#rust-brown patches

[drsilasaslan]

Blue Textured Decay The image showcases a textured surface featuring shades of blue, white, rust-brown, and dark green, highlighting the beauty of decay and imperfection through peeling paint and intricate patterns. silasAslan.com

[skyriderwednesday]

A tentative classic Rusty?? Idk, the only vibes of him I have rn are Hat and Overalls.

Also corduroy. Apparently Rusty gives me corduroy vibes.

[junojoel]

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 9.4k

Summary: You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, THEN oral (f!receiving), outdoor sex, joel is a widower, sorry i accidentally made it really sad, joel is also soft for reader, and a romantic

this is the product of me playing stardew valley and reading the pumpkin spice cafe. enjoy :)

The city had a way of hollowing a person out.

You realised it the morning you woke up with your cheek pressed against your desk, a half-finished cover letter stuck to your forearm, and the acidic tang of stale coffee burning your throat. Four years of late-night study sessions, unpaid internships, and networking events had earned you a shiny degree and absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The job offers were there if you wanted them. Cubicle farms with fluorescent lighting and managers who'd call you honey in meetings. Apartment leases with paper-thin walls and neighbours who played bass-heavy music at 3am. A life measured in subway delays and happy hours that weren't happy at all.

So when you found the ad for Miller Ranch buried in the classifieds—Help needed. Room and board. Quiet place for quiet souls—you didn't overthink it. You packed your duffel, left a vague note for your roommate, and pointed your car west until the skyscrapers melted into golden fields.

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The ranch wasn't what you expected.

You'd imagined something from a postcard—red barns, cheerful horses, maybe a friendly dog trotting up to greet you. Instead, you found a sprawling property that looked like it had been wrestled from the earth itself. The main house was all rough-hewn logs and a sagging porch, the wood weathered silver by decades of sun. A few outbuildings dotted the land, their roofs patched with rusted tin. And beyond it all, endless stretches of pasture fading into shadowy pines.

You were still sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel, when the screen door creaked open.

He moved like the land did. Slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with anyone else's pace. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, his faded flannel rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scars. His beard was more grey than brown, his hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. But it was his eyes that caught you: dark, assessing, the kind of eyes that had seen too much to be impressed easily.

He studied you with dark eyes that missed nothing. Your clean sneakers, your manicured nails, the way you squinted against the sunlight like you'd never truly seen it before.

"You lost?" His voice was rougher than you expected, like gravel under tires.

You lifted your chin. "Are you Joel Miller?"

"You the one who called about workin' here?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that settled low in your stomach.

You swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh—I emailed last week."

He didn't smile. Just nodded once and stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

You learned fast that Joel Miller didn't waste words.

He showed you the ropes in silence—how to check the fence lines for breaks, how to tell if a horse was favouring a leg, which tools to use when a storm knocked a branch through the chicken coop roof. His hands were always moving, always working, rough fingers handling everything with a care that surprised you.

"You ever done any of this before?" he asked on your third day, watching you struggle to coil a rope properly.

You wiped sweat from your brow. "Does petting a pony at a county fair count?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. "Guess we're startin' from scratch, then."

He didn't baby you, though. When you spilled a bucket of grain, he made you sweep it up. When you misread the clouds and left the hay bales uncovered before a downpour, you spent the next afternoon hauling soggy bundles to the compost. But he never yelled. Never made you feel stupid. Just showed you, again and again, until your hands stopped shaking and your muscles stopped burning.

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You found him in the kitchen at 2 AM, the old percolator hissing on the stove.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, lingering in the doorway.

He didn't turn around. "Old habit. Used to take night shifts checkin' the herds."

You padded closer, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon—he'd been baking earlier, you realized. There was still flour dusting the counter.

"Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Then he reached into the cabinet for a second mug.

You sat at the scarred oak table while he poured, the steam curling between you. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.

"City girl like you," he said suddenly, sliding the coffee toward you. "What made you come out here?"

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin. "Needed to remember what quiet sounded like."

"Why'd you really come out here, darlin'?"

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

You watched the horizon lighten from black to deep blue. "I think... I needed to prove I could."

His knuckles brushed yours as he reached for the bottle. Neither of you moved away.

For the first time, Joel looked at you—really looked at you. And you saw something flicker in his gaze, something warm and understanding.

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The sky turned the colour of a fresh bruise an hour before the twister touched down.

You were repairing the chicken coop roof when the wind kicked up, sending your hammer tumbling into the dirt. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Joel's shout carried across the yard. "Get to the cellar! Now!"

You'd never seen him run before. He moved like a man possessed, boots pounding the hard-packed earth as he closed the distance between you. His arm hooked around your waist just as the first hailstone struck your shoulder, a marble-sized bullet of ice that left your skin throbbing.

