyes darting to the side. “And I—” He hesitated. “She’s… she’s happier with you than she’s ever been at daycare.”

You stared at him. You had a sneaky feeling that the universe had played a cosmic joke at your expense. “But— Isack— I’m not even good at this,” you protested. “My entire process was based on Google, a spreadsheet she doodled on, and a prayer.”

His laugh sounded awkward. “Like I said, she likes you,” he said simply. The softness in his voice was foreign to you, but not entirely unwelcome. What he said that night in your hotel room came back full force, and your cheeks darkened a few shades. “That should be enough, right?”

You wanted to tell him that, no, it wasn’t enough. You were in over your head, it wasn’t what you signed up for, and your messy color-coded folders cried out for a well-needed weekly organization. Instead, you found yourself nodding, because somehow—despite your many, many failures—you’d become the one person this tiny human trusted more than anyone else.

That was how your weekends became a strange blend of racing schedules, sponsor meetings, and toddler tantrums and giggles. And for reasons you couldn’t quite comprehend, you found you didn’t mind it at all. At first, you thought it was the job requirements. The obligations, as usual.

But maybe it was Assia and her loud determination. Maybe it was Isack and the way he stared when he thought you didn’t notice.

Maybe it was a bit of both.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#ᯓ my writing.ᐟ #isack hadjar #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar x you #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #isack hadjar imagine #ih6 imagine #isack hadjar fic #ih6 fic #isack hadjar fluff #ih6 fluff

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luna-rainbow · 1 year ago

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So I know the event is @catws-anniversary but this is actually one of my favourite Steve-Bucky scenes.

There's been a lot spoken about their seamless teamwork here -- Steve doesn't even look in Bucky's direction when he tosses the shield at Bucky -- but there is just...so much packed into this fluid cooperation?

Bucky as far as we know in CATFA was a sniper (although in the supporting material it does say Bucky learned boxing before he joined the army). It's only when we get to CATWS we see him being a strong melee fighter. A lot of Bucky's new fighting style takes into account his metal arm -- he favours it for blocking and forceful striking to spare his flesh arm. He's also spent most of his recent decades doing mostly solo work. He had backup support during CATWS to get him into position, but actually on task? He's by himself chasing down his targets.

This is the first time Bucky fights on Steve's side after his time as the Winter Soldier. Depending on how you headcanon Bucky receiving his serum, this would also be the first time Steve treats Bucky as an equally strong super soldier. Bucky's experience, fighting style, physical constitution have all significantly changed since the last time they were on the field together, not to mention Steve's own style and experience have evolved.

Yet they slotted straight back into each other's space, like they had never spent a minute apart in the last 70 years. Apart from the "end of the line" spell-break, nothing else speaks such volumes about their bond.

(Also goddamn CEvans with that beautiful pirouette. No wonder the stuntspeople say they can't replicate his footwork)

#stucky #catws anniversary #stucky meta #bucky barnes #steve rogers

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pearlprincess02 · 6 months ago

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dating & dates (libra version)

libra: (libra venus/mars/5th house/7th house)

when dating someone with libra venus, libra mars, libra in the 5th house, and libra in the 7th house, expect romance, charm, and an appreciation for beauty in all forms. they are natural romantics who value balance, harmony, and intellectual connection in relationships. they want a partner who is both emotionally engaging and socially graceful, someone who can match their love for aesthetics, deep conversations, and shared experiences. they thrive in relationships that feel equal and fair, avoiding unnecessary conflict while seeking a deep, yet easygoing connection. libra venus desires a love story that feels elegant and poetic. they are drawn to aesthetically pleasing dates, thoughtful gestures, and a partner who treats them with grace and consideration. libra mars is flirtatious and playful, preferring charm and seduction over aggressive pursuit. they enjoy the thrill of mutual attraction, often taking their time to build desire and anticipation. libra 5th house finds joy in social, artistic, and aesthetically appealing activities. they enjoy being around beauty, whether through fashion, art, music, or cultural experiences, and want to share these passions with their partner. libra 7th house seeks a well-balanced, committed relationship with someone who complements them. they are drawn to strong partnerships where both people contribute equally, creating a seamless and loving dynamic.

date night ideas

shopping for each other and picking outfits to wear on a date (libra venus, libra mars) wine tasting at an elegant vineyard, visiting an art gallery/museum together, attending a live jazz/classical music performance, attending a fashion show/stylish event, romantic poetry reading/literature night, couples’ photoshoot in a picturesque location, watching an old romantic film at a vintage-style cinema, going to a luxury perfume/candle-making workshop (libra venus, libra 5th house) romantic rooftop dinner with a city skyline view, picnic in a beautiful botanical garden, going on a scenic boat ride/gondola date, high-end spa day for two, going to a masquerade ball/black-tie event, cooking a gourmet meal together while sipping wine, taking a scenic train ride to a charming destination (libra venus, libra 7th house) couples’ dance class (ballroom, salsa, or waltz), dressing up for a themed costume party, trying an interactive art experience (paint & sip, pottery, etc.), exploring a trendy city district with stylish cafés & boutiques (libra mars, libra 5th house)

over 18+ spicy bonus 🔞

libra: (libra mars/cupido/eros/lust/amor)

someone with libra mars, libra cupido, libra eros, libra lust, and libra amor approaches intimacy with charm, finesse, and an innate desire for balance between passion and beauty. they prioritize pleasure that is both visually and emotionally stimulating, creating an experience that feels luxurious and perfectly orchestrated. aesthetics, ambiance, and mutual satisfaction are key—they enjoy seduction that is slow, playful, and deeply sensual. their style is flirtatious, refined, and romantic, favoring a give-and-take dynamic where both partners feel equally desired and appreciated. libra mars prefers intimacy to be graceful and pleasurable, avoiding anything overly aggressive or messy. they thrive on flirtation, foreplay, and an effortless flow of passion. libra cupido is all about seduction and charm, turning intimacy into an art of attraction. they enjoy the chase, playful teasing, and building an electric connection before fully indulging. libra eros seeks an experience that is as visually stunning as it is physically satisfying. they love elegance, symmetry, and partners who put effort into their appearance and technique. libra lust is drawn to indulgence and sensory pleasure, favoring luxurious settings, slow-burn arousal, and a strong emotional or intellectual connection before fully letting go. libra amor craves intimacy that feels meaningful and harmonious. they want to be adored and to adore in return, ensuring that every touch and moment is balanced with affection and connection.

kinks you might have

sensual teasing & prolonged foreplay, power play with an emphasis on balance (taking turns leading & following), romantic domination (being in control but with grace & seduction), soft restraints (silk ties, handcuffs, gentle bondage), seductive dirty talk & whispering desires, light bondage with a stylish & sensual approach (libra mars, libra cupido, libra lust) mirror play, oral fixation (giving and receiving with precision & passion), dancing as foreplay (sensual movement, slow grinding, striptease) (libra mars, libra eros, libra lust) aesthetic-focused encounters (lingerie, candlelight, setting the perfect mood), slow, intimate, & rhythmically paced passion, erotic massage & full-body touch, mutual pleasure focus (ensuring both partners feel equally satisfied) (libra mars, libra eros, libra amor) lingerie & wardrobe play (dressing up for seduction), roleplay with elegant scenarios (royalty, power dynamics, fantasy themes) (libra cupido, libra eros, libra lust) intense eye contact & seductive stares, being worshiped/worshiping partner’s body, erotic poetry/love letters exchanged before intimacy, having perfectly curated background music & ambiance (libra cupido, libra eros, libra amor) luxury hotel/extravagant setting for indulgent intimacy (libra eros, libra lust, libra amor)

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

main masterlist

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novlr · 8 months ago

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Could you please give some tips to maintain flow and pacing in fiction writing?

Before diving into the tips, let’s briefly define what we mean by flow and pacing:

Flow

Flow is the smooth progression of ideas, scenes, and events in your story. It includes:

Logical development of ideas and themes.

Seamless transitions between scenes.

Natural event sequencing.

Organic character development.

Well-timed information reveals.

Appropriate emotional progression.

Getting the flow right immerses readers in the story so they can easily follow the narrative. It’s the invisible thread that unifies all aspects of your writing, ensuring each element contributes to the whole.

Pacing

Pacing refers to the speed at which your story unfolds and how quickly (or slowly) you reveal information to the reader. It’s a vital element of any narrative that affects the rhythm and tension. Effective pacing keeps readers engaged, controls the emotional impact of your story, and helps maintain momentum.

The most important considerations in pacing include:

Story rhythm: The overall tempo of your narrative can vary from fast-paced and thrilling to slow and contemplative.

Information reveals: How and when you disclose plot points, character backstories, and world-building details to your readers.

Tension and release: The balance between building suspense and providing resolution or relief.

Scene and chapter length: The structure of your story at both micro and macro levels can affect how quickly readers progress through your narrative.

Narrative focus: What you choose to emphasise in your story and how much time you spend on different elements (e.g., action, dialogue, description, introspection).

Both these elements play together to create an immersive and entertaining experience for readers, so it’s important to get them right. But how, exactly, do you do that? Here are some tips!

Vary sentence structure and length

One of the most effective ways to maintain flow and control pacing is by varying your sentence structure and length. This technique helps create rhythm in your prose and prevents monotony. Here’s how:

Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more complex ones.

Use sentence fragments for emphasis or to quicken the pace.

Use compound and complex sentences to slow things down and add depth.

Start sentences with different parts of speech (nouns, verbs, adjectives) to keep things interesting (academic writing will tell you not to start a sentence with “and” or “but”, but I’m here to tell you it’s fine to break those rules!)

Use paragraph breaks strategically

Paragraph breaks are often overlooked but are a powerful tool for controlling the flow and pacing of your story. They provide visual cues to the reader and can be used to emphasise certain story points or create suspense.

Use shorter paragraphs to increase tension and quicken the pace.

Use longer paragraphs for descriptive passages or to slow things down.

Create single-sentence paragraphs for dramatic effect or to highlight important information.

Master the art of transitions

Smooth transitions between scenes, ideas, and events are essential for maintaining flow in your writing. They help guide the reader through your story without jarring interruptions.

Use transitional phrases or words (e.g., “meanwhile,” “later that day,” “across town”) sparingly. Clarity is best, but it’s easy to overuse them and turn them into crutch words.

Use sensory details to bridge scenes (e.g., describing a sound that carries over from one scene to the next).

Let your characters’ actions or thoughts link different parts of your story.

Create thematic connections between scenes or chapters.

Balance action and downtime

A well-paced story strikes a balance between action-packed scenes and moments of introspection or character development. This balance helps maintain reader interest while giving your narrative necessary depth.

Follow intense action scenes with quieter moments of reflection.

Use introspective passages to build tension before action sequences.

Weave character thoughts and feelings into action scenes for added depth and character development.

Avoid long stretches of either pure action or pure introspection, as it can be either overwhelming, exhausting, or boring for readers to have too much of the same tone.

Control the flow of information

How and when you reveal information to the reader is a critical aspect of pacing. Carefully controlling the release of information can create suspense, maintain mystery, and keep readers engaged.

Use foreshadowing to hint at future events without giving everything away.

Employ flashbacks judiciously to provide backstory without disrupting the main narrative.

Reveal character motivations gradually throughout the story.

Create mini-mysteries or subplots to maintain reader interest between major plot points.

Use dialogue effectively

Dialogue always seems easy, but it’s difficult to do well. But when it is done well, it’s a powerful tool for controlling pacing and maintaining flow in your story. It can quicken the pace, provide character development, and convey important information.

Use short, snappy exchanges to increase tension and pace.

Write longer conversations for character development or to slow things down.

Intersperse dialogue with action beats to maintain flow and provide context.

Vary dialogue tags and consider using action instead of tags to avoid repetition.

Create a rhythm with scene structure

The structure of your scenes can greatly impact the flow and pacing of your story. By varying scene length and intensity, you can create a rhythm that keeps your story moving smoothly.

Alternate between long and short scenes to create variety.

Use scene breaks or chapter endings to create cliffhangers and maintain suspense.

Vary the intensity of scenes, following high-tension moments with calmer ones.

Consider the overall arc of your story when structuring scenes, building towards climactic moments.

Show, don’t tell

It’s the most common writing advice for a reason. And it all boils down to using sensory language to enhance a reader’s experience. It turns a list of plot points into a story. Sensory details can enhance flow and pacing by immersing readers in the world you’ve created. However, it’s also important to use them wisely. It’s not about showing everything but showing what you need to at the right time for the best effect.

Use vivid sensory details during important moments to slow down time and increase impact.

Use brief sensory descriptions to quickly set the scene without disrupting pacing.

Choose specific, evocative details rather than providing exhaustive descriptions.

Vary the senses you appeal to, not just relying on visual descriptions.

Mini info-dumps work

Knowing when to summarise events or passages of time is often overlooked, but it’s an important part of pacing your story. While in general info-dumping is frowned on, sometimes it’s a necessary part of plotting. Not every moment needs to be shown in real time; sometimes, a brief summary can help move the story along.

Use short info-dumps for less important events or time passages.

Info-dumps can bridge gaps between key scenes.

Combine an info-dump with scene-specific details to make it feel more natural.

#writing tips #writeblr #writers #writers of tumblr #writing #creative writing #writing community #creative writers #writing inspiration #writerblr #writer stuff #writer #writing advice #writing resources #writers on tumblr #ask novlr #writing blog

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vexwerewolf · 2 years ago

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Showrooms of LANCER Manufacturers

IPS-N

IPS-N showrooms are what you'd get if you slammed a truck dealership, a hardware store, a camping gear shop and a sports bar together in the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid. We're talking row upon row of shelves stocked with the most precision-engineered engine parts you can print on one side of the floor, and on the other, durable, hard-wearing survival gear. Camping stoves you can run off of your mech's coldcore, sleeping bags that'll survive a HEX charge, automatic camo cloth, the works.

Right down the middle, you've got the mech floor. They've got the Tortuga. They've got the Blackbeard. They've got the Drake. They've got the Lancaster and the Kidd. They've got the Vlad (they put a chain-link fence covered in DO NOT TOUCH signs around that one after the infamous CFO's 10-year-old Incident). They've even got the Raleigh, kinda tucked away a little bit behind the water feature, but it's there!

Everything on the shop floor is ruggedized to the point that you could take a mech's fist to it without leaving a dent - and they sometimes do that to demonstrate the engineering quality. There's a giant screen hanging from the ceiling displaying constant advertising for the mechs and IPS-N in general, usually striding purposefully through idyllic Diasporan wilderness or doing hard, honest work like starship loading or construction. There's a mixtape of the most famous bro-country hits playing 24/7.

Smith-Shimano Corpro

In a word: bespoke. Everything in this place is custom. Each and every desk is individually built according to the height of the salesperson who sits behind it, and manages to be a unique art piece without disrupting the overarching aesthetic of the showroom. Whenever there's a change of staff on the sales floor, they rearrange every single desk so that they're still in ascending order.

All of the salespeople are inhumanly pretty, by the way. This atelier has its own fully-staffed makeup and wardrobe team. You're part of a work of art when you work for SSC. Everything and everyone gleams. Even the most chic visitors might feel underdressed in the midst of all this splendour.

The mechs aren't just there to be sold, they're there to be part of the experience. You might see a Monarch holding up the ceiling like the titan Atlas himself. A Mourning Cloak might be posed provocatively like a nude statue. That Swallowtail - is it in a slightly different position every time you see it, or is that just its camouflage decals? How does it always manage to be just inside your line of sight, even when you're looking somewhere else?