The storm cellar doors groaned in protest as Joel wrenched them open. Damp, cool air rushed up to meet you as he practically carried you down the stairs.

Darkness.

Then the single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and, oddly, a stack of well-loved paperbacks.

"You okay?" Joel's hands were suddenly everywhere, tilting your chin up to check your pupils, running down your arms to inspect for injuries, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I'm fine," you breathed, though your heart was trying to escape your chest. "Just... just scared."

The admission hung between you as the storm raged overhead. The bulb flickered again, then died completely, plunging you into blackness.

Joel's voice came from closer than you expected. "Ain't nothin' in this world can hurt you while I'm here."

You reached out blindly, your fingers finding the rough denim of his shirt. His breath hitched as you fisted the fabric.

Somewhere above, the world was ending. Here in the dark, something was beginning.

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The cellar doors groaned as Joel shouldered them open, releasing you both into a world transformed. Dawn painted the ravaged landscape in pale gold, revealing the storm's cruel artistry. A century-old oak now lay uprooted across the north pasture, its massive roots clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fence posts had been plucked from the earth and scattered like straws, barbed wire curling in dangerous spirals across the mud. The chicken coop roof had taken flight, landing thirty yards away in a splintered heap.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. He rotated his left shoulder unconsciously—the old injury from a mustang bucking him off always acted up before rain.

"Gonna need to—"

"Check the livestock first," you finished.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Two months ago you'd asked if cattle could swim during a flash flood. Now you knew ranch priorities.

The work was brutal. By noon, your shirt clung to your back with a mixture of sweat and residual storm humidity. Joel moved with relentless efficiency, his forearms corded with muscle as he wrestled fence posts back into alignment. You watched the way his wedding band caught the sunlight when he wiped his brow, the silver chain glinting against his sun-darkened skin.

At the third post, your blisters burst.

You didn't make a sound, but Joel's head snapped up like he'd heard something. His eyes dropped to your hands, where blood seeped through the leather work gloves.

"Goddammit." He was in front of you in three strides, peeling the ruined gloves off with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the raw flesh of your palm, and you hissed involuntarily.

Joel's mouth tightened. "Should've said something."

"You would've told me to toughen up."

"Would've told you to take a damn break." He rummaged in his saddlebag for the medical kit he always carried. The antiseptic stung, but his hands were steady as he wrapped your palms in gauze. "Stubborn city girl."

The way he said it sounded almost like praise.

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The next week passed in a haze of exhaustion and unexpected discoveries.

You learned that:

A properly sharpened axe sings through wood with a sound like a breath being released

Joel's coffee preferences involved exactly two sugar cubes (never spoonfuls)

Your body could ache in places you didn't know existed

Each evening, Joel would appear at your elbow with some new remedy; a salve made from beeswax and lavender for your sunburn, a stretch to ease the knot between your shoulder blades, a cold beer pressed into your hand with a quiet "You earned it."

Tonight, you found him at the workbench, repairing a bridle by lantern light. The golden glow softened the lines of his face, catching the silver strands in his beard. He didn't look up as you approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly when you set a fresh cup of coffee beside him—two sugars.

"Thanks." His voice was rough from disuse.

You leaned against the bench, close enough to smell leather and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Show me?"

Joel's hands stilled. For a heartbeat, you thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space for you at his side.

"Watch close," he murmured, his shoulder pressing against yours as he demonstrated the intricate stitch. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the needle flashing in the lamplight. "This part's gotta be tight enough to hold, loose enough to flex."

You tried to focus on the technique, but his proximity made concentration impossible. The heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred your hair when he leaned in to correct your grip—

The needle slipped.

"Shit." A bead of blood welled on your thumb.

Joel reacted before you could, catching your wrist. His calloused thumb brushed the droplet away, his mouth set in a hard line. "Ain't paying you to bleed on my tack."

But he didn't let go.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the barn wall—two silhouettes frozen in the amber light, fingers intertwined.

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Betty the nanny goat had taken a disliking to you from day one.

Today, she'd decided to escalate hostilities.

"You're gonna want to—" Joel's warning came too late as you bent to refill the water trough.

Betty's horns connected with your backside with the precision of a missile strike. The world tilted violently as you face-planted into the mud, the entire herd erupting in gleeful bleats that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Strong hands hauled you upright before you could drown in three inches of water. Joel's chest vibrated against your back—the bastard was laughing.

"Told you she don't like people looming over her," he said, voice thick with barely-contained amusement.

You wiped mud from your cheek, glaring. "You could've warned me sooner."

"Where's the fun in that?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, his eyes widening slightly at his own audacity.

Something warm unfurled in your chest. This was new—Joel teasing, letting his guard down. You retaliated by flicking a glob of mud at his shirt.