They have a catwalk, like you'd see at a fashion show, but it's sized for mechs. If they really think you might make a purchase, they'll queue up the entire performance for you, and you'll get to see a Viceroy strut.

The mix tape for this showroom is a seamless mixture of complex jazz, psychedelic ambient and classical piano music. It's sophisticated and mysterious.

Harrison Armory

Imagine if America could be a showroom. Harrison Armory mech outlets are part dealership, part museum. Every mech is in its own diorama, depicting some heroic event in the Armory's glorious history. A phalanx of Sherman Mk. Is holds the line against some Diasporan slaver-tyrant's army. A Saladin fends off Karrakin hordes during the Interest War. The Genghis Mk. II? Oh, that diorama isn't open right now, it had to be closed for *coughcoughcough* and *coughcoughcough* but let's move on shall we heh heh

Everyone who works here has been in the Colonial Legion at some point, and knows every specification of the mechs they sell off by heart without even looking at their slate. If possible, the Armory tries to employ people who have actual combat experience with the mechs they're selling; people who can speak to the efficacy of their technology first-hand. It's one of the many programs which the Armory has open for retired veterans; it's easy work for decent pay, good benefits and it looks great on your Social.

The music here is a constant loop of patriotic Armory anthems. If you've ever heard the music from Starship Troopers, or the Outbreak of War from Star Ocean, you'll know what I'm talking about.

HORUS

Being a decentralized omninet collective with no official branding or even consistent manufacturing standards, it should come as no surprise that HORUS has no showrooms.

ERR:CONNECTION_INTERRUPT

CartesianWhisper: P55555t CartesianWhisper: Ignore that 5hithead CartesianWhisper: They don't have any idea what they're talking about CartesianWhisper: You want a mech, kid? CartesianWhisper: And I'm not talking the tra5h the Purv5 try to 5ell you CartesianWhisper: Or that overpriced garbage 55C want5 you to mortgage your genetic5 for CartesianWhisper: Or the macho trucker bull5hit IP5-N i5 trying to hawk CartesianWhisper: I'm talking about the REAL DEAL CartesianWhisper: The PROPER 5TUFF CartesianWhisper: Log on to rgx0582.node-7.c4l.omni CartesianWhisper: I'll 5how you what true power mean5 >:]

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #mecha #ttrpg #mech

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gucciwins · 5 months ago

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Tokyo Runs

A/N: hi dear friends! it has been too long since I have posted a piece of writing but trust me that I have missed it. Harry running a marathon inspired me to work something up for you. I hope you enjoy.

Word count: 1724

Read more of Harry and Bel here: Love on Tour

It was Oscar Sunday.

Normally, a glam squad preps you in a swanky hotel. You would have your family in the room getting ready and shit talking all the best pictures, yours included. Your favorite was Harry painting your nails and telling everyone how he felt Andrew Garfield had been robbed from so many wins; he had done Hacksaw Ridge and Tick, Tick…Boom. It’s safe to say you told your good friend all about it at the after party where Harry hid his face in your shoulder not being able to stand the embarrassment.

Harry was the perfect date; however, he chose Naomi last year so he could enjoy all the Oscar snacks. You promised him you wouldn’t win. The cards were stacked against you. Hell, Meryl Streep was nominated. It did not look good for you. Harry gave you a kiss as you parted before the carpet and made you promise to thank him in your speech. Turned out it was a good year. You got to shit talk in Spanish with Sarai, and as Harry predicted, you took the Grammy home.

This year, you were not attending. You received a presentation invitation, yet attendance seemed unnecessary. Another event held priority that day. Harry sought your most-desired, long-postponed goal. It caught you off guard because you liked to think fear didn’t hold you back. It’s a big reason you’ve allowed yourself to go skydiving and swim with sharks. The fear would not stop you from having the experience because it was all about what ifs that were not guaranteed to happen.

You spent a few hours pondering over his question. It shouldn’t have stumped you, but it did. You had so much life ahead, yet you recognized a fear holding you back from pursuing something you wanted to achieve.

“I want to run a marathon,” you told Harry during dinner.

Harry smiled. This caught him off guard. Okay, you often ran with him, however, he questioned your enjoyment.

You nodded. “I’ve always dreamed of running one. My dad ran the LA marathon when he was young, and I think not being able to accomplish it would make me feel like I disappointed him, so I never bothered.”

Harry reached across the table to hold your hand. It was all you needed.

“We could run a marathon together,” he offered.

You perked but, a big smile on your face but it was quick to vanish. “I feel like I slow you down on your runs. We’d lose each other in the crowd.”

Harry frowned, shaking his head. I won’t abandon you. If we do this, we’ll do it together.”

You let out a deep breath; his name followed.

“I’ll hold your hand the whole way if I need to, Bel.”

You knew he meant it. You believed him and knew in your heart he’d get you to the finish line, even if that meant carrying you when your legs could no longer go on.

“We train. We train hard.” You raise your pinky and he quickly attaches his finger to yours.

He seals this plan with a kiss. “I’ll start planning.”

___

The day had arrived for your marathon. Harry chose the Tokyo Marathon because he knows it’s one of your favorite places to visit and probably the best place to go undetected. You arrived a few days ahead to adjust to the time zone but also to get your mileage in before the big day. You did not tell many people you were doing this but leave it to Harry to tell all your favorite people seeing as you had an influx of text messages wishing you luck.

Standing in front of the mirror you took in your marathon outfit. It was simple, as you were likely going to sweat through it but also needed to be comfortable. You wore your favorite black shorts and paired it with a black seamless long sleeve tee. Your floral bandana was tied around your head to catch any sweat. It wasn’t your idea to match Harry. It was all him, he liked to be coordinated.

It was time to go accomplish a dream together, one you were never brave enough to voice.

The sun felt nice on your back as you stood waiting, as time ticked for your heat to go. You kneeled down to tie your shoe, needing something to steady your hands but it seemed your hands could not stop shaking. Harry had a sign for knowing exactly what you needed without a single word. He grabbed your shaking hands and gave them each a soft kiss.

Harry picked up the bright yellow laces and did a perfect loop repeating it twice. You had on bright sneakers called Air Alphas or something. You weren’t really sure but Harry promised you it’d feel like walking on clouds, so far they had not disappointed. You changed feet so Harry could tie your other shoe. Not a single word was exchanged, not that it was needed, just his presence was enough to ground you.

Taking both your hands to help you up, your body followed his movement. His sunglasses were down but you knew those emerald eyes were shining bright just for you. Your arms settled around his slim torso, “Te amo,” you said around the noise.

“I love you, Bel. We can do this.”

He lifted your face wanting to meet your gaze one last time before it was time to run 26.2 miles.

“Even if we run 10 minute miles?”

“Even then.”

You leaned up to press a soft kiss on his lips but Harry was greedy and would always take a little more. He had you lost in a trance forgetting you were surrounded by thousands of other runners. You pulled back giggling as he pressed three consecutive kisses on your cheek, his lovely mustache giving you an extra caress.

“Time to shine, corazón.”

Breathe in and breathe out.

A tight squeeze to your intertwined hands and you were off.

It felt like you were flying. Each step allows you to count down another mile. Harry had kept you at his side running consistent mile times, not that you bothered to look at your watch. Harry made sure you were keeping hydrated and giving you gummies when needed. It was a team effort because when you flashed him a smile; it pushed him to run faster because he could see it in his eyes that you would make it together, your determination shining.

Harry looked steady with his airpods in his ears, listening to his favorite playlist. Your playlist included a mix of Bad Bunny, Rachel Chinouriri, and Harry. Each song was different, and it allowed you to get lost in your head.

Your steps faltered, and the sun felt like it was blazing. Harry was three strides ahead of you. You took a step, and he took five. He drifted away, blending in with the crowd. Your throat was dry, not allowing you to call his name, but a water station was up ahead. Water and then a quick sprint to catch him. A glance at your watch let you know there were only a handful of miles left.

You could do this.

When you reach the water station, there is Harry with a cup of water in hand as he reaches for you, guiding you to the side. You try to keep walking knowing time is still running, but he doesn’t let you.

Harry brings the cup of water to your lips. “Drink.”

You let it run down your throat and it tastes like a sweet nectar making you crave for more, but it will only lead to a side stitch.

“Good girl, Bel.” He whispers. It’s music to your ears.

“I’m good,” you promise him.

Harry strokes your hair, his hand soft and comforting as he repeats the action a few more times. “I know. We do this together.”

Together.

It’s a simple word, but it means everything to you.

He’s your person.

If there is anyone who will be proud of you for finishing regardless of your time, it is him.

You offer him your hand. “Juntos.”

“Together,” he takes your hand and off you go in search of the finish line.

Each mile seemed to get harder, but you would look over at Harry and he looked steady, so you kept pushing. One foot in front of the other and you knew you’d made it to the end.

Mile 25 felt like a breeze but 26 felt eternal. Every twist and turn felt like it would never end, but then you heard the cheers. The noise of the crowd rivaled one of Harry’s sold out stadiums.

“Go Harry! Go Y/N!” your head snapped, trying to find the voice, but all you could muster was a smile. It had to be a fan, or someone who looked up your bib number. It urged you on.

The finish line was up ahead, and you knew the sprint was coming. Harry said the end needed to be a strong finish.

“Come on, baby!”

Hand in hand, you crossed the finish line. Relieved: You breathed deeply, feeling alive and grateful. You didn’t feel your legs hurt; all you felt was Harry’s arms around you spinning you around.

“I love you,” you shouted.

“I fucking love you.” He yelled back.

It was a perfect moment. (You would be happy to receive the photos from your portal. Naomi would also send you all the videos she found from the moment on social media.)

Harry let you receive your medals. His hand secured on your waist as your medal rested on your chest, earning you a kiss to the cheek. Harry thanked the kind workers and guided you away, ready to celebrate with you.

He swung his hand over your shoulder, the smiles on both your faces contagious. “Nicely done, Ms. Belmonte.”

“Thanks to you, superhuman.” You teased, poking his defined abs. “What now?” You wondered out loud.

“The Six Star Medal. We just finished the first marathon.”

You stopped dead in your tracks. Five more marathons.

He was joking.

Right?

“Only if a proposal is soon.”

Harry's laugh fills you with warmth knowing it was because of you. “I’ve got something up my sleeve.”

You believed him.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles tokyo #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic rec #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles love on tour #harry styles japan #japanrry #tokyo marathon

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sexymemecoin · 1 year ago

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The Metaverse: A New Frontier in Digital Interaction

The concept of the metaverse has captivated the imagination of technologists, futurists, and businesses alike. Envisioned as a collective virtual shared space, the metaverse merges physical and digital realities, offering immersive experiences and unprecedented opportunities for interaction, commerce, and creativity. This article delves into the metaverse, its potential impact on various sectors, the technologies driving its development, and notable projects shaping this emerging landscape.

What is the Metaverse?

The metaverse is a digital universe that encompasses virtual and augmented reality, providing a persistent, shared, and interactive online environment. In the metaverse, users can create avatars, interact with others, attend virtual events, own virtual property, and engage in economic activities. Unlike traditional online experiences, the metaverse aims to replicate and enhance the real world, offering seamless integration of the physical and digital realms.

Key Components of the Metaverse

Virtual Worlds: Virtual worlds are digital environments where users can explore, interact, and create. Platforms like Decentraland, Sandbox, and VRChat offer expansive virtual spaces where users can build, socialize, and participate in various activities.

Augmented Reality (AR): AR overlays digital information onto the real world, enhancing user experiences through devices like smartphones and AR glasses. Examples include Pokémon GO and AR navigation apps that blend digital content with physical surroundings.

Virtual Reality (VR): VR provides immersive experiences through headsets that transport users to fully digital environments. Companies like Oculus, HTC Vive, and Sony PlayStation VR are leading the way in developing advanced VR hardware and software.

Blockchain Technology: Blockchain plays a crucial role in the metaverse by enabling decentralized ownership, digital scarcity, and secure transactions. NFTs (Non-Fungible Tokens) and cryptocurrencies are integral to the metaverse economy, allowing users to buy, sell, and trade virtual assets.

Digital Economy: The metaverse features a robust digital economy where users can earn, spend, and invest in virtual goods and services. Virtual real estate, digital art, and in-game items are examples of assets that hold real-world value within the metaverse.

Potential Impact of the Metaverse

Social Interaction: The metaverse offers new ways for people to connect and interact, transcending geographical boundaries. Virtual events, social spaces, and collaborative environments provide opportunities for meaningful engagement and community building.

Entertainment and Gaming: The entertainment and gaming industries are poised to benefit significantly from the metaverse. Immersive games, virtual concerts, and interactive storytelling experiences offer new dimensions of engagement and creativity.

Education and Training: The metaverse has the potential to revolutionize education and training by providing immersive, interactive learning environments. Virtual classrooms, simulations, and collaborative projects can enhance educational outcomes and accessibility.

Commerce and Retail: Virtual shopping experiences and digital marketplaces enable businesses to reach global audiences in innovative ways. Brands can create virtual storefronts, offer unique digital products, and engage customers through immersive experiences.

Work and Collaboration: The metaverse can transform the future of work by providing virtual offices, meeting spaces, and collaborative tools. Remote work and global collaboration become more seamless and engaging in a fully digital environment.

Technologies Driving the Metaverse

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Advanced Graphics and Computing: Powerful graphics processing units (GPUs) and cloud computing resources are crucial for rendering detailed virtual environments and supporting large-scale metaverse platforms.

Artificial Intelligence (AI): AI enhances the metaverse by enabling realistic avatars, intelligent virtual assistants, and dynamic content generation. AI-driven algorithms can personalize experiences and optimize virtual interactions.

Wearable Technology: Wearable devices, such as VR headsets, AR glasses, and haptic feedback suits, provide users with immersive and interactive experiences. Advancements in wearable technology are critical for enhancing the metaverse experience.

Notable Metaverse Projects

Decentraland: Decentraland is a decentralized virtual world where users can buy, sell, and develop virtual real estate as NFTs. The platform offers a wide range of experiences, from gaming and socializing to virtual commerce and education.

Sandbox: Sandbox is a virtual world that allows users to create, own, and monetize their gaming experiences using blockchain technology. The platform's user-generated content and virtual real estate model have attracted a vibrant community of creators and players.

Facebook's Meta: Facebook's rebranding to Meta underscores its commitment to building the metaverse. Meta aims to create interconnected virtual spaces for social interaction, work, and entertainment, leveraging its existing social media infrastructure.

Roblox: Roblox is an online platform that enables users to create and play games developed by other users. With its extensive user-generated content and virtual economy, Roblox exemplifies the potential of the metaverse in gaming and social interaction.

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The metaverse is still in its early stages, but its potential to reshape digital interaction is immense. As technology advances and more industries explore its possibilities, the metaverse is likely to become an integral part of our daily lives. Collaboration between technology providers, content creators, and businesses will drive the development of the metaverse, creating new opportunities for innovation and growth.

Conclusion

The metaverse represents a new frontier in digital interaction, offering immersive and interconnected experiences that bridge the physical and digital worlds. With its potential to transform social interaction, entertainment, education, commerce, and work, the metaverse is poised to revolutionize various aspects of our lives. Notable projects like Decentraland, Sandbox, Meta, Roblox, and Sexy Meme Coin are at the forefront of this transformation, showcasing the diverse possibilities within this emerging digital universe.

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#crypto #blockchain #defi #digitalcurrency #ethereum #digitalassets #Sexy Meme Coin #bitcoin

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nyxs2 · 1 month ago

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 25/?)