His jaw dropped. "Did you just—"

The second mudball hit him square in the chest.

For one terrifying second, Joel looked genuinely pissed. Then his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, city girl."

What followed was a mud battle worthy of any childhood memory, complete with strategic retreats behind hay bales and Betty the goat serving as an unwitting double agent. By the time you both collapsed against the fence, breathless and filthy, Joel's laughter rang out clear and unguarded—a sound you'd only heard in fragments before.

The setting sun painted him in gold, his smile lines crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. Mud streaked his cheek, his shirt clung to his torso, and his eyes—

His eyes held yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

The moment stretched, thrumming with something unspoken. Then a cold rivulet of mud slid down your neck, breaking the spell.

Joel cleared his throat, suddenly business-like. "Better clean up before supper." But his fingers lingered on your elbow as he helped you up, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

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The generator sputtered its last breath during the season's first real cold snap.

You found Joel in the living room, already building a fire with the economical movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The flickering light caught the silver in his stubble, the strong line of his nose, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he worked.

"Got extra blankets in the cedar chest," he said without turning.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of the flannel you wore—his flannel, the soft blue one that had been hanging in the hall until you'd "borrowed" it three days ago. The one that smelled faintly of his soap and the woodsmoke that always clung to his clothes.

Joel turned then, freezing when his eyes landed on you. His gaze darkened as it travelled from your bare feet to the oversized cuffs swallowing your hands to the way the fabric draped off one shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second stretching taut between you. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Outside, the wind howled through the pines.

Joel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You—"

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment shattered.

"Should check the livestock," he finished roughly, grabbing his coat with unnecessary force. The door clicked shut behind him with deliberate finality.

You sank onto the couch, pressing your face into the flannel's collar. His scent surrounded you, warm and familiar and utterly intoxicating. Outside, the temperature dropped steadily, but your skin burned as if touched by sunlight.

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The invitation arrived on a Thursday, creased and coffee-stained, delivered by old man Henderson when he came to pick up his repaired plough.

"Annual Harvest Social," the flyer read in looping script. "Music, supper, and dancing at the Grange Hall. All welcome."

You were elbows-deep in soapy dishwater when Joel tossed it onto the counter with a grunt. "Town nonsense," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to your reaction.

You wiped your hands carefully, studying the faded print. "We going?"

The silence stretched so long you thought he hadn't heard. Then:

"You wanna go?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you noticed the way his thumb worried at a callus on his palm.

The image flashed unbidden—Joel in a clean shirt, his large hands warm at your waist, moving to music under paper lanterns. Your throat went dry.

"Could be fun," you managed.

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "I'll dig out my good boots."

The night of the dance, you stood frozen before the hallway mirror, suddenly unsure. The dress—a thrifted floral sundress—felt foreign after months of denim and flannel.

A knock rattled the doorframe.

"Ready or not, we're gonna be—" Joel's voice died abruptly as you turned.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his good white shirt half-buttoned over a clean undershirt, his usual scuffed boots replaced by polished ones. His gaze travelled down your bare legs with the weight of a physical touch before snapping back to your face.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You... uh." He cleared his throat. "We're gonna be late."

The truck ride into town was silent except for the staticky country station and the sound of Joel's fingers tightening rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The Grange Hall glowed like a lantern against the prairie night, alive with fiddle music and laughter. You felt every eye on you as Joel guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back—his touch burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Miller!" A grizzled rancher clapped Joel on the shoulder. "Ain't seen you at one of these in—" His gaze landed on you. "Well I'll be."

Joel's fingers flexed against your spine. "This is—"

"His ranch hand," you supplied, watching the older man's eyebrows climb.

The music shifted then—a slow waltz, all aching strings and longing. Joel stiffened beside you.

Across the room, women whispered behind their hands. You caught snippets—"...that Miller..." "...never brought anyone since..." "...still wears Tess's..."

Joel's jaw clenched. "We should—"

"Dance with me." The words left your lips before you could stop them.

His eyes went wide. "I ain't much for—"

"Please."

Something in your voice broke his resolve. With a shaky exhale, Joel took your hand and led you onto the floor. His right arm slid around your waist, his left hand cradling yours like something precious.

"You're supposed to—"

"Just follow me," he murmured into your hair.

And God help you, you did.

Joel moved with surprising grace for a man who claimed to hate dancing, his body swaying in time to the music. The heat of him surrounded you—the cedar and leather scent of his cologne, the scratch of his collar against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed.

The song ended too soon. Joel made to pull away, but you clung to his hand.

"One more?" you whispered.

In answer, he drew you closer, his lips brushing your temple as the next song began.

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The truck cab was thick with unspoken words as Joel navigated the dark ranch roads. Moonlight painted his profile in silver, catching the tension in his jaw.

"You okay?" you ventured.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Tess loved those dances."

The name hung between you like a ghost. You'd never asked about the wedding band he still wore, about the locked bedroom door at the ranch, about the way he sometimes stared at the horizon like he was waiting for someone.

The truck rolled to a stop outside the darkened house. Joel didn't cut the engine.

"I should tell you about her," he said hoarsely.

You reached across the seat, covering his hand with yours. "Only if you want to."

His fingers turned, intertwining with yours. For a long moment, you sat there in the quiet, two sets of breath fogging the windshield.

Then Joel killed the engine.

You sat in the stillness, your hand wrapped around his, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind through the trees, the hum of the distant creek, and the distant calls of coyotes. For a second, you both just... sat. Neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. The weight of the unspoken words between you felt like an uncharted territory neither of you were willing to navigate just yet.

Joel’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a subconscious comfort more than anything else. His gaze shifted to the darkened ranch house ahead, his eyes narrowing as though the past was pressing in, refusing to let go.

“Tess was…” He started, then paused. The words seemed to choke him for a second. “She was my world, y'know? Before…” He swallowed hard, and you could see his jaw tighten as he forced the rest of it out. “Before she died.”

Your breath caught, the weight of the sudden revelation hanging thick between you. You could feel him pull away into himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were trained somewhere in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular.

“She was the love of my life," Joel continued, his voice low, raw. "We had a house, a future... hell, we had plans. Then…” He trailed off, his hand tightening briefly around the steering wheel, like he was holding onto something for dear life. “She got sick. Fast. One minute, she was fine. The next, she was gone. Just like that."

You stayed quiet, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to ease the weight of that kind of loss. The kind of grief that ran so deep it felt like it might swallow him whole. Joel had always been a man of few words, but this? This was raw.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That it was too late. I kept telling myself I should’ve known... that I should’ve noticed sooner, that maybe I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. And now…” His voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure, even as his hands trembled on the wheel. “Now, it’s just me. And sometimes I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be. Just a guy who lost everything.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching for him. The grief, the loss—it was so much more than you’d ever imagined.

His gaze flicked to you, but only for a moment, before he looked away again, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that told you he was holding himself back from saying more. From letting it all spill out.

“I don’t talk about her much," he muttered, his voice hoarse, like the words had been locked away for far too long. "Tess… she was everything to me. I don’t know how to move on from that. I don’t know if I ever will.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his hand, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on to him, his rough fingers curling against yours as if you were grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

“I’m not asking you to forget her,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand, your voice steady. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, either.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw the rawness of the man behind the rancher—the weight he’d been shouldering for so long, and the part of him that was still fragile, even if he didn’t show it. His eyes softened, though there was still that quiet wariness in his gaze. He hadn’t let go of the past, not entirely, and maybe he never would.

But maybe, just maybe, he could let a little of it slip away.

“You remind me of her,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “The way you... the way you care. Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned in, your hand still holding his. "I'm here, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the truck’s engine and the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world had paused, just for that instant, to let the weight of the moment settle.

Eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the silence with a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “Guess it’s getting late,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure, but his voice was still rough, thick with something unspoken. “We should get inside.”

You both climbed out of the truck, and Joel led the way into the house, his hand brushing against yours once more as you followed him inside. The warmth of the fire hit you immediately, the familiar scent of woodsmoke mingling with the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Joel stopped by the fire, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared into the flames. You stood beside him, not speaking, just being there. A quiet presence, a steady hand in the darkness.

After a long while, Joel spoke again, his voice low. “You remind me of the way things used to be. Before…” He let the sentence trail off, like he didn’t want to finish it.

You didn’t press him. Instead, you simply nodded, letting him find his own pace.

For a while, neither of you said anything, but there was something in the silence now. Something warm. Something that felt like the beginning of something new, something fragile but real.

Eventually, Joel turned toward you, his eyes dark but not empty. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment before he pulled back, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you like that.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. "For listening."

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel quite so alone.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room as the shadows danced across the wooden walls. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt more like a kind of peace settling in around the two of you. Neither of you spoke for a while, as if the silence had become its own conversation.

Joel stood by the fire, staring into the flames, his posture a little less rigid than it had been before. His hand rested on the mantle, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline, but the tension in his body had softened. He looked different somehow, less burdened. Maybe it was the weight of his grief being shared, maybe it was just the comfort of your presence, but something in him had shifted.

You stayed quiet, sitting on the couch, your eyes watching him, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between you. You didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words—it felt like a space where both of you could just be.

But eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the stillness with a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to work through something in his mind.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y’know?” he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself more than to you. “I’ve been running on autopilot for so damn long... Just trying to make it through the day. But lately... everything feels harder.”