Ironic, isn’t it? Something engineered to kill now holds the power to heal.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: disease descriptions, "death", delusions about dead people, blood and violence, allusion to human experiments, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 24

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Felicia's laughter rang through the room like a broken bell—sharp, piercing, almost dissonant, as if it didn't quite belong. And yet, to him, it was melodic in its own twisted way. It curled around his mind like a lullaby long forgotten, remembered only in dreams. It didn't matter that it was too loud, too strange. It was hers. And for Silco, that was enough.

Her hands, impossibly warm, gripped his with a kind of reckless confidence as they spun across the old ballroom floor. Dust rose with every step, dancing alongside them in the slivers of light that spilled through shattered windows. The chandelier above them hung crooked, glass teardrops long since fallen, like the shattered remains of a memory. In the far corner of the room sat the orchestra—silent, abandoned.

Violins with snapped strings. Trumpets with bent bells. The cello, split in half like a body left too long to rot. And yet... the music played on. It filled the air, thick and haunting, as if conjured from the walls themselves. It shouldn't have existed, not anymore. But nothing about this moment obeyed the laws of reality. Or time. Or logic.

He let her lead.

It was strange, to surrender. To give up control so freely. But there was grace in her steps, precision in her madness. She guided him like a maestro, like she had done once in another life. His boots scuffed across the floor in perfect counterpoint to her bare feet, and he followed her movements with the focus of a soldier—but in truth, he felt more like a child again. A student learning something new.

And then he saw them—in the mirrors that lined the walls. Not as they were now, but as they once had been.

Silco's reflection met him with a face unmarked by pain. No scar splitting his face, no eye forever burning with Shimmer. His long hair was tied back into a loose bun, the strands soft and careless, with the familiar fringe still falling across his forehead. A face that hadn't yet seen betrayal. That hadn't yet chosen violence. A man who still believed in something.

Beside him, Felicia remained untouched by time. She always would. Time hadn't claimed her—at least not in the same way it had claimed him. She laughed in that mirror too, but it was less sharp, more real. No echoes. Just her, forever young and free.

She looked at him with familiarity deep, unwavering. There was no fear in her eyes. No suspicion. No resentment for the things he had done or the man he had become. Only that steady, knowing gaze—soft and ancient in its understanding. It was trust. It was love, but not the kind that demanded possession or confession. It was love that simply was. Elemental. Unshakable. A bond forged not through romance, but, through shared silence and unspoken truths.

He returned the gaze with a softness that surprised even himself.

Then, with a grace so seamless it could've been orchestrated by the gods, Felicia surrendered the lead. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her fingertips relaxed in his grip, the weight of her presence shifting ever so slightly—an invisible transference of power. It was not submission. It was trust, again. A quiet offering.

Silco moved.

He stepped forward, guiding her now. The rhythm didn't change, but the tempo of his breath did. He led her through the ruined ballroom like it was sacred ground, each movement instinctual, like he had done this a thousand times before. And gods, if the universe would allow it, he would do it a thousand more.

Then, without thinking, he spun her.

It was smooth. Almost too smooth. As if time itself bent to allow the motion.

The lights overhead flickered. A mechanical stutter. The chandeliers sputtered like candles in a dying wind. The phantom orchestra groaned—violins screeched out of tune, brass wailed, the percussion cracked like bones. For a heartbeat, the entire dream trembled.

And then he caught her.

He pulled her back toward him, sharp but certain, and her body collided with his—her back to his chest, her warmth melting into him like it had always belonged there. The lights steadied. The music fell back into its ghostly rhythm. The world, once again, was still.

But something had changed.

Felicia had changed.

He didn't notice it immediately. At first, it was just a flicker—a question unspoken in the curve of her spine, in the way her breath hitched as it touched his neck. But then his hands, still holding her waist, realized what his mind had not yet caught up to.

The frame pressed against him wasn't familiar in the way Felicia had always been—sharp elbows, strong shoulders, always slightly too thin. This woman was softer, more fluid, curved in ways Felicia had never been. Her scent had changed too. Still faintly floral, but not the same wildflower fields from his past. This was headier. Heavier.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the girl who once made him laugh when laughter still felt like an option.

This was his lover.

They caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

She stood there in all her ethereal glory, draped in the white dress he had given her on the day of the masquerade ball. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, like it was woven from moonlight and silk, clinging to her with an elegance that felt otherworldly. She looked like something out of a memory that never quite belonged to him—too perfect, too radiant, like a relic of a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

And beside her—reflected in the glass—still stood the younger version of himself. His clothes were worn, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to her elegance. A street rat in rags standing beside a goddess. But she wasn't looking at his clothes. She wasn't measuring their disparity.

She was looking at him. His face. His eyes. As if trying to see what lay beneath them. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only curiosity and something gentler, almost tender.

He felt it like a knife.

She would have adored this younger Silco. The one still capable of gentleness. The one not yet twisted by betrayal and necessity. He would have adored her too—cherished her with a reverence the older version of him had been too hardened, too tired, to maintain. The older Silco had used her. Weaponized her loyalty. Allowed her to become collateral in a war she never asked to fight.

But this version... this boy, barely hardened by the world... he would have held her like she was something sacred.

His lips found her neck—not in lust, but in reverence. His breath moved slow and deliberate against her skin, drinking in the scent that lingered there. His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them, no breath that didn't belong to both.

For a moment, he stayed like that—silent, still, suspended in a fragile pocket of time where he was hers, and she was his.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted it more than he wanted control, more than he wanted vengeance, more than he wanted the freedom he had built in Zaun with blood and fear. But the music called them back.

So he moved.

Another spin, gentle this time. He let her turn beneath his arm, her dress sweeping the dust from the floor like a painter's brushstroke. And when she returned to him, their positions mirrored the beginning. Her hand in his. Her body once again yielding to his guidance.

But his leadership didn't last long.

Just as the transition of power had been seamless when Felicia passed it to him, so too was its return—so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. One moment, he was leading. The next, he wasn't. Her steps grew surer, her rhythm stronger, and suddenly Silco found himself following again. He resisted at first—of course he did.

Authority wasn't something he gave up easily. It had been torn from his grasp too many times for him to part with it willingly now, not when it had been handed to him so deliberately by Felicia. He fought for it in the only way the dance allowed—subtle shifts of weight, intentional missteps, gentle pressure on her waist, his hand tightening in hers.

But she responded with equal determination.

Their dance became a disguised struggle, a silent war waged through movement and breath. A rebellion masked by grace. There were no missteps, no breaks in rhythm—just the undercurrent of tension that grew between them, pulsing through each turn, each pivot. It was a power struggle painted as poetry. A conversation that required no words.

But in the end, there was only one victor.

Him.

By sheer force of will, or maybe because some part of her chose to yield, Silco reclaimed control. His hands steadied her hips, his stride grew sure once more, and she—whether by submission or design—followed. They moved together in perfect sync, their reflections spinning across the mirrors like memories made flesh.

And then—silence.

The final note of the phantom orchestra rang through the air like a dying breath, reverberating through the bones of the ballroom. It echoed into stillness, and there they stood—centered in the ruins, in the quiet aftermath of music that had never truly been real.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, met his with something that felt older than time. Devotion. But it wasn't the kind that lifted or healed. It was the kind that consumed. That burned from the inside out and left nothing behind but ash and memory. A look that meant everything and nothing all at once.

A look that meant love.

Not the gentle kind. The destructive kind. The kind that hollowed men out.

Silco leaned in slowly, the weight of the moment thick in his chest. He didn't know what he was reaching for—a kiss, a confession, a surrender—but it didn't matter. His lips were just a breath away from hers when something shifted.

Her body collapsed.

No sound. No cry. Just her knees giving way beneath her, like the strings had been cut.

He caught her instinctively, arms closing around her as they both crumpled to the ground. Her weight pressed into him—heavier now, limp, wrong. His hand found her back, then lower, searching for the shape of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. But there was none. Then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark and blooming through the white of her dress like ink spilled across a page. Spreading from the center of her chest in slow, cruel tendrils. A dagger, buried deep, the hilt barely visible beneath the crimson that soaked her.

Silco lifted his gaze, and there—waiting for him in the cracked, dust-veiled mirror—was himself.

Not the version that had danced. Not the boy with soft features and wild hair. No. It was him. The man he had become. Older. Hardened. Scarred. His good eye burned beneath the weight of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams, staring back with that familiar, detached indifference—the same look he gave the world when he no longer had the strength to care.

But that wasn't what chilled him.

It wasn't the expression. It was the hand. The reflection's hand gripped the dagger's hilt.

Not floating above it. Not reaching toward it. Holding it. Firmly. Like it had always belonged to him. Silco's heart stuttered. He blinked, hesitating before looking down, dreading what he already knew. And there it was. His hand. Flesh and blood. Wrapped tightly around the hilt, buried deep in her chest.

His hand.

His hand thrusting the dagger into her heart.

He had killed her.

Silco awoke with a gasp, the kind that steals all the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. His body jolted upright, spine stiff, shoulders heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The world around him—the walls, the ceiling, the cold metal of the room—felt too still. Too real. As if the dream had chased him back into the waking world and refused to let go.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the sound of his breathing loud against the quiet. He ran a hand down his face, the tips of his fingers trembling. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and damp, soaking the collar of his shirt. His heart was still racing. The memory of the ballroom echoed behind his eyes, the taste of phantom music still on his tongue.

And worst of all—his fingers still remembered the sensation. That damned sensation.

The weight of her. The warmth of her blood. The stillness of her body. The softness of her dress. He could still feel the way her head had slumped against his chest, dead. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey him again. To ground itself in the reality he had carved for himself. But yet...

That dream had teeth.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. It was always her. Always his dove. Twisting her way into the corners of his mind, appearing not as the lover she had once been, but as every version he had failed—as the proof that even in his most peaceful moments, he could not be trusted with love. Not without ruining it. Not without claiming it and breaking it and burying it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, letting the chill of the room settle into his bones. Sleep had abandoned him. Slipped through his fingers the moment he had closed them around that dagger.

Guilt. Maybe that was what this was. The old stories always talked about guilt like a chain, dragging behind you. But Silco knew better. Guilt wasn't behind him. It lived in his chest, in his fingers, in his reflection.

Whatever peace he might've found in sleep—it was a lie. A trap. And like all traps, it had sprung when he was most vulnerable. He stood, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. There would be no more rest tonight.

And that was fine.

The world didn't stop turning just because ghosts came to dance.

[...]

"Do whatever she asks."

That was the command Silco had given Marcus, in response to a particularly desperate letter the man had sent weeks ago. A pitiful plea wrapped in official tones, asking for guidance, for help, for anything—as if Silco didn't already know what the real concern was. As if he hadn't felt it the moment he read her name on the page.

It had been a damn rollercoaster. The memory of that strange encounter with the figure from Noxus still left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was something about that thing—too calm, too knowing—that unsettled Silco more than he cared to admit. And yet, the true storm began only after. That damned meeting was the beginning of the end of his patience. She was there. Close enough to reach and he couldn't do anything.

It took every ounce of discipline not to send a team to retrieve her, to tear down the pristine walls of Piltover and burn them to ash if it meant getting her back. But no—he kept his end of the bargain. So he waited. He watched. And with each passing day, he felt the rot of absence settle deeper into his bones.

Three weeks. Three long weeks since the confirmation. And now he was beginning to understand what people called longing. A pathetic word, really. Poetic, romanticized. But the truth of it was anything but beautiful. It was corrosive. It hurt. He hated how much it hurt.

All he had of her were Marcus's letters—meandering, overly cautious updates filtered through layers of cowardice—and a few stolen reports from the Stillwater guards he had quietly bought.

When word reached him that she was masquerading as some kind of enforcer, a shadow operating under the banner of the same institution that had once hunted her, he'd known then that he couldn't rely on Marcus alone. So he made sure his own eyes were on her—indirectly, of course. Hidden. Quiet. The way he know to be when survival depended on being unseen.

It wasn't just Piltover that worried him—it was him. Her old master. The one who'd molded her, twisted her into a weapon and that he would do anything to get back what was once his. Silco hadn't forgotten him because he was there, and Silco knew better than anyone that he would not sit idly by. Not once he realized his prized creation had returned, hidden in plain sight.

For now, the arrangement with that Noxian organization still held. Fragile, unspoken, but intact. His dove was alive—safe, even, in some twisted way. That mysterious figure from Noxus, seemed to be playing a deeper game. Silco couldn't tell if the they intentions were strategic, protective, or just the movements of a bored puppeteer with too many strings at his disposal.

Maybe they wanted the founder of the Institute to look elsewhere—to hunt ghosts in the dark, to chase theories and whispers while the truth remained hidden. If so, Silco could only be grateful. He didn't care how it worked. As long as she remained untouched, unseen, unclaimed.

Silco was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. He didn't trust the Noxians, not truly. But he knew leverage when he saw it. And for now, they were a shield. A necessary evil.

But even with all the politics and paranoia swirling around him, only one thing had him genuinely enraged. One thing that made his blood boil with a fury he could barely suppress. Her. The pink-haired brat. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She had haunted his past like a specter and when she vanished, Silco had made it a point to confirm it. He had demanded blood, demanded proof. Marcus had looked him in the eye and sworn—sworn—that the girl was gone. That chapter was over.

Except it wasn't.

Now, years later, the same child had returned not as a corpse, but a grown weapon. Breathing. Moving. Protected and not by just anyone—but by her. The woman he loved. The only person in all of Zaun, in all of the underworld, who had ever truly seen him for who he was—and stayed. And now, she had wrapped herself around the one thing that should have never come back.

He didn't even know what was worse: that the girl was alive... or that his dove had taken to guarding her like some loyal hound, ready to bare her teeth at anyone who got too close. Even him.

It was betrayal, and it wasn't. He couldn't blame her, not entirely, not after everything he'd done. She was loyal to Vander, then the loyalty passed to the damn pink-haired brat.

Silco had confronted Marcus the moment the report landed on his desk. Threw it at the bastard's feet. Called him a liar to his face, venom in every word. Marcus, for his part, had paled like a ghost, stammered some excuses.

Silco didn't care.

The damage was done. The past wasn't buried—it was walking.

Sending assassins after her would be the equivalent of painting a bright red target across his own chest—no, his soul—and Silco knew exactly who would be the one to pull the trigger if it came to that. His little dove. His sweet, broken masterpiece. If she even suspected that he had anything to do with harming that girl, there would be no begging, no talking her down from the ledge. Not this time. She would aim straight for his heart and she wouldn't miss.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Violet's body would give in to whatever sickness clung to her. Hope that the illness that had taken root weeks ago would finish what he had started long before. Because as long as she lived, she was a threat. Not to Silco directly—no, he not fearing her fists. But to the fragile, volatile balance he'd built atop lies and broken pieces.

There was still one person who didn't know. One person who must not know.

Jinx.

If she even suspected her sister was alive...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He couldn't.

She trusted him. Through everything, through the fire and madness and years of silence, Jinx had clung to his words like gospel. Vi is gone. That had been the truth he'd fed her, over and over, until it had become a part of her very identity. He'd ripped out her past, rewritten her pain, and filled the hollow space with purpose—his purpose. He didn't do it out of cruelty. He did it because she needed it.

But if that truth ever resurfaced? If that fragile thread snapped?

Jinx wouldn't hesitate.

Her loyalty ran deeper than blood, more powerful than logic or reason—but it was not blind. Silco knew her mind too well. The chaos, the echoes, the fire. All it would take was a moment—a whisper, a face in a crowd—and the illusion would crumble. And when it did, she wouldn't come asking questions. She'd come with bullets and bombs.