You could hear the weight of exhaustion in his voice, the kind that had settled deep in his bones over the years. He wasn’t just tired from the work—he was tired of the constant struggle, of carrying everything on his own.

You stood up slowly, walking over to him. Without saying a word, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough. He stiffened for a second, but then his shoulders relaxed, and he glanced at you, his eyes softening.

“I don’t know how to fix everything for you, Joel,” you said quietly. “I can’t take away the pain, or bring back what you lost... But I’m here. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing you in a different light—maybe not just as someone to lean on, but as someone who was offering him something he hadn’t realised he needed. A way out of the solitude he’d built around himself.

You reached up then, gently cupping his face with your hands. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and his breath hitched for a second, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him there, your eyes locked with his, letting the words settle between you.

“Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm you could sense in him. “Maybe we can just... take it one step at a time.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. And then, almost imperceptibly, Joel leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, like he was allowing himself to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the weight of the past.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were both a confession and a plea. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You smiled gently, your thumbs brushing the roughness of his skin, your heart aching for him. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Joel. You don’t have to fix everything. Just... be here. With me.”

The tension in his body slowly ebbed away, and for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to lean into you. To let someone else carry a small piece of the burden. The moment was fleeting but meaningful, a quiet understanding passing between you both.

“I’m not promising anything, but…” Joel trailed off, his gaze softer now, something more vulnerable creeping into his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start trying. For once.”

You nodded, your heart full of quiet hope, and took a small step closer to him. “One step at a time.”

Joel didn’t answer, but his hand reached for yours, his grip gentle but firm. He didn’t let go when your fingers intertwined. It was a small gesture, but it meant something bigger than words could convey.

The fire crackled again, casting more dancing shadows on the walls, but it felt like the start of something new. Something fragile but real. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were alone either.

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You woke early, as usual, the first light of dawn peeking through the curtains. You could hear Joel already moving around downstairs, the familiar sound of boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the old chair at the kitchen table. You stretched and pulled yourself out of bed, the chill of the room pushing you into motion. It was another busy day ahead—feeding the animals, checking the fences, mending what needed mending—but you found yourself looking forward to it more than you had before.

You made your way downstairs, the aroma of brewing coffee filling the air before you even reached the bottom step. Joel was standing at the stove, his back to you, flipping pancakes in a skillet with an ease that came from years of practice. The warm, golden light of the morning spilled through the windows, making the kitchen glow.

"You’re up early," you said, leaning against the doorframe, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at you, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not much for sleepin’ in." He turned back to the skillet, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Figured I’d get a head start today."

You crossed to the counter, grabbing the mug Joel had already set out for you. "I could get used to this," you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "You know, waking up to pancakes and coffee."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes catching yours for just a second. "Don't get too comfortable. I’m not much of a cook. You might end up makin' these yourself sooner or later."

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around the warm mug. "I think I could manage."

There was an ease in the way the two of you moved around each other now. Where once you’d felt like a stranger in a new world, now it felt... natural. Even the hard work didn’t seem quite so overwhelming anymore. You knew the land better, understood its rhythms, the way it demanded respect without asking for much in return. And Joel—well, Joel was becoming something you hadn’t anticipated. He was still the man of few words, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was a gentleness in him now. A trust.

You sat down at the table, watching him finish cooking, the way his large hands moved so gracefully despite their size. There was a quiet confidence in him now that made your chest tighten, and it wasn’t just because of his strength. It was because, for the first time in a long while, he seemed like he was allowing himself to be here—really here—with you.

"After breakfast," Joel said, setting the last pancake on the stack, "we need to check the horses. Haven’t seen 'em this morning."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee. "Got it. I’ll grab the gear."

The work felt familiar now, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t just about chores anymore—it was a way to connect, to feel part of something larger than yourself. You and Joel worked together, side by side, fixing fences, checking the cattle, and tending to the land. It was a steady rhythm, one that was comforting in its predictability.

By midday, you’d found your stride. You’d mended a tear in the barn roof, helped Joel move hay bales, and checked the water troughs. And when the sky turned to gold with the setting sun, you both found yourselves leaning against the fence, the last light of the day painting everything in warm hues.

Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he shifted, and for a moment, you felt like the world had quieted completely—just the two of you, standing in the vastness of the land you had come to love, connected in a way that felt timeless.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be this comfortable with someone around. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people work with me before, but it’s different with you."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze now—something deeper. "I think I’m finally getting used to the quiet, too," you admitted. "And to you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Joel."

Joel’s lips twitched, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I’m just a stubborn old cowboy," he said with a hint of humor, though there was something more sincere in the way he said it, like he was offering a piece of himself you hadn’t seen before.

You shifted closer, the space between you shrinking. "I don’t mind stubborn," you replied softly. "It’s... kind of endearing."

Joel's smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The evening air was still and cool, the sound of the crickets chirping blending with the distant lowing of the cattle. The world was small here, simple. But somehow, it felt full.

When you reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, your hand grazed Joel’s arm. He stiffened just slightly, and for a heartbeat, you both seemed to hesitate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached out again, this time more deliberately, and placed your hand on his forearm, your fingers lingering.

Joel’s gaze flickered down to where your hand rested, and then back to your face. There was an unspoken understanding between you now—no more games, no more hesitations.

"Don’t go getting any ideas," Joel said, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might end up stickin' around for good."

A light laugh bubbled up from you, and you squeezed his arm. "I’m already stickin' around," you said, your voice more certain.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the horizon as you and Joel made your way back from the creek. The day had been long, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—a quiet contentment that settled in your chest. Now, as the evening light bathed everything in gold, the two of you walked in silence back toward the house. The barn loomed behind you, and the fields stretched out endlessly before you, a peaceful canvas of green and brown.

You were both tired, but there was an energy between you that felt new, something that tugged at the edges of your thoughts. It was the way your heart seemed to race just a little faster every time Joel’s presence shifted around you. The way your breath caught in your throat when you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Joel stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his boots kicking up the dirt, and turned toward you, his face softening in the fading light. The warmth of the day was still lingering in the air, and the world around you seemed to hush, waiting.

“You’ve been here for a while now,” Joel said, his voice low, like he was considering each word carefully. “I’ve seen you adjust. You’ve done more than just fit in. You’ve... become part of this place.”

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quickening at the seriousness in his eyes. "I never thought I’d find a place like this," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "And I never thought I’d meet someone like you."

Joel stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the dirt. His presence felt different now—closer, more intense. He stood just a few feet away, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joel said, his voice softer now, like he was letting down a barrier. “About how much you’ve changed things around here. Not just for the ranch, but... for me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. And in that instant, the world seemed to still, the sounds of the ranch fading into nothing.

With a slight movement, Joel reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. It was a soft, almost tentative gesture, but there was a strength to it, an undeniable certainty in the way his thumb brushed across your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, igniting something that had been slowly building since you arrived.

Before you could think, before the moment could slip away, you leaned in.

Joel’s hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world around you melting away. His lips were warm and insistent, and the gentle pressure of his kiss sent a thrill rushing through you. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the world and all its distractions faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something new, something that had shifted in the space between the two of you.

Joel’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You smiled, your chest full, heart racing. “I think I’ve wanted you to.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “You’re not what I expected, you know that?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, before stepping back just slightly, your fingers brushing his. “Neither are you.”

You were up earlier than usual, moving through the kitchen in a daze of thoughts, your mind still racing from the kiss. The silence of the ranch was comforting, almost like a cocoon, wrapping you up in the stillness of everything around you.

Joel hadn’t said much when you parted ways the night before, but the look in his eyes—intense, yet soft—had told you everything. It was clear that neither of you had expected the shift that had come so naturally, but now, there was no denying it. Whatever had just begun, it wasn’t something you could walk away from.

You heard the soft sound of boots on the porch, the familiar rhythm of Joel’s steps as he made his way toward the house. You turned around just as he entered, the sight of him bringing an unexpected rush of warmth to your chest.

He smiled, a little shy, a little unsure—like he was still figuring out where to stand in all of this. You both were.

“Mornin’,” he greeted softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet sincerity.

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a smile that felt more like home than anything else.

By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was filled with the scent of eggs and bacon, the soft clinking of plates as you set the table.

“Want to head out to the fields later?” Joel asked, his voice casual but with a hint of anticipation.

You nodded, your stomach fluttering with excitement. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel smiled, that familiar warmth returning to his expression.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as you and Joel made your way out into the vast expanse of the ranch. The air had warmed up since the early morning, and there was a gentle breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As you walked beside him, your thoughts drifted back to the peaceful breakfast you’d shared. The conversation had been easy, flowing naturally between you, but there had been something comforting in the silence, too.

When you reached the edge of the field, you stopped, your eyes falling on a patch of grass where Joel had already laid out a blanket. There, in the middle of the field, with nothing but the sounds of nature around you, he had set up a picnic. The scene was simple, but there was something about it that felt intimate, like a secret just for the two of you.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of sharing a meal together only adding to the sense of peace that seemed to settle over you both. After a few moments, Joel reached for the book beside him, holding it out to you with a slight grin.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

You took the book from his hands, glancing at the cover—The Secret Garden. Your heart warmed at the thought of him wanting to share something so personal. It felt like an invitation to step into his world, to see the things he held close.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Joel settled back against the blanket, the sun casting a golden glow over him, and you curled up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The moment felt so simple, but in its simplicity, it was perfect. The world outside this small bubble you had created seemed to fade away as he began to read aloud, his voice deep and steady, the words flowing smoothly into the air.