For now, he would let her play her little game. Let her wear the mask of a guardian, let her cling to that hollow hope that she could save the girl. If that was the path—the trial—that thing from Noxus had spoken of, then so be it. Silco didn't believe in fate, not in the romantic sense that she used to whisper about late at night when she still trusted him. But he believed in design. In cause and effect. In inevitable descent.

And if the only way she would ever come to accept the truth of what she was—what she had to become—was through disappointment, then he would allow her that heartbreak. He would let her feel the sharp edge of betrayal, not his, not this time, but the betrayal of her own ideals. He would let her bleed for them.

Because maybe the pain of his betrayal hadn't been enough. Maybe it had wounded her, but not deep enough to sever the last threads that tied her to Vander's lies. But death? Real death—the kind that doesn't leave room for second chances, that doesn't flinch when she screams—that might do the trick. If she had to watch that girl die, to see her own hands stained with the guilt of failure, perhaps then, finally, she'd stop running from what she truly was.

Silco took a long drink of whiskey, the liquid searing down his throat, but it didn't bite the way it used to. The burn barely registered anymore. He couldn't decide if that was a mercy or another kind of slow punishment he'd carved out for himself in her absence.

He'd been drinking too much. He knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But no one would dare say a word. He told himself it wasn't because of her, that her absence hadn't carved a hollow into his chest, that the liquor wasn't just a poor substitute for the voice he missed hearing in the stillness of his office. But lies have a way of curdling when spoken too often—even to yourself.

He stared down at the paperwork before him, documents that meant the difference between survival and collapse for half of Zaun. His signature scrawled across them in quick, practiced strokes, efficient as ever. But the truth was, his heart wasn't in it. Not anymore. Not without her sitting across from him, challenging his every word, mocking his seriousness with that glint in her eye that said she understood him better than anyone ever had—and still chose to stay.

Until she didn't.

Silco set the glass down a little too hard. The sound echoed in the room, sharp, final. The whiskey bottle was half-empty, the way it always was these days. He told himself it was just a phase. That once she came back—and she would—things would steady. The world would right itself. She'd see things clearly then. She'd see him clearly.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, its rhythm clipped. Sevika's voice followed immediately after—blunt and efficient, as always.

"Singed requests a meetin." she called from the other side of the door. "Something about the new scientist."

Silco let out a slow breath through his nose, already grateful she'd skipped the small talk. With Sevika, he didn't have to endure the pleasantries or preambles that so many others wasted time with. She spoke in facts, and facts were easier to manage.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the dim light of the hallway spilling briefly into the room before being swallowed again by the ever-present haze that lingered around his office. Sevika entered first—tall, composed, always a presence that demanded attention—and behind her came Singed, quiet as a wraith, moving with that same eerie grace that had always unsettled those not used to him. The doctor held a letter in one hand, delicate in contrast to his gaunt, scarred fingers. His expression was unreadable. It always was.

Sevika didn't move any further once she stepped inside. She lingered by the door, waiting—always waiting—for a cue. Silco didn't speak, merely lifted a hand and gestured toward the worn sofa off to the side. She obeyed immediately, walking over with those heavy steps of hers and settling down without protest.

Singed moved next, taking a seat with slow, measured control. No dramatics. No wasted energy. And then, with the same calm detachment he always wore like a second skin, he dropped the letter he carried onto the desk between them.

Silco let the silence stretch for a few moments longer, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his chair. Then, without shifting his gaze from the now-open letter in front of him, he spoke, his voice low and even, though edged with something sharper.

"If I recall correctly... you once told me you hadn't received a satisfactory response from Viktor regarding our proposition."

There was a beat of stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air—not tense, but thoughtful. Singed tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, like he was sifting through memories. Then he answered, voice measured and clinical, as always.

"That was accurate... until this morning." He paused, letting the weight of that hang between them before continuing. "A letter arrived. From Viktor himself. He has agreed to join the research."

Silco's brow arched with deliberate slowness, the sharp line of it a clear sign of his surprise. He turned his head just enough to regard the doctor more fully, studying him through narrowed eyes. This wasn't what he'd expected—not in the slightest.

In his mind, Silco had already mapped out two possible futures: one where he'd be forced to coerce the scientist into cooperation, using whatever leverage became most effective, and another where—should persuasion fail—Viktor would simply become another obstacle to eliminate. A regrettable loss, but not an irreplaceable one. That he had chosen to accept, and without resistance, was not a piece that fit neatly into any of Silco's designs.

"Just like that? He accepted without demands? No conditions? No hesitations?"

"None." Singed replied simply. "He offered no terms. Merely confirmed his willingness to collaborate."

Silco's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts turning inward like storm clouds rolling over the skyline of his mind. He didn't trust easy victories. In Zaun, nothing ever came without a price. Nothing. And people like Viktor—ideologues, dreamers—were especially dangerous when they gave in without resistance. It meant they already had their own reasons. Their own plans.

He glanced again at the letter on his desk, then toward Singed, whose expression remained maddeningly impassive. Silco hated that. Not because he thought Singed was lying—no, the man had proven too valuable, too consistent for that—but because with him, truth could be just as unsettling as deception.

"And you find that curious, I assume." Silco's tone wasn't quite a question.

Singed inclined his head ever so slightly. "I anticipated resistance. Perhaps negotiation. At the very least, a set of stipulations. But there was nothing of the sort. It's... uncharacteristic, even for him."

Silco's gaze drifted to the shadows dancing along the far wall of the office, the low flicker of the chemical lamps casting everything in sickly greens. His mind turned over the possibilities.

What did Viktor want? More importantly—what did he think he could gain by saying yes so quickly?

This wasn't charity. This wasn't desperation. It was something else.

"No one enters a pact without expecting something in return." Silco muttered, mostly to himself, then focused again. "Keep him under close observation. If he starts working, I want records of everything. Research logs, formulas, conversations. I want to know what he's doing and what he's thinking."

Singed gave a slight nod. "Already in place."

Of course it was.

Silco exhaled slowly and turned his eyes once again to the letter. For now, fortune had smiled on him—unexpectedly, perhaps, but undeniably. Viktor's presence could accelerate things. Add legitimacy. Resources. Vision. But Silco had lived too long in the depths of betrayal and blood to believe in gifts that came without strings.

And if Viktor had none...

That only meant the strings were hidden and Silco would find them. Or cut them first.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Hours before.

The moon hung high, brilliant and full, casting silvery light across the iron bones of the bridge. It felt like it was watching, like it was meant to witness this exact moment—an unspoken rendezvous under its quiet gaze. Below, the river murmured softly, the gentle lapping of waves against stone pillars composing a rhythm, a steady heartbeat to the charged stillness around you.

The wind teased your hair, strands dancing wildly across your face, some catching on your lashes, others brushing against your lips like whispers. You didn't move much, only turned your head slightly toward the voice that had cut through the silence.

He didn't feel like a stranger, even though this was the first time you'd truly seen his face. Maybe it was the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his angular features seemed both striking and fragile.

His skin was pale, like parchment in moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were what held you. Deep, knowing, like he was always calculating—like you were a variable in a complex equation and he'd just solved it. Those eyes studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that might have belonged to a scientist observing the final stage of an experiment.

But what truly gave him away was the cane.

He looked at you the same way you looked at him—like recognition had bloomed in some dormant part of your memory, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Then came that smile. Subtle. Crooked. One corner of his lips tugging upward just enough to be noticed, as if he had solved something only he was aware of.

"I barely recognized you in this enforcer uniform."

He said, voice calm, but with the casual edge of someone who practiced sounding unbothered. There was something peculiar in his accent, too—an intentional mimicry of Piltover refinement, yet it didn't quite cover the undercurrent of Zaun in his tone. It was too clean. Too studied.

You didn't answer right away. You were still cataloging every piece of him, every flicker of movement in his expression. Even his posture was a puzzle. He stood like someone who had never truly relaxed. Not entirely.

"It's good to see you again, Baroness."

That damn title

"That title doesn't belong to me anymore."

He inclined his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening just enough to acknowledge your words. He didn't argue. He didn't push. That alone earned him a sliver of your trust.

"Then..." he said carefully, tone shifting to something more thoughtful, almost curious, "How should I address you?"

You spoke it.

Your name.

Just your name.

He repeated it slowly, almost experimentally. The way it left his lips, wrapped in that deep accent smoothed by his time in Piltover, made it sound unfamiliar but... pleasant. Gentle, even. There was a cadence to it you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the way he rolled the syllables, or the softness he laced into it like a scientist being careful not to disturb a volatile compound.

There was charm in the way he said it. Subtle, unintentional. And yet, despite that, it still didn't compare.

Because when he used to say your name—when Silco said it—it was different. That was something else entirely. His voice wrapped around it like it owned it. He didn't just say your name, he claimed it, gave it meaning, used it like a knife or a promise, depending on the moment. There had always been something dangerous about it when it came from his mouth. Something sacred. Something ruined.

But that chapter was closed. That part of you was buried beneath too many layers to resurface now. Still, the comparison crept in uninvited, and you hated that it did. You shook it off, grounding yourself in the present. In the man in front of you.

"I'm Viktor, madam."

You noticed it then—something you hadn't registered before. His silhouette had emerged from the shadowed edge of the bridge, the side that sloped downward into the darker veins of Zaun, not the glittering arteries that led upward into the polished, proud heart of Piltover. You hadn't questioned it in the moment—perhaps a part of you didn't want to—but now, the realization lingered like a bitter taste at the back of your throat.

Your body acted on instinct. You stepped away from the edge of the bridge, your boots clicking against the steel in a rhythm more determined than you felt. You turned your back to him, not out of rudeness—but as a shield. A silent declaration that the conversation was over before it even began. That this, whatever it had been, had lasted long enough.

You began your walk, heading back toward Piltover. Toward Stillwater. Back to duty. Back to the cold, predictable structure of a world that made more sense when emotions weren't clouding it. Back to Violet....

But of course, Viktor wasn't the kind to let someone walk away so easily. Just as the distance between you grew—enough that your footfalls had begun to echo in solitary rhythm—his voice sliced through the air.

"I know about you."

You froze.

It wasn't a threat, or a boast. He said it like a fact. A line drawn cleanly across the night sky.

Your breath caught for a moment, chest rising slowly as you turned your gaze just slightly over your shoulder. You didn't face him fully—didn't want to give him that satisfaction—but you stopped walking. Silence rushed in to fill the space between his words and your next move. The river below murmured, a steady undercurrent of noise against the sudden stillness in your head.

He hadn't moved. Still standing at the edge where shadows touched his feet, his form half-draped in moonlight, half claimed by the dark. Like he didn't belong fully to either world.

"You know about me?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, but not cold. There was something beneath it. Something careful. "And not the fantasy version where you were Silco's delicate bride."

His eyes found you again, and it was like a pressure against your ribs. Like he saw through the layers you had so meticulously built.

"Immortality is something impossible to achieve through science, but magic was also impossible, and Jayce and I achieved it. Just like you did." Viktor rambled. "The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."

You clenched your jaw. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You turned fully to face him now, your boots whispering against the metal surface of the bridge. There was no rush. You weren't sure if you were walking toward a conversation... or toward the end of one. A thousand possibilities tangled in your mind as your eyes stayed locked on his. Was this the beginning of a negotiation—or a murder?

You stopped just a few feet in front of him. "Let me guess... Singed or Silco told you about me?"

Viktor didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head, a small nod confirming everything you had already begun to suspect.

Strangely, you didn't feel anger. Not like you expected to. No white-hot fury or betrayal, just... resignation. Calculation. It made sense. Of course it did. You could almost see the path unraveling behind you, the twisted logic of it all. Singed was a thread that tied too many things together.

Silco had taken an interest in Viktor long before the chaos unfolded between you two. You remembered that night at the gala vividly, how Silco's eyes lingered on the boy with the cane, how he'd spoken of genius like it was a commodity to be harvested.

And now, without you, Silco would be scrambling. Desperate. He'd squeeze whatever brilliance he could out of anyone left standing. Viktor wasn't an ally. He was another tool Silco had picked up in the hopes of creating something... someone... new. Someone like you.

"He's using you." you said softly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between the two of you. "Just like he used everyone else. You're skilled, intelligent... disposable."

Viktor's gaze didn't waver. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not in amusement—but in understanding. Acceptance.

"I know."

"Then if I were you... I'd run. Get as far away from him as you can. If you know this much about me, it's only because Silco allowed it. As long as you're useful to him, he'll keep you breathing. But the moment you're not—" You didn't finish the thought. You didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air. "People who know too much don't get to live long in his world."

There was a long silence, and the sound of the river below seemed louder in its wake. Then Viktor replied, voice soft but unwavering:

"I am aware of that."

Something in the way he said it chilled you. Calm. Almost fatalistic. Like a man who had already considered death and decided he could live with it.

"So that means..." you narrowed your eyes, "You agreed to work for him."

He tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought he might confirm it. But instead, with the same unshakable calm, he answered:

"Absolutely not."

"Then why the hell are you still alive?"

"I didn't really accept working for him, but I didn't say no either."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly in disbelief. Not mockery, but something heavier—exasperation, maybe. Or incredulity. As if the mere idea of someone telling Silco they would think about accepting his offer was so far removed from reality that it bordered on suicidal. Silco wasn't the kind of man who tolerated ambiguity. He didn't deal in "maybes." You either belonged to his game, or you didn't play at all.

"I can't tell if that's cleverness or sheer stupidity."

The words leaving your mouth before you could soften them. Your tone was sharp, laced with something cold and urgent. But it wasn't cruelty—it was honesty. This boy, for all his intelligence, for all his articulate restraint and sharpness of mind, clearly didn't know what kind of monster he was dancing with.

"Silco isn't patient, Viktor. That man, he doesn't wait for people to make up their minds. He twists them. Breaks them, if he has to." You took a step closer, your boots scraping lightly against the metal of the bridge. "You still have a life ahead of you. A long one, if you don't throw it away dealing with devils like him."

That was when Viktor laughed—but not out of amusement.

It was dry. Cracked. Hollow. A sound that held no real joy, just resignation. He adjusted his grip on his cane, fingers curling tightly around the polished metal, and for the first time tonight, you noticed the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders dipped slightly. The stiffness in the way he shifted his weight. Maybe it was pain, physical or otherwise. Maybe both.

"I don't." he murmured, almost too quietly.

You frowned, caught off guard. "Don't what?"

Viktor didn't look at you right away. His gaze was somewhere distant, past the river, past the spires of Piltover, locked on something only he could see. When he finally turned his eyes back to you, they were no longer calculating—they were honest in a way that made your throat tighten.

"I don't have a long life ahead of me."

And just like that, the night around you shifted.

The cold wind wasn't just cold anymore—it felt sharp, invasive, like it was slicing through the space between you. You stared at him, the weight of those words crashing into you, sudden and unforgiving. That wasn't what you expected to hear. Not from him. Not tonight.

"Oh..." you breathed. It was the only thing that came out, because your mind was reeling, scrambling to make sense of it. Of him. "I'm sorry."

Viktor only shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't be. My condition it's degenerative, rare and incurable." he explained with the detached cadence of someone who had repeated these facts too many times to too many people, until the words lost all weight. "I've calculated the odds. If I'm lucky, a few more years. If not... less."

"Is it something you were born with?" you asked, your voice softer now, but the weight of the question hung thick in the air.

Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look away or shift uncomfortably. Instead, he answered with a kind of practiced ease, as if the truth had long ago become part of his identity—woven into his bones alongside the pain.