As he read, you let yourself relax, the sound of his voice weaving a sense of comfort around you. There was something incredibly romantic about the way he read, each word filled with a quiet intensity, like he was sharing a piece of himself with you in each sentence. The book’s story was a good one, the characters coming to life with Joel’s voice, but it wasn’t just the story that held your attention—it was the feeling of being here with him, in this moment, with nothing else to do but listen and be present.

You could hear the occasional breeze stirring the trees, the distant call of a bird, but everything else seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself wrapped up in both the story and in him.

Eventually, Joel turned a page, pausing for a moment as he glanced at you. “You comfortable?” he asked, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

You nodded, lifting your head slightly to look up at him. “I’m perfect,” you said, and it was true. There was no place you’d rather be than here, beside him, feeling the warmth of the day and the gentleness of his presence.

Joel gave you a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned to the book. He continued reading, his voice almost a soothing hum against the backdrop of the quiet ranch. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way he spoke with such focus and care. It was moments like this—quiet, intimate, with no rush—that made everything feel so right.

As the story unfolded, you both became more absorbed in the tale, but time seemed to stretch, becoming less important. The whole world could have passed by, and you wouldn’t have noticed. It was just the two of you, sharing a peaceful day in the fields, wrapped up in a story and in each other.

When Joel finished the chapter, he closed the book and placed it beside him, his hand gently resting on the blanket. He looked over at you, his expression soft.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice a little hushed.

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I did. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of quiet, a small but meaningful silence that held everything you both hadn’t yet said, but didn’t need to. You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your gaze catching his. You could feel the subtle change in the air between you, the quiet understanding that had been building all morning, now palpable.

Slowly, as if it had always been meant to happen, you leaned in, closing the space between you. Joel’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then, without any more words needed, your lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that lingered in your soul long after it ended.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together, both of you breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think I could get used to this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel smiled, his eyes soft with affection as he gazed at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

"You’ve... you’ve got a way of making everything feel a little different," Joel said, his voice catching slightly as he looked into your eyes. The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his words settling between you like a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of something growing deeper between you both.

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. The way he was looking at you now was unlike anything you’d seen before. His gaze was hungry, but not in the way it had been before—this was more. More raw, more real.

You didn’t say anything in response. Instead, you let the tension build, your breath shallow as you reached for him, cupping his jaw gently in your hand. His breath hitched as your thumb traced the line of his jaw, and you couldn’t help but lean in just a little, your lips barely brushing against his.

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the storm that had always been present was even clearer now. You could see the restraint in the way his body was coiled, like a man holding back the tide.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Joel didn’t need any more encouragement. His lips crashed against yours, hot and urgent, a mixture of relief and longing as if he were finally giving in to something he’d held at bay for far too long. The kiss was fierce, as though he were trying to make up for all the time spent keeping his distance.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him with a strength that made your breath hitch. The heat between you two grew, making the air around you seem almost too thick to breathe. You could feel the solid weight of him against you, the way his chest pressed into yours with each kiss, the way his hands wandered across your back, memorising every curve of you.

His lips left yours only long enough for him to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me," Joel murmured, his voice rougher than usual, the words a low growl.

You laughed breathlessly, your hands still resting on his chest. "I think I’m starting to get the idea."

The blanket beneath you was rough against your bare thighs, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as Joel hovered over you, his body casting a shadow that made the gold in his eyes burn even brighter. His lips had just left yours, swollen and wet from the way he’d kissed you—deep, consuming, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, voice rough, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was already fighting the urge to take more.

In answer, you arched up against him, your chest brushing his, and Joel let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips. "Out here like this—anyone could—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding against the hard length of him, and Joel cursed, his restraint snapping.

His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher until his calloused fingers met bare skin. You gasped as he traced the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing, maddening.

"Joel—"

"Tell me what you want," he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before dragging down your neck, teeth scraping lightly.

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shirt. "You. Just you."

That was all it took.

His hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you already wet, already aching for him. He groaned against your throat as he stroked you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips jerked against his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, watching the way your body responded to him. "Look at you."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers worked you with a precision that had your toes curling. But just as you were teetering on the edge, Joel pulled back, leaving you empty, desperate.

Your protest was cut off when his mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided your hand to his belt.

"Wanna feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle, then the button of his jeans, and when you finally freed him, Joel hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking into your touch.

He was thick, hot in your hand, and when you stroked him, his entire body tensed, his grip on your thigh tightening almost to the point of pain.