"Since birth. The condition progressed as I grew. The older I became, the more aggressive it got. Every doctor in Piltover has given their verdict, no cure, only management. A slowing of the inevitable. Nothing more."

The honesty in his voice pierced deeper than you expected. It wasn't just that he was sick—it was the way he said it. Not with bitterness, but with familiarity, like someone who had lived side by side with death for so long it had become a companion. An unwanted one, but one he had learned to coexist with nonetheless. You hesitated. Something pulled at your thoughts, twisting them into darker, sharper places.

What would a man with a fate like Viktor's be willing to trade for the faintest hope of salvation? The answer came before you even finished the question.

"Silco promised you a cure."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. A truth that tasted like metal on your tongue. Viktor didn't hesitate—not even for a breath. The words slipped from his mouth like scripture. Like something he had recited to himself a thousand times before daring to believe it.

"Your regeneration... if studied correctly, with precision, with diligence... it could become the foundation for a universal cure. At least, that's what Singed's early experiments suggested. A form of continuous healing, cellular restoration that resists infection, rebuilds tissue faster than it can decay. It renders you immune to sickness. Even the most violent injuries mend in seconds. And now—" he paused, a flicker of awe, or maybe fear, crossing his features, "Not even death can reach you."

You scoffed, though the sound lacked any real bite. It was more reflex than conviction—an attempt to mask the fact that you were genuinely trying to recall if you'd ever been sick. Not bruised, not scraped—sick. An illness. A fever. Anything beyond surface-level wounds that healed too quickly to be normal.

And the strange part was... you couldn't remember a single instance. Not one.

The more you turned the thought over in your mind, the more unsettling it became. It was as if you'd lived your whole life encased in something not entirely human, something... protected. A body untouched by disease, untouched by what usually haunted people sooner or later. It was a realization that sat heavy in your chest, cold and quiet like the first breath after diving too deep underwater.

But that realization came with another—like a domino falling into place behind the rest. A cure. Not for you. From you. A universal cure. One that could change everything for people like Viktor, like Violet.

"A universal cure..." you said slowly, not fully believing the words even as they left your mouth. "You really think that's possible... from my blood?"

Viktor's eyes remained steady on yours. There was no mockery in them, no exaggeration—just truth, however painful or bold it was.

"Medicine isn't exactly my field." he admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "But I can't ignore what Singed's early studies suggest. Your immune system respond to infection in a way I've never seen. Not destroy it, neutralize it. Integrate and override it."

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing down on you. "And you think it could help you? Or at least ease your symptoms?"

Viktor paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe it could. If we could isolate the core structure of your immunity, if we could replicate it... then yes. Maybe not a cure completely, but it could be a kind of stabilizer."

The wind picked up, swirling around you like the city itself was holding its breath. You turned your face away for a moment, blinking hard as your thoughts scrambled to keep up with the implications. It wasn't just about you anymore. It was about possibility. And the path forward was tangled, but not impossible.

"Do you really think you can do this?"

"I wouldn't waste my time chasing an illusion. My time is... finite and I can't deny that seems to be... my best chance."

"To survive?"

"To fight." Viktor corrected, firmly. "To fight against my body. Against time. Even if the outcome is already written, I still want to write the middle. I still want to try."

A fair reason in your opinion.

"And how long do you think it would be possible to make a prototype cure?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, expression sharpening with focus as if already turning over the question in his mind, calculating probabilities behind those keen eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft but grounding.

"Hm... depending on how the research evolves, how the cells respond, how the tests go, perhaps a few years. That's the best-case scenario."

Years.

The word struck like a stone in your gut, pulling the air from your lungs. Violet didn't have years. You weren't even sure she had months.

Violet's condition had worsened rapidly in the last few weeks. Her body was giving out, her breathing had turned shallow and uneven, and there were days where her voice was barely more than a whisper. And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, you could see it—death lingering at the edges, inching closer every day. Her fire was still there, but the body housing it was losing the strength to hold on.

"There's this girl. She's in the same situation as you, but I doubt she has years. Maybe months if I'm lucky."

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. You weren't used to sounding desperate. But here you were—stripped bare by the weight of helplessness.

"If this cure is possible and it could save her... I can't wait years for a prototype. I'll help you. Whatever you need, blood samples, tissue, observation, I'll be your lab rat if that's what it takes. I don't care, just tell me it'll make a difference."

He watched you for a long moment, silent. Processing.

The gears were clearly turning behind that worn, brilliant face, but this wasn't just about science anymore. This was about promises, lives, guilt, hope—all tangled together.

"It's possible." he said slowly, voice almost cautious. "If your body continues to respond the way Singed's research suggests, and if we can collect enough consistent data..." He paused, his expression softening. "Yes. We could accelerate the process. But I can't offer you certainty. Only a chance."

"That's all I need."

You extended your hand toward him, trying your best to appear steady, like this was just another negotiation. But inside, your heart was a storm. Your fingers trembled slightly, and not from the chill of the wind slicing across the bridge. You weren't scared of him. You were scared of hope.

"Do we have a deal?"

Viktor stared at your outstretched hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers slightly stiff with effort, and gripped your hand in his. His grip wasn't strong—not in the way you were used to—but there was a kind of quiet resolve behind it. A dignity that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Deal." he said. Then, after a breath: "In fact... what would you say to starting the sample collection tonight?"

You blinked.

"Tonight?"

He offered a tired but determined smile. "There's no time to waste, is there?"

And in that moment, you saw it again—that flicker of stubborn life inside him, fragile yet unyielding. Viktor wasn't going to let death have the last word. Not without a fight. And now, you weren't going to let it have Violet either.

"Then lead the way, Viktor."

[...]

Viktor's apartment was larger than you expected—but not in the way that screamed wealth or excess. It lacked the ornate extravagance you'd come to associate with typical Piltovian residences: there were no gilded fixtures, no handwoven drapes, no artistic clutter just for the sake of appearances. Everything in this space had a purpose, a function, a reason for being exactly where it was. If you looked at it objectively, it was rather spartan—minimalistic, practical to a fault.

But the lab...

The lab was another story entirely.

It spilled over from what might've once been a dining area, or maybe a sitting room, but now it served only one purpose: to house Viktor's mind in physical form. Organized chaos—that was the only way to describe it. Every surface was claimed by papers, stacks of parchment covered in formulas and theories, some crisp and newly written, others crumpled and speckled with dried ink. Dozens of mechanical parts lay like discarded bones of unfinished creations, alongside delicate tools and wires that snaked across the table like veins of some greater machine waiting to be born.

There were ink pots scattered in illogical places—on bookshelves, on the floor, even balanced precariously on the edge of a half-open drawer. Quills rested beside pliers. A worn whiteboard dominated one corner, filled with complex equations and diagrams, some hastily crossed out, others emphasized with frustrated underlines. Your eyes had scanned it slowly earlier, trying to make sense of it, but the only word you could confidently pick out amid the storm of variables and abstract notation was Hextech.

That word, at least, you recognized.

The faint scent of oil and iron mixed with the delicate aroma of chamomile now wafting from the teacup Viktor had pressed into your hands. You hadn't expected that gesture—a quiet offering, warm and steady—but perhaps you should have. It was exactly like him to care in precise, practical ways.

He was currently moving through the room with an almost impatient grace, searching through one of his old cabinets with the kind of distracted determination that came from knowing exactly what he was looking for and not quite remembering where he had placed it.

You had offered to help, of course. It felt wrong to just sit while he rummaged around on your behalf. But Viktor had simply waved you off with a tired shake of his head and guided you firmly into a worn chair near the lab table before disappearing into his own thoughts again.

So, now, all you could do was watch him.

Watch the way he moved—slightly uneven, but never clumsy. He favored his cane more heavily now, you noticed, and every step was deliberate. He muttered to himself occasionally in a soft, accented rhythm, pulling open drawers and scanning their contents with the frustrated focus of a man whose mind was ten steps ahead of his body.

The walk to Viktor's apartment had been strange, to say the least.

Not because of anything he said—he barely spoke, really—but because of how the world seemed to react to the two of you moving through it together. You were still wearing the Enforcer uniform, and even though your face wasn't exposed enough to give you away, people still stared. They didn't look at you with suspicion, though. No one seemed alarmed or afraid. It was more like... confusion. Like the image of an Enforcer walking beside him—the assistant to Heimerdinger—didn't quite make sense.

And it didn't help that it was still early, the streets not fully awake yet. Vendors were only beginning to open their shops, warm bread smells drifting lazily into the fog. The city wasn't loud yet, but it watched. It noticed.

The walk had been largely silent. Not tense, but purposeful. A handful of words exchanged—he'd mentioned his work under Heimerdinger, how the professor was brilliant, if not occasionally too cautious. You'd nodded, unsure of how much he wanted to share, unsure of how much you wanted to ask. The only other time he spoke was when you arrived at his apartment, where he casually mentioned he'd be writing to Singed soon, to inform him of his decision.

There hadn't been much detail in that either. Just that he'd made up his mind. Viktor, it seemed, was a private man.

Now, in the relative quiet of his apartment, the tea still steaming gently between your fingers, you found your voice again.

You blew across the surface, trying to cool it, though more out of habit than necessity. The question had been resting at the edge of your mind since he mentioned the name Silco, and now it finally broke through.

"If you don't mind me asking." you said, keeping your tone even, "What exactly did Silco offer you? What kind of research would you have been involved in?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. He was still standing near the lab bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge, fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wood. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he was always weighing thoughts before turning them into words.

"Something also related to your regeneration." he said, finally turning toward you. "But not in terms of healing."

You blinked, intrigued—and slightly unsettled. "Then what?"

"Singed was vague. As he often is. But he did mention that Silco was interested in pushing your threshold, extending your limit, as he called it. Increasing the duration and frequency of your regenerative state... to the point where your recoil becomes negligible. Or at least, manageable."

You took another sip of the tea, not because it was particularly good—it had already gone lukewarm—but because the simple act of drinking gave your hands something to do while the storm started turning behind your eyes. Your mind was already racing.

What the hell was Silco planning?

It wasn't hard to guess. He was never the type to invest in something unless it served his own agenda. You weren't naïve enough to believe his interest in your body—your mutation—had anything to do with your well-being. If anything, your escape had probably solidified it: you weren't his asset anymore, and that made you dangerous. Unpredictable. And Silco hated things he couldn't control.

Of course he'd want to replicate you. Build his own army. Shimmered soldiers who couldn't feel pain, couldn't bleed out, who would heal through wounds like they were nothing. Monsters cut from your bones and sculpted in his image of power.

Your stomach turned at the thought.

The tea felt bitter now on your tongue.

You had to get Violet and Powder out of Zaun—soon. Before Silco had the chance to finish whatever nightmare he was crafting in the shadows. Before he built others like you. Worse than you. Before he unleashed something no one could stop.

The clink of Viktor setting something down on the bench pulled you slightly from your thoughts, and then his voice came—quiet, almost contemplative, but not hesitant.

"Why did you leave Zaun?"

You glanced up, startled slightly by how sudden the question was, though in hindsight, maybe it was fair. You asked him something and now it was his turn. You exhaled through your nose and set the teacup down, a little harder than you meant to.

"Simple." you said, voice edged and flat. "The research Singed showed you? The experiments? I had no idea they even existed. I didn't know about the mutation. Didn't know what the hell they did to me until it was already too late."

You poured yourself more tea, even though you had no desire to drink it. You needed something—anything—to keep you grounded.

"They didn't ask. They didn't explain. They just did it. Like I was a lab rat, so I ran..." You took another slow sip, keeping your eyes low, the burn in your throat a welcome distraction. "Seemed like a good enough reason to you?"

Viktor paused mid-search, his hands hovering above the contents of the drawer. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable at first—those sharp, golden eyes catching the low light like glass—but after a second, you saw something faint in them. A subtle crease between his brows. A flicker of something that might've been pity, but not in a cruel way. It wasn't condescending. If anything, it felt like he'd understood a little more of you than you intended to show.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you replied, shrugging as you leaned back slightly in the chair. "What's done is done. There's no undoing it."

Your tone was light, but there was a weight in your chest that tea couldn't quite chase away. You looked at him again, deciding to continue the rhythm the two of you had somehow fallen into—a quiet exchange, like peeling back layers without really trying to.

"You seem to know a lot about my abilities." you raising an eyebrow. "But did Singed tell you anything else about me?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a thoughtful sound and returned to his task, shifting his cane aside just long enough to reach into a lower cabinet. He gripped a heavy box with both hands, his muscles tensing subtly beneath his shirt. The strain was evident, but Viktor was meticulous in how he carried it—refusing to let the effort show in his expression. Not out of pride, you suspected, but out of habit. Like someone who had spent a long time refusing to be defined by his limitations.

He carried the box to the table with careful steps, setting it down beside you before sinking into the chair just across. Only then did he speak again, fingers running gently along the edge of the box as if steadying himself.

"If you're asking whether I know where your abilities come from, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he said, his voice level, honest. "Singed kept many details from me and unless you decide to tell me yourself, which I suspect you won't, I'll likely never know."

His gaze flicked up to meet yours briefly, not demanding, not accusing—just open. Accepting. He didn't press. That was something you were beginning to appreciate about Viktor: he asked without expectation. And when you didn't give, he didn't punish you with silence or judgment.

He began unlatching the box, and you watched his long fingers work over the metal clasps, each movement precise. You could hear the faint clink of tools and components shifting inside.

And then, unexpectedly—

"You and Silco." Viktor began, his tone still calm but more curious now. "You seemed... close at the masquerade. Was that relationship genuine? Romantic? Or was it simply contractual?"

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift—but only for a moment. He wasn't trying to provoke you. He was just... observing again. Curious. Perhaps trying to understand you in the same way he tried to understand a formula on a page.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering, the bitterness of it making you grimace. The drink had cooled just enough to be tolerable now, though it still tasted sharp.

"I love him."

The words hung in the air between you. Not soft. Not heavy. Just... there. Viktor's brow lifted, his head tilting slightly, not unlike a scholar reevaluating a hypothesis.

" 'Love'?" he echoed. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say 'loved'?"

"When you scientists finally figure out how to erase feelings, do me a favor and let me know." You setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Maybe then I'll finally get this damn emotion out of me once and for all."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, lingering. You didn't really expect a response. But after a beat, Viktor let out a short laugh. Not the polite, practiced kind. This one was genuine, from somewhere deeper.

"Perhaps not even science can resolve that." he said, a flicker of something warm in his voice. "Human emotions are far more volatile than any second-rate experiment. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Stubborn."

You couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. "Stubborn is putting it lightly." You leaned your elbow against the edge of the table, propping your head against your hand, your eyes narrowing just a little with curiosity. "Tell me something then, Viktor. Have you ever been in love?"

He didn't answer.

Not immediately. But you caught the slightest shift in his posture—the way his hands stilled over the open box, his eyes momentarily dropping, like the question had touched something he usually kept buried under equations and theories. And that silence? That silence said everything.

You smiled, half amused, half smug. "Ah, so you have."

Still nothing from him, though the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly—either in protest or resignation.

"Oh, come on..." your tone was lighter now, teasing. "I told you who I love. It's not like I'm going to run around Piltover spreading your secrets. Besides, if you're going to be poking around in my bloodstream for some miraculous cure, the least we can do is get to know each other."

There was a pause, as though he were weighing the emotional cost of honesty. And then, with a sigh that felt more like surrender than confession, he finally spoke.

"My research partner." he said quietly. "You met him. At the masquerade."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Jayce?"

He gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

You sat back a little, surprised—but only for a moment. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. The glances they exchanged across the ballroom. The subtle tension, the kind that only exists between people who've been orbiting each other for too long without ever colliding.

"Wow..." you breathed. "Didn't see that coming."

Viktor gave a rueful chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "It wouldn't have worked. It was never... mutual. Not the way I hoped. He's with Councilor Medarda now. Or, at the very least, they're becoming something."

You let out a low whistle, resting your chin against your palm again. "Medarda..." you said with a touch of awe. "Gods, she's gorgeous."

"I know." Viktor replied simply, and though his voice was soft, there was no jealousy there. Just acknowledgment. Like someone quietly accepting that the stars had aligned for someone else, not for him.

But you didn't like that sense of finality. Not entirely.

"You don't know what the future holds." you said, more gently this time. "And you don't know how he really feels about you. Maybe it's not over. Maybe the two of you get to live that cliché, you know, the one where the brilliant minds, best friends for years, suddenly realize it was love all along."

Viktor gave a skeptical hum, but you noticed how he didn't immediately shoot it down. He just stared at the contents of the box for a moment longer before he started taking things out of the medical kit inside. "I don't put much stock in clichés."

"Maybe not." you murmured. "But some of them exist for a reason."

Viktor didn't respond to your last comment. Not verbally, anyway. He simply rolled his eyes in that quiet, exasperated way and let out a short sigh, returning his focus to the task in front of him. He resumed organizing the tools on the table—syringes, vials, gauze, bottles—and you watched in silence as he moved with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He was methodical, almost surgical, in the way he handled the sterilization process. Each instrument cleaned, checked, set down on a fresh cloth in perfect order. There was a rhythm to it—careful, almost reverent. You found yourself quietly impressed, despite yourself. For someone who claimed medicine wasn't his field, he was far too comfortable with the tools of it. Part of you started to suspect that might've been a lie of convenience—or maybe just an old truth that had evolved with necessity.

You were lost in that thought when his voice broke the silence again—low and calm, as always. It took a second to register that he had asked something.

"Hm?" you blinked, turning your eyes back toward him. "What was that? Can you repeat it?"

He didn't look at you immediately—still adjusting a few needles into a tray. But his voice was clear. "The little girl you mentioned on the bridge... She's your daughter?"

There was no hesitation in your reply.

"Yes." you said, the word sharp with certainty. "But I have two. The other one is still with Silco."

The moment those words left your mouth, you felt the weight of them settle into the room like a cold draft. Viktor's entire demeanor shifted.

His hands stilled mid-motion. His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you'd walked into his apartment, he abandoned his careful rhythm. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, something deeper than curiosity flickering behind them—concern. Genuine. Immediate.

"Kidnapped?"

"No, he's her father."

You knew full well what that would imply—especially without context. That both girls were Silco's biological daughters. That you and Silco had once built a life, a family, together. And maybe, in some fractured, bloodstained way, you had. But you didn't correct Viktor. You didn't feel the need to clarify that truth. Let him assume what he wanted.

It was easier that way. Fewer explanations of the troubled relationship with Vander, Silco and the girls.

"When Violet is healed, I'm going to get Powder back and I'll take them both somewhere far from here. Far from him."

You could hear the strain in your own voice now—the tension sitting just beneath the surface like a dam about to break. You didn't want to think about how many times you'd played that plan over in your head, how many nights it had been the only thing keeping you from drowning.

Viktor didn't interrupt. He just watched you, those sharp amber eyes scanning every nuance of your expression like he was decoding something far more complex than an equation.

"Do you have contact with the girl? The one who's with Silco?"

You shook your head, bitter and resigned. "Not since I left Zaun."

The silence that followed stretched long and tense. Viktor hadn't moved. His gaze was still locked on you, but it had shifted—no longer analyzing, now... searching. Like you were a puzzle with one missing piece and he was trying to figure out where it belonged.

And then, without warning, something changed.

His expression sharpened. The gold in his eyes lit up—not metaphorically, literally, like a filament catching fire behind them. You recognized that look instantly. It was the look of a mind clicking into motion.

"I think... I know how to help you reunite with your daughter."

Part 26

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Our boy finally made his appearance! After all these setup chapters, he’s finally stepping into the plot. Keep in mind, this is Act 1 Viktor from Season 1—still "healthy", still sharp, and not yet drowning in existential dread. The Hextech is still in its research phase, so Jayce isn’t exactly the Golden Boy of Progress just yet. Also… what did you all think of Silco’s dream, huh? Next chapter comes with a special narration. Any guesses on who it’ll be?

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#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #reader insert #silco x reader #silco x you #minors dni #no beta we die like silco

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goblinontour · 4 months ago

Text

L.A. Is In Flames, It’s Getting Hot

divorce babe, divorce.

warnings: fingers, mouths, and main parts, all meeting in public (kind of)

word count: 9.1k

He was not the chosen one, it seemed.

And perhaps, all along, in the quiet of those nights thick with pathos, he had known — somewhere beneath the weight of fleeting euphoria, in the hollow of his chest and the sharp ache of his solitude — that she would leave, sooner or later. It was written into the fabric of their arrangement, into the way they always parted with the morning, with the sun spilling in unwelcome through half-drawn curtains. And yet, every night, they found each other again, bound not by words but by some unspoken agreement, some quiet resignation. Shy limbs tangled beneath the sheets, bodies whispering what lips refused to say, only the hush of breath and hesitancy.

A cycle, a ritual, a love story with missing pages.

He would have loved her for as long as she had life in her, if only she had let him be hers. But it just wasn’t meant to be, like some things were, no matter how much longing pressed against the bones. He needed to let go. The inevitability of it was something he had made peace with in theory, though not in practice. It could have been different. It wasn’t.

His stubbornness was not the dignified, noble kind. It was self-sabotage wrapped in a thin veil of restraint, an excessive self-repression born of a lack of confidence so ingrained it had become a second skin disguised as indifference, wrapped in layers of detachment. Or so he’d been told. Oppositions, paradoxically, helped in mapping out the meaning of that — strength against fragility, certainty against doubt, love against longing. They were what defined him, the push and pull of things shaping the jagged edges of who he was.

And so he had learned not to force a narrative where there was none.

He had long since given up on imposing any kind of linear structure to his life. It was not a seamless arc. His days and nights unfolded in fragments, in fleeting vignettes loosely stitched together by what, at best, could be described as moments that felt significant at the time but, in retrospect, were merely a bunch of personal recollections. A diary of observations and impressions rather than events. Traces caught though never quite forming a whole. He lived not through grand happenings but through the fragments that lingered — turns of phrase, echoes of his own experiences, quoting them to himself like lines from a half-forgotten script he’d learned to follow.

He needed to leave. He needed to get out.

The places that had once formed his world had grown too small, too familiar, pressing in on him with a kind of claustrophobic nostalgia. In the sprawl of concrete, in the jungle of cities that he had to choose from, he chose to go back in time. He chose Los Angeles, a place where everything stretched out endlessly, where time felt less like a rigid sequence and more like something fluid, dissolving beneath the unrelenting sun.

His solicitors back home could handle the practicalities. He had no patience for all the technicalities, for paperwork and signatures and logistics, and no interest in the intricacies of transition.

What he longed for was escape, the slow, unhurried languor of a place where heat settled into your skin and never quite let go. There was something indulgent, almost luxurious, about this phase he was in — a season of slowness, of drifting. Tiredness and inactivity were no longer states to be resisted but to be embraced. These things suited him now. And seemed especially pleasurable as a particular kind of exhaustion had settled into his bones, the kind that made stillness feel like relief rather than restlessness.

He couldn’t say, with any real conviction, that he thought himself immune to the sum of statistics working against him. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he’d be the exception to the rule, the sole outlier. But still, for some inexplicable reason — some foolish, persistent shred of hope he held onto — a small part of him believed that maybe, just maybe, things could have been different. Looking back, it seemed almost laughable. Redundant, even, to have hoped at all. Especially now, with this new status attached to his name and no one left to warm the other side of the bed.

But this was moving on, wasn’t it? That’s what he told himself, at least. Moving on, drifting forward.

His whole being was penetrated by this uninterrupted universe composed of oppressive stillness floating all around, a hush that pressed against his skin and slowed his thoughts to a crawl. Palm-lined streets, the hazy glow of twilight settling over the hills, everything felt like a dream he wasn’t fully awake for. It was different from the quiet he had known before. It wasn’t the absence of noise but the presence of something being there in ways he couldn’t articulate.

Moving on. That’s what he was doing. Yes, moving on.

The afternoons here were hot, and quiet, and unbearably heavy, thick with a kind of peace that made his brain sluggish and his blood run thinner on nights when he sought solace in substances or found himself under the influence of some narcotic draft or another. Even the air itself was intoxicating, laced with the kind of languid indifference that made it easy to surrender to one’s vices. Some nights, he let himself sink into it. Other nights, he chased oblivion. The walls of his existence blurred, the ache of his existence softened, dissolved in the haze.

Maybe it was different. Maybe he was different. Or maybe this was what it had always been like, and he was only now beginning to notice.

Perhaps it all depended on the moment. His mood. His state of mind. Or whatever was left of it.

This day, too, was lethal. The heat gnawed at the edges of consciousness, thick and shimmering. No sunglasses, no matter how dark the lenses, could cut back on the glare. The light ricocheted off every surface, searing into his skull, making his temples pulse. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, dampened the collar of his shirt, and rolled down his back in slow streaks that tickled. He thought he heard a fly circling near his forehead, its insistent buzzing drilling into his ears. When it finally dipped into his field of vision, he noticed that even the fly seemed tired, its wings slicing the air in lazy arcs.

That was the tranquility he had been chasing — the slow-motion existence, the unhurried drift towards superfluity that he had stumbled into without even meaning to. The balance between presence and detachment was something he had spent years trying to cultivate, but here, it was seemingly forced upon him. The keys to that narrow corridor of not too much, but just enough, weren’t always attainable — certainly not easily — but now they had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, slammed there without him even asking, without him even opening his palm to catch them.

Alex had a sick sixth sense that he might have turned into a ghost, a pawn aimlessly wandering the land of the living. Just another transparent figure slipping through the heatwaves, unnoticed except for the brief, confused glances of strangers. But that had to be a stupid thought. Just dumb. This was simply how things felt when the sun burned this fiercely, when the day was this hot and golden, when there was no fog or drizzle to dampen the edges of his anxiety.

He had grown so accustomed to the perpetually gray cold across the ocean that this brightness, this exposed, relentless clarity, left him unguarded and maybe even the slightest bit vulnerable.

He was wearing swimsuit bottoms under his linen pants, though he wasn’t quite sure why he had even bothered with the latter. People here walked around shirtless, parading their sun-bronzed shoulders and sweat-slicked skin with the kind of easy confidence that still felt foreign to him. Short-shorts, sunglasses, nothing else — no one batted an eye. He couldn’t bring himself to fully adopt that kind of effortlessness. There was something reluctant ingrained in him that made him cover up even when there was no need.

When he stepped out of his car the heat pressed against him like a living thing, wrapping around his limbs, making the fabric of his shirt feel even more suffocating.

A boy — no, a young man, though nowhere near his own age — stood a short distance away, watching him. Recognition flickered across the kid’s face, a spark of excitement that made his posture shift, his movements quicken. He approached with a kind of nervous energy, eyes bright with the thrill of proximity to someone he’d only seen through screens and speakers.

“Can I get a picture?”

Alex felt his face tighten before he could stop it, an involuntary grimace passing over his features. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He barely even remembered what being in the mood for this felt like. But still, some residual politeness lingered in him, enough to form a half-hearted apology as he declined. The boy’s disappointment was instant and poorly disguised. The fake “Sorry” that followed was laced with irritation, the enthusiasm bleeding out of him in real time, right before his eyes. “No worries.” Alex offered, forcing a small smile, a weak peace offering.

He stepped away, deflated, retreating back into the anonymity of the street.

He was trying to be good, Alex realised. Just trying to be good. As if it would matter whether or not he smiled at some kid he would likely never see again, hopefully. As if this small act of civility could somehow tip the cosmic scales in his favor, inch him closer to whatever quiet redemption he was hoping for.

He still felt preposterous, caught in the surreal loop of his own making, trapped in this strange, psychedelic orbit where everything was both too real and not real at all.

Alex needed to sit in one place and try — really try — to think. To figure out what to do, or how to exist, or at the very least, how to pass the next few hours without feeling like a ghost in broad daylight. That’s what he had come to the beach for.

He walked barefoot through the scorching sand, every step a sharp, fleeting pain as the heat licked at the soles of his feet. He didn’t hurry, though. Maybe he liked the burn a little. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to avoid it. When he found a patch of unclaimed land, he laid his towel down, then let himself drop onto it, the sun instantly pressing down on him like a blanket made of light.

He took his pants off then, kicking them aside, leaving just the trunks. Of course, he kept the trunks. The salt-sticky fabric clung to his thighs as he let his shirt slip from his shoulders. His skin, slick with sweat, caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly before the heat began to dry it, the salt tightening over him in an invisible film.

For a moment, it was almost pleasant — this exposure, the surrender to the elements.

He stretched out, legs extended, holding himself up on his elbows just enough to keep his head raised, staring ahead at the horizon. That lasted all of two minutes before the restlessness kicked in, crawling under his skin, making him ache for something to touch, to turn over in his hands, to handle.

He dug through his bag, fingers brushing past tangled wires and loose receipts before closing around the stiff fabric of his baseball cap — the one with the big L.A. embroidered across the front, a souvenir of sorts, or maybe just an unspoken agreement to go with the flow, to blend in with the passions of the people here — he pulled it onto his head, adjusting the brim low over his eyes. It helped against the glare, a little. At the very least, it gave his hair a break from getting fried and frayed, more than it already was.

Still restless, he reached back into the tote and pulled out the one book he had brought with him on the flight out here. A slim thing, no more than 150 pages, give or take. He had read half of it on the plane, in between bouts of staring out the window, fidgeting, and drifting in and out of sleep. Since landing, though, he hadn’t read much of anything other than road signs and menus.

He flipped it open and found his place, his eyes scanning over the same paragraph three times before the words actually registered. He slapped at an unidentifiable pest that landed on his stomach, turned the page, shifted onto his side. God, his skin already felt too hot, the heat sinking into him with an almost predatory impatience. It was starting to burn. He rummaged through his bag again, searching for some kind of relief, and came up empty-handed. Who forgets sunscreen at the beach?

Something to read was useful, if nothing else was. A visible, obvious task, something to make his presence here feel less strange. Like he had some kind of purpose and wasn’t just drifting through someone else’s landscape.

He abandoned it the moment a rare breeze ghosted over him, a brief mercy in the stifling heat. Better than nothing.

He had assumed there would be more to do here, for some reason. A stupid assumption, considering he had come here to do nothing. But now, lying there, the sand clinging to his arms and the sun blurring the edges of his thoughts, he realised how little there really was.

That’s when he saw you.

It took a second for his brain to catch up with his eyes. A figure like you, here, alone — it didn’t quite compute. Something about it didn’t look right, or at least, didn’t fit. You seemed too cultivated, too old-fashioned for this place, like you had been plucked from a different story and dropped into this one by accident, his.

Or maybe that was just him projecting.

You saw him staring long before he realised it.

Maybe it was the hat, tilted just so, or the oversized blocky sunglasses that made him think you couldn’t see him nodding his head slightly, or maybe just a little bit of wishful thinking on his part — like if he moved slow enough, casual enough, his staring at you would just pass through you, unnoticed. Of course you noticed. His motion was small, barely more than a twitch of his chin, but it was there. The up-and-down, the once-over. Not leering, not obvious, just…surveying. Testing the waters, casually enough that his gaze could slip past you like sunlight through the gaps in a straw hat.

Foolish, foolish men.

You sat on one of the loungers, no towel like he had, legs stretched out, languid, lazy. It just so happened to be angled in his direction—more or less.

You didn’t have a towel like he did. Just sat back on one of the loungers, stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle, comfortably at ease. Languid and lazy. The lounger just so happened to be angled in his general direction, more or less. Could be a coincidence. Could not be. Either way, it didn’t matter now. It was coincidental enough to maintain plausible deniability, but intentional enough to make things interesting.

He was wearing striped shorts — white and blue, or green, it was hard to tell through the glare of the heat. Classic boater stripes, nonetheless. Like something torn from the pages of an old Riviera holiday catalogue. A salmon-coloured shirt lay thrown next to him, carelessly abandoned and wrinkled in the sand, like he’d shrugged it off mid-thought. And then, of course, there was the hat — the obvious one, the one that screamed yeah, I get it, I live here now, see? I belong, don’t I? — and the sunglasses that swallowed half his face. But you caught glimpses beneath them. Pieces of dark hair curling out from under the brim, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead in the places the sun had already started working on him.

There were a lot of older men here. The beach was full of them. Weathered, sun-baked pieces of meat, their skin burnt to the same rust color as their baggy, oversized swim trunks. Men who had spent too many years in too many places like this, drinking something cold and expensive on terraces that smelled like salt and citrus.

He wasn’t like them.

Slim, lean in the way that wasn’t intentionally forced but just…happened. Enough that the lines and shapes of him pressed faintly against the surface of his skin when he moved — on his arms, his forearms especially, strained just a smidge from the way he held himself up, and lower, just above the waistband of his shorts, where you caught the soft definition of his abdomen when he stretched out, ridges and valleys, catching the light just right. And a faint line of hair, an invitation, a suggestion. Dark and narrow, pointing downward, heading you to look south.

Interesting.

He saw you look. You saw him look. He saw that you saw him look.

He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

How old were you? Mid-twenties? Maybe younger. Maybe older. Hard to say. Hard to tell. Hard to gauge women’s ages these days. Wouldn’t be polite to ask, even if he wanted to. That was a question he wouldn’t dare to mess with, because, regardless if he could get away with it or not, there was something inelegant about trying to pin a number to a woman like you. Some things were better left unknown.

Love, lust, integrity, deceit.

The four horsemen of his own personal apocalypse.

A recipe for disaster or a hell of a good time, depending on how you mixed them. He was laundered by nostalgia looking at you, though he couldn’t quite put a name to the memory. Just a feeling. A sense of, hmm…before.

He could come up to you. Could walk across the sand, close the distance, say something. Anything. He used to be good at that. Used to know what to do with himself in situations like this. But lately, the idea of committing to anything — even something as small as a conversation — felt impossible. His newly found unwillingness to put faith into things kept him anchored in place, stretched out on his towel like a relic waiting to be uncovered. And so he stayed where he was, stuck in the stillness of the moment.

Somehow, despite the distance, despite everything — here, now — unconscious fantasy began.

You were cast in shadow beneath your umbrella, untouched by the sun’s brutal attention. That alone made him jealous. Was it insane to think he could already taste you on his tongue? Like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of something sweet. The thought sat heavy in his mouth, something slow and melting, something indulgent. Thick like honey.

You knew what he was thinking by the way his breathing shifted — nothing dramatic, just a change in rhythm, a fraction of a second faster, his belly rising and falling a smidge more than before but in a way that no longer matched the rest of the world. A sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. His shorts grew tighter. Barely. Just enough to notice, if you were paying attention, which you were.

Were you perverted for wanting it? For wanting to feel the heat of his breath against you, to let his lips press against the places where the sun had burned, to cool you down in the slowest way possible with the wet drag of his mouth? Would he be hotter than the sun itself?

Reality bent.

The two of you were in your own realm. The sand, the sky, the waves…Get gone! You were in a private orbit. A closed circuit humming.

You waved your fingers at him, a flick of your hand, casual, easy. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you moved your features. He saw it, registered it, but wasn’t sure how to interpret it — was it a greeting? A beckon? A tease? You spoke to him without a single word, through the minute shifts in your expression, through the way your lips twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Just…something. Too subtle for most, but not for him.

Okay, maybe for him too, because you did it so subtly that you got him doubting himself and wondering if he was imagining things.

He got flustered. You could see it, the way he stiffened, then tried to cover it up, shifting where he lay as if adjusting for comfort. His fingers twitched briefly at his side, digging lightly into the towel beneath him. He was trying to follow along, trying to make sense of whatever was happening between you, trying to grasp at some solid ground in the shifting, unpredictable landscape you’d laid out for him.

Any glitch in the usual order of things, any deviation from the expected social script, tended to make people uneasy. Knock them off balance. And he was off balance, no doubt about it.

But it made you amused.

Even the barest touch — a glancing brush at his elbow, a whisper of a squeeze on his arm — could short-circuit any lingering wariness right out of him. But you didn’t even need to touch him. You did it with your eyes. A look with just enough weight to it, enough gravity, and suddenly, just like that, he was newly suggestible, eager to find steady footing in whatever story you were about to offer him.

You had come to learn that men, as it turned out, did not mind being approached by a young woman — at least, not usually. And he certainly didn’t. He wasn’t the type to second-guess a situation like this, wasn’t immediately suspicious of your motives, didn’t consider that anything about this moment might be murky or unclear. His own vanity — whether he acknowledged it or not — likely allowed for the possibility that you had simply been drawn to him, swept in by the sheer force of his…his everything.

He leaned back on the towel, stretching out like some chiseled, sun-drenched idol, relaxed but still thrumming with something like anticipation beneath his carefully nonchalant exterior. He was watching you approach, watching the way you moved, the way your gaze didn’t waver and you let him see the hunger in your eyes. He liked that. It was irresistible.

Your imperturbability impressed the hell out of him.

“Hot out here,” he said, voice slow, low, a little lazy. “isn’t it?”

How many times had he already said that today? A useless thing to say, obviously, a space-filler meant to keep his mouth moving while the rest of him tried to figure you out.

“Very exciting, right?” You humored him, dryly amused.

He laughed, soft, breathy. “Oh, yes.”

Always interesting, this moment of possibility, this moment right before things changed. You smiled at him without looking away, despite the fact that his own smile shone brighter than the sun itself — and now you really suspected he’d be hotter than it too.

That was often all it took.

“You’re in trouble, sir.” you teased, tilting your head to let the words drip slow and sweet from your tongue.

He played into it easily. “Am I?” He had nothing more to lose.

And then — his skin. He noticed it when you touched him. And then, the moment broke — just a smidge — when he noticed, fuck, my skin hurts. A sharp sting ghosted over him when you touched a spot. You grabbed his poor, sunburnt shoulder and it screamed at him. He tried not to flinch. He kept his mouth shut.

“No swimming, or…laying, without sunscreen. Don’t you know?”

He exhaled a laugh, twiddling grains of sand between his fingers. He avoided eye contact at times, for a second here and there, which only made you crave it more — to see those dark lashes flutter beneath his dark lenses, to make him look at you and stay there.

“Forgot it in my car.” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “Too eager to get out here ‘n all. You have any?”

“As it just so happened,” you said, “I ran out.” Then, without much thought, you planted your hands on either side of him, leaning over slightly. He felt the heat of your skin through there and its effect through the thin fabric of his shorts. “I could ask around for some.” you offered.

He took a quick gander around, scanning the beach — mostly strangers, half of them probably carrying what he needed, but none of them nearly as interesting as you.

“Let’s actually go to my car,” he suggested, “if you don’t mind.” Then he glanced up for you to catch the look in his eyes through the slant of his sunglasses.

You nodded. He nodded.

That was that.

Without much else to say, he shoved his things into his bag, slung his shirt over his shoulder, then the tote, keeping the fabric pinned under the strap so it wouldn’t fly away in the occasional breeze.

You followed him through the sand, your feet sinking slightly with every step, then onto the hot concrete of the parking lot. The sun-baked ground burned the soles of your feet, but you didn’t make a sound. Not yet, anyway.

The parking lot was quiet. Empty, almost.

He pushed open the door to his car while you lingered outside, waiting, watching him. Nice vehicle he’s got. Nice ass, too.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t think…” He trailed off as he swept his arm across the passenger seat, clearing it like some flustered host who hadn’t expected company. A handful of empty plastic water bottles crinkled under his grip as he tossed them into the backseat.

You leaned against the frame of the car, stretching your arms above your head for the hell of it, feeling the way the heat rolled off the pavement and onto your skin. The inside of his car, though, was blissfully cool — the air conditioner humming lured you in. A promising relief. And you both knew where this was going. Might as well get on with it.

“Wanna fix me in your car?” you mused. The hunger hurt somewhere low in your belly, too insistent to ignore. You were past the point of subtlety. “Mister mechanic…”

Alex glanced at you, brow slightly lifted, a slow grin curling at the corner of his lips. “You want me to, huh?”

Was he attractive? Attractive enough, you thought. Maybe more than that, considering the way you shifted on your feet, the way your tongue darted out to wet your lips without thinking and how your fingers brushed against your collarbone absentmindedly. He noticed everything.

“Sure, I have time.” you giggled, and he gave you a once-over.

Twice-over.

And another one.

“You’re legal, right?” he asked.

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Do I look like-”

“Just making sure, honey.” he cut in, that teasing drawl back in his voice. “Can never be too safe, can you?”

He could see it written all over your face, the deep longing to touch, to taste, to claim every inch of him. And he let you see his, too.

You grinned at him, stepping just a little closer. “Not too safe.” you agreed, your voice dropping just slightly.

He slid into the passenger seat, adjusting himself. You climbed in after him, your legs draped over his, your body folding into place. A moment later, he was rolling the seat back as far as it would go, his bare back pressing against the warm leather with a quiet hiss of discomfort. He almost wished he had it now, his shirt, except he didn’t, not really. Not when you were here, caging him in with the heat of your skin.

The door shut behind you. No one in, no one out.

The tinted windows kept the sun from pouring in, and in turn kept the two of you hidden from the world. He felt you up and you felt him down, his hands gripping your waist, thumbs pressing lightly into the curve of your hip bones. You turned, reaching for the air-con dials, twisting them cooler. Because God, things were bound to get hot in here.

His fingers traced the hem of your swimsuit, then tugged at the ties, fumbling slightly in his impatience, like he wanted to take his time but didn’t want to waste it. His hands were warm, a little rough, and when he finally moved them lower, you gasped, the sound soft, barely there.

The first press of his fingers startled you, but it was good — good enough to make you move against his hand, chasing the feeling. His lips parted slightly, eyes flicking up to yours.

“You’re all wet.” he murmured.

You leaned in, let your skin slide against his, the sheen of sweat on his chest meeting yours. “You’re all sweaty.” you countered, voice light, teasing, even though the fact was only making you more aware of him.

You reached up and ruffled his hair. He softened instantly beneath your touch, eyes fluttering briefly closed. The gesture was so simple, so genuine, that it caught him off guard. He knew, in that moment, that he was yours for the taking.

And you took.

His hand moved over you, mapping you out, learning you. You gasped when he found the right spot, and his smirk deepened, pleased with himself. The movement continued both on the outside and on the inside. His fingers flexed, pressed deeper, worked against the rhythm of your hips. He moved with intention and instinct. His free hand drifted up, found your chest, pushed the fabric of your swimsuit aside. He grabbed a boob, pinched the special spot. You gasped again, jerking against his touch.

“Booze doesn’t grow your bones.” you mused, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “Or your boner. Did you know that?”

A breathy chuckle, laced with arousal. “Nope, it doesn’t.”

“Have you been drinking?” You played with his hair, twisting small sections between your fingers, tugging just slightly.

His hands faltered for the briefest moment before resuming. He hesitated, then whispered, “Maybe.”

You pulled away just enough to watch his expression, sliding lower between his parted legs. He widened them instinctively, a response as old as time.

“Maybe?” you echoed, eyebrows raised.

He swallowed, shaking his head slightly. “No, no- I don’t know why I said that.” he admitted quickly with a quiet laugh, more at himself than anything. “I haven’t. I’m driving.” He gestured vaguely to the car, as if to say duh.

Fair point.

Your hair was already up, pinned back with a clip he hadn’t even noticed before, but now? Now, he was grateful for it. Less work for him. Less distractions. He had nothing else to hold up but himself — whatever that meant these days.

You ran your hands slowly up his thighs. The hair on his legs stood up, prickling against your fingertips as you went up, from the sharp angles of his knees to the hem of his shorts, dragging your nails lightly through the soft, sparse strands before slipping just a little farther, your fingers teasing at the edge of his waistband. The contrast was intoxicating — soft there, warm and damp with heat everywhere else.

His breath stuttered for just a second. Barely noticeable. You noticed.

Drifting higher, you felt it — hard, twitching beneath the thin fabric. He was already straining against the material, barely containing him. You pressed your palm flat against him, feeling the rigid length beneath your touch, the way he twitched again at even the lightest pressure.

You tilted your head. “Are you nervous?”

Another slow, teasing stroke over his shorts, feeling the heat of him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his voice came out quieter than before.

“Maybe.”

His cock gave another twitch.

“You are nervous.” you teased, voice just above a whisper, dipping your head closer, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

Alex let out a quiet, shaky laugh, but there was no real amusement in it — just anticipation, tension wound so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t already come apart at the seams.

“Yeah, yeah…maybe.”

His hips shifted beneath you, an instinctual, seeking movement. You felt the shape of him more clearly now, the way he throbbed, begging for relief. You hummed, dragging your nails lightly up his thighs again, just to feel the way he twitched in response.

“Maybe…” you echoed, letting your fingers slip inside. “We should do something about that.”

You followed that up by pulling his shorts down, fingers brushing the warmth of his skin as you exposed him. And — damn. It wasn’t just the size of him that caught your attention, though yeah, that was impressive. It was how he twitched in your hand, like he was waving hello or something, how he pulsed against your palm like he had his own heartbeat, he was as eager for this as you were.

“Jesus…” you muttered under your breath, giving him a testing squeeze, eyes still glued to the way he filled your hand, the way his cock sat heavy and full, almost impossibly so. “Look at the size of that thing.”

Alex let out this breathy little laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, shifting slightly, adjusting himself in his seat like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put his hands now.

You let go just to watch it bounce up against his stomach, stiff and so ready. His body had made up its mind before his brain even had a chance to catch up. “Means your dick’s big.” you said, not even pretending to be shy about it. He was so hard, it made your mouth water.

He grinned, resting his head back against the seat and giving you an almost appreciative look. “Too big?” he asked, his voice dropping a little, wishing you would say it, to confirm his own sense of self-importance.

You bit your lip, fingers trailing along the length of him. “Not too big. Just right.”

“Good, good. Would hate to disappoint.”

You grinned, wrapping your fingers around him properly this time. “Yeah,” you mused, “don’t think that’s gonna be a problem, baby.” You leaned forward, lips brushing over him, a soft touch at first, just enough to make him shiver.

His hands stayed planted by his sides, he was giving himself to you fully. There was no guard in his posture, no effort to hide his eagerness. His jaw tightened, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he let you do whatever you wanted. His legs spread slightly, daring you to do more, take that next step, whatever that next step might be. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his body practically burning under your touch. You couldn’t help but look up at him through your lashes, letting that connection linger for a moment longer than necessary.

“Go ahead.” he said, “Show me what you want to do with me.”

Still gripping nothing but the hot leather of the seat, he was patient, but as your mouth worked him over, he started to falter. His breath hitched, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he bit his lip. Holding back was something he had trained himself to do. His knuckles went white against the upholstery when you took him down again and his thighs tensed when you swallowed around him.

You sucked him however you wanted, and that was deep and slow. He tasted like sweat, and sweat had never tasted better than in this moment. You weren’t in any rush. You took your time, savouring the weight of him in your mouth, the way the tip of him pulsed. He was leaking somewhere in the back of your throat, faint and warm, and you knew, just knew, he was fighting a losing battle. He was struggling not to let out too many sounds. His lip was caught between his teeth. Every once in a while, the smallest sound would slip past his lips — half a groan, half a whimper, barely there, but enough to make your core tighten in response.

You could feel him getting close from the way he was swelling inside your mouth, how his hips started to lift ever so slightly, like he was trying not to fuck into the heat of you. And in an embarrassingly short amount of time — which he was painfully aware of — he reached his limit.

“Shit-” he ground out, brows furrowing as he pushed at your shoulder, pulling you off him before he could lose it completely.

Your lips left him with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva still connecting you for a second before it broke. His cock slipped, flushed, slick, still twitching against his stomach as he tried to regain some semblance of control. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, watching him as he exhaled sharply, running a shaky hand through his damp hair. His head fell back against the seat, chest rising and falling, a dazed expression overtaking his face as he exhaled hard through his nose. His sunglasses had slid down a little, and through the gap between them and his flushed cheeks, you could see his eyes — dark, blown-out, watching you like he was trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened to him.

“Fuck.”

He squeezed himself at the base, groaning softly as he tried to regain control, blinking down at you.

“Are you okay, uh…?” You didn’t even ask for his name, you now realised.

“Alex.” A bit late, considering you’d both been familiarised with each other’s bits already, but better late than never. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. You’re…you’re very good at that.”

“I’ve been told.” You soothed the poor guy by rubbing his thighs, still warm under your palms, still trembling just a smidge. He was stroking himself, or more like squeezing the fuck out of his dick so he didn’t come on the spot.

“Have you?” he asked, breathless. You nodded. “I’m not surprised, hun.”

“I don’t think you were ready for this.” you whispered.

He smirked wider. “I think I’ll survive.”

The next move was obvious.

You were back to having him in your mouth, lips stretching around him, your tongue gliding over every inch with an unhurried sort of devotion. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists against the seat like he was fighting the instinct to grab onto you, to guide you deeper, but he didn’t. He let you have control, let you take him the way you wanted.

Despite his best efforts — his held breath, his bitten lip, his quiet curses muttered into the humid air — Alex still finished inside your mouth. A shudder rolled up his spine as his cock pulsed against your tongue. You felt him unravel, tasted the salt of him as you swallowed.

You didn’t stop.

You kept your lips wrapped around the flushed, sensitive tip, swirling your tongue in lazy circles, coaxing the aftershocks from him. His stomach tensed, a strained noise escaping the back of his throat. It was almost too much.

Almost.

But this was like your own scoop of ice cream. Just like one, it started dripping, and you didn’t seem in any rush to pull away. You licked a slow stripe up his length, dragging the flat of your tongue across the underside.

When you looked up, you saw Alex watching you.

“Is it too much? Do you want me to stop?”

Did he?

He didn’t seem too concerned either way, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hand running absently over his stomach, smearing the sheen of sweat that had gathered there. He exhaled through his nose, blinking down at you.

“I’m…it’s fine.” he said. His hand drifted lazily to his cock, giving it a slow stroke, seeing just how much he had left in him. “I’m still hard, if you wanna…”

His words trailed off, but his meaning was obvious.

You lifted a brow. “How was the blowjob?”

Alex let out a breathless laugh, rubbing his thumb over his swollen tip. “Come sit on me?”

He’d just discovered he wanted something more and wasn’t sure how to ask for it. You stretched up, wiping the traces of spit and everything else from your face, smirking when you saw the way his eyes followed your every movement. He was rubbing his crotch with one hand, the other gathering the strands of your hair that had fallen loose in the heat of it all. Somewhere in the middle of this, he’d found a confidence he hadn’t had before, something in him clicking into place. Maybe it was the way you looked at him.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he wanted more.

“Please?”

You didn’t hesitate any longer. Why would you? The heat between you had already sunk deep into your bones, made a home in the space between your breaths, in the places where your skin had already met his. This was inevitable.

Alex was still holding himself, fingers wrapped tight around his own restraint, and it made you smile. A man like him, all sharp wit and careless charm, reduced to this — gritting his teeth like he was afraid he’d spill again before you even got to the good part.

“You sure about that?” you teased. “You’re looking a little…overwhelmed.”

“Get on top of it. You think I can’t handle you?”

“I think,” you leaned in close, lips brushing the corner of his jaw as your hand ghosted up his stomach, fingers tracing the sweat-damp lines of muscle, “you’re holding back.”

And you were right. His whole body was humming with it, with that careful self-control, with the way he was teetering on the edge, trying so fucking hard not to let go just yet.

But you weren’t interested in patience.

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his length, prying his own fingers away from the base. He let you. Let you take over, let you guide the next move, let his head tip back against the seat with a deep, shuddering breath when you pressed him against the heat between your legs.

His hands finally found your hips, fingers digging in like he needed something to anchor himself to. “Jesus.” he muttered.

“Shh…” you soothed, pressing a finger against his lips, watching as his eyes darkened, as his tongue flicked out to taste your fingertip, as his resolve finally started to crack. “You’re all sticky.”

“Instead of sticky, how about…” He swallowed, exhaling sharply through his nose because he trying really hard to act normal about this.

“Lubed up?” you offered.

“Greased up.” he corrected. “I’m a well-oiled machine.”

You snorted, pressing your palms into his shoulders as you shifted, feeling the way his fingers tightened on your thighs. “Is that what they used to tell you in your prime, old man?”

“Sorry?” His eyes flicked open fully, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. “I’m very much in my prime, sweetheart. I got plenty left in the tank. You wanna test that theory?”

“Already am.” you shot back, rolling your hips.

Alex wished he would have kept his hands to himself. If he touched you more, he might beg. His fingers twitched against your thighs, aching to grab hold, to squeeze, to pull you closer. He chewed his tongue until it swelled, swallowing down every word before it could betray him.

You rode him slowly at first, moving your hips, adjusting to the tight space, feeling every inch of him stretching you, filling you. His head hit the back of the seat with a soft thud, his jaw going slack, a broken curse escaping his lips as you took him all the way in, again and again. He bit your shoulder mid-thrust, a desperate attempt to muffle the groan that built in his throat. You felt the warmth of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark. He pulled out slow, teasing, before pushing back in just to hear you gasp, just to feel you tighten around him.

The pace didn’t last.

It never did.

It was slow until it wasn’t, until you were colliding aggressively, until the small space around you was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breathy moans and quiet curses. The car rocked with your movements, the air thick and humid, sticking to your skin, making everything feel even more desperate.

Vehement shivers ran through your bodies, waves of pleasure cresting higher and higher, building into something unbearable, something that neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

“Jesus- fuck, okay, wait, wait-”

Alex’s voice broke around the words, hands flexing uselessly on your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or pull you down harder. His cock twitched inside you, and the way his face was screwed up in something dangerously close to defeat had you grinning.

“Wait?” You rolled your hips deliberately slow, just to make him squirm, to watch the way his brows furrowed and his mouth parted like he was about to say something but forgot how to form words. “For what, exactly?”

“For me to process what the fuck is happening.” he groaned, blinking up at you with those hazy eyes, half-lidded and barely holding onto focus. “Jesus Christ, you- I don’t even-”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Spit it out, honey.”

Alex exhaled, his breath stuttering when you clenched around him. “You’re evil.”

You grinned. “And you’re still hard.”

“Yeah, no shit, you’re on top of me.” he shot back, then sucked in a sharp breath as you lifted yourself up and sank back down with purpose, making him jolt beneath you. “Oh, fuck- okay, okay, shit, I take it back- you’re, uh, really fucking nice, actually.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, so nice.” His voice cracked, and he let out a choked laugh while his brain was busy going back and forth between God, this is amazing and Holy fuck, I’m gonna die here.

“You look like you’re struggling a bit, mister well-oiled machine.” You dragged your nails lightly over his chest.

“I’m not struggling. I’m- I’m just, uh- managing expectations.”

You cocked your head. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause, uh-” He swallowed thickly, then grinned, lopsided and cocky but nervous all the same. “If you keep that up, I’m gonna embarrass myself real quick, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? That a promise?”

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath before tipping his head forward, pressing his forehead against your collarbone as you moved quicker.

“You are evil.” he groaned.

“Shut up and touch me.” you told him.

He snuck a hand between you and cupped you, fingers pressing in, he already knew how you wanted it. “Here, baby?”

“Yeah, baby.” you teased, lips curling at the way his breath caught.

He knew where to touch anyway. He wasn’t married for nothing. His fingers found the spot, rubbing slow and nice, testing, adjusting to the sounds you made. You clenched around him, and his hips jerked up too.

“That’s good.” you let him know.

“Yeah? You gonna come? Make a mess on me?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The rhythm got messy, all desperation and no restraint, and Alex wasn’t even trying to hold back anymore. His breath hitched, then turned into these low, wrecked noises against your shoulder, muttering, “Shit- fuck- yeah, yeah, just like that, baby, just like that.” His words came out choked, like he was talking more to himself than to you, like he couldn’t believe how good this felt.

His fingers dug into your ass, gripping tight, probably leaving marks — not that you minded. He thrust up, almost frantic now, like he was chasing something he was barely holding onto. And then you clenched around him, hard, squeezing him in just the right way, and that was it.

“Ah- fuck.” he groaned, voice cracking somewhere in the middle, his whole body shuddering beneath you. His hips stuttered, jerking up one last time as he finally lost it, falling apart completely.

He stayed inside you after, cum running out of you and sweat running down the both of you. Breathing heavily, his forehead rested against yours, like he needed a second to come back to earth, just like you did. Everything was connected. Your breaths, your purposes, your spirits. The more present you were, the more you understood that…there was something so sacrilegious about pounding.

“You have any tissues in here?” you asked.

Alex let out a breathy, almost disbelieving chuckle, his hands smoothing over your thighs. “I don’t even care if we’re making a mess in here. That was- Jesus.” His head tipped back against the seat, chest still rising and falling, skin still sticking to the leather in a way that made him grimace slightly. “Fucking hell.”

You smirked, rolling your hips just a fraction, feeling him still inside you, still thick, twitching slightly even in his post-orgasm haze. His hands gripped your waist on instinct, a breath whistling through his teeth.

“Fuck- don’t do that, unless you wanna go again.” he warned, though it didn’t sound he was entirely against the idea.

You just hummed, stretching lazily, making a show of reaching for the little strap of your bikini top that had slid off your shoulder. His eyes tracked the movement, dark and greedy despite the fucked-out exhaustion creeping over his face.

“You’re still inside me, y’know.” you murmured, tilting your head, watching for his reaction.

Alex blinked, then gave you this slow, lopsided grin, hands flexing slightly where they rested on your hips. “Yeah.” he rasped, voice rougher now, like he’d been talking too much, or maybe just moaning too much. “I noticed.”

“You really don’t have any tissues?” you asked, giving him a look.

His grin faltered. “Shit.” he muttered, suddenly looking a little more awake. “Yeah, I think. I mean- I thought I did, but- fuck.” He groaned, glancing around like he could manifest some out of thin air. “Can’t you just like, uh, pull this little thing back over?” He nodded towards your bikini bottoms, his voice a little hopeful.

You stared at him. “Unbelievable. That’s your solution? Just trap it in there?”

He grinned, completely unashamed. “What, you’ve never done that before?”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “Fucking men.”

“Hey, don’t act like it’s not a solid backup plan.” he argued, still grinning. “I mean, what else are we gonna do? Air dry?”

“I could air dry. You, on the other hand…” You reached between you, brushing over the mess still leaking out of you, and dragged your fingers down his stomach.

“Fuck, warn a guy next time.”

You smirked, licking the remnants of your touch off your fingers. “Mm. Salty.”

“God.” he groaned, letting his head fall back dramatically. “You’re the type to ruin a man’s life, aren’t you?”

You just smirked. “You wish I’d ruin your life.”

He huffed. “I might.” Then, more to himself, he muttered, “I definitely should’ve cleaned my car before this.” Alex let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand over his face.

“You didn’t think you’d be getting laid in here today?”

“Not really.” he snorted. “I didn’t think I’d be getting wrecked in here today.” he corrected himself, glancing down at where you still straddled him before meeting your gaze again. He let out another breathless laugh. “Fuck, I’m not even embarrassed to tell you any of this.”

“You should be.”

“Yeah, well.” He grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Too late for that.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “Okay, but seriously, you don’t have anything to clean up with?”

“Uh…hold on.” He reached over, fumbling around in the center console. “I got, like fuckin’…napkins from a drive-thru, maybe?” He pulled out a crumpled stack and held them up with a triumphant little smirk. “Jackpot.” You raised a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it. These things are practically currency.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, shifting off of him with a wince and using one to clean yourself up while he tucked himself back into his shorts. He groaned softly, resting back against the seat, still looking at you like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“I’ve never had sex in a car before.”

You blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “Seriously?”

He lifted his head, giving you an amused look. “Why do you sound so shocked?”

“I mean, look at you.” you said, gesturing vaguely to his still-flushed skin, the way he was sprawled out like he’d just had the life fucked out of him. “You had me fooled.”

He laughed, warm and breathy. “Guess I’m a natural, huh?”

“You…kept up. I’ll give you that.”

“Kept up?” he repeated, scoffing. “Sweetheart, I did more than keep up-”

“Mhmm.”

“That was amazing. Fuck.” He looked you over again. “I should’ve had car sex way sooner.”

“You needed me to show you how it’s done.”

“Mhm…you know, I’m subscribing to the notion that the most unpredictable or unlikely moments are probably the most entertaining.” he said.

“Big dick, big words.” you joked, but there was a softness in your voice, a playful lilt that told him you weren’t brushing it off entirely.

And he felt good. Wrecked, sure, like he’d just been steamrolled in the best possible way, but beneath that, something deeper had settled in his chest. Like a window had been cracked open inside him, letting in some fresh air he hadn’t even realised he needed. He looked at you, taking you in, the way you stretched, rolling your shoulders, lazily adjusting your bikini like nothing had happened and you hadn’t just pulled him apart and put him back together again from a simple look.

He didn’t know what to do with that yet. But fuck, he liked it.

The afternoon would be no more than a ripple in the tide of pleasure that awaited him, a hazy memory soaked in sweat and sun and the lingering press of your hands. But still — it would be something. Something carved into the space between one breath and the next, something he could feel in the ache of his muscles, the rawness of his throat.

A small hiccup.

But wasn’t that where the real fun lived? In the fleeting, the unplanned, the moments that slipped through your fingers even as they left their mark?

a/n: Inspired by this ask. Don’t wanna talk about it. I think I was borderline asleep when I wrote the second half of it and it’s…I don’t know, feels kinda half-assed, but I can’t be bothered to fix it. I like the start though. Anyway, bye.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x oc #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #goblinontour

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