"Fuck—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "Gonna ruin me."

You smiled, squeezing lightly, and Joel growled, his patience gone.

In one swift motion, he yanked your underwear aside and pushed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Joel stilled, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, his voice strained.

Joel's breath was fire against your neck, his body trembling with restraint as he waited for your answer.

"More than okay," you gasped, arching into him, needing him deeper.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joel moved with a roughness that stole your breath—deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jaw clenched tight with pleasure. The sight of him—undone, wrecked, yours—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

"Joel—"

"Know what you do to me?" he rasped, his thrusts turning slower, deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you. "Fuckin' ruin me."

You clenched around him, and his control snapped.

With a groan, Joel flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he surged into you, his rhythm turning desperate. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter—until you shattered, crying out his name.

Joel followed with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then Joel exhaled, rough and unsteady, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Christ," he muttered, voice wrecked.

You grinned, still trembling beneath him. "That a complaint?"

Joel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Ain't even close."

His touch gentled as he traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the inside of your thigh—checking, silently, for any discomfort. When he found none, his hand returned to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You good?" The question was gruff, but his eyes—dark and liquid in the low light—held an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Better than good."

Joel’s throat worked. He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, nothing like the frantic heat of before. This was something else—a claiming, a promise, a thank you that didn’t need words.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Gonna take care of you," he murmured, already moving to slide down your body.

You caught his shoulder. "Joel—"

"Shhh." A kiss to your sternum. "Let me."

His mouth was hot as it traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping deliciously. You gasped when his tongue laved over you, slow and thorough, his hands spreading you wide.

"Joel—"

His grip tightened. "Told you," he growled against your skin. "Gonna take my time."

And he did.

By the time he was done, you were boneless and breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair as he crawled back up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the flutter of your pulse.

"Still good?" he asked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your limbs heavy with pleasure.

Joel smirked, that rare, real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"Rest," he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. "I got you."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

As you drifted, Joel reached for the spare blanket, draping it over you both. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—circles, spirals, the occasional brush of his knuckles—as if memorising you by touch.

Joel’s lips brushed your forehead. "Stay?"

Not a command. A question.

You curled closer, your leg hooking over his. "Try and make me leave."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, his arms tightening around you. "Wouldn’t dare."

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in the heat of him, you realised—

You were home.

[valtsv]

bite that which feeds (on) you

"fun" optional design notes (CWs for self harm/mutilation, body horror):

this is meant to be a drawing of VAL having bitten off or otherwise removed her own tongue, but you may also interpret it as a depiction of the canonical suffering she increasingly experienced and tried unsuccessfully to deny while using her power. either way, it's meant to be an act of self harm. this started out as a vent doodle and then i got attached, so i hope you won't hold it against me too much.

i intentionally styled this to look like a “botched” artwork of saintly transfiguration (rather than gazing upwards towards the divine, VAL makes direct eye contact with the viewer, and though she's smiling with a hint of triumph, it's clear she's in terrible pain, and there is no ecstasy or transcendence in her agony, her halo is breaking and rusted) - an anti-hallowing, if you will. however, the connection to her hallowing cannot entirely be subverted and ignored - the barbed wire, though tarnished, still surrounds her in vicious broken tangles that snag on her clothes and hair; she's still soaked in blood, if only her own. she cannot truly escape it - not through further violence, at least.

i dressed VAL in clothes that are an inversion of my "default" outfit for her, ie: her battle-saint uniform. instead of a collared shirt (for some semblance of formality despite her position as a covert agent) layered over a black turtleneck to conceal her prayer marks from immediate scrutiny and suspicion and weather stains more effectively, she's wearing a light coloured shirt that only emphasises the patches of scarred skin it doesn't cover and is very obviously stained with blood. her jacket is unremarkable and chosen for comfort rather than military issue, but she's clearly not experiencing much comfort from it right now. her skirt is a soft, peaceful pale blue-grey instead of an eyecatching, provocative red-brown, evoking religious iconography of saints and other holy figures, particularly the virgin mary (whose story of immaculate conception forms an apt horrifying parallel to the process of sainthood as depicted in tsv; bodily violation by a divine figure and forced 'god birthing', to utilise the show's own terminology - emphasis is placed in biblical canon on mary's willing consent, but tsv illustrates the horrifying side effects of such a choice, however freely made, with characters like VAL and paige) - but like the shirt this only serves to highlight the blood staining it.

for her expression, i tried to evoke this scene from s1 ch4 (again, drawing a connection to the hallowing that put her in the position to consider an act like this in the first place). i was particularly struck by the idea of ‘not needing to worry anymore’, and the potential for double meaning there (being afraid for someone, and being afraid of them) - of VAL conceiving of a way to make it so that no one would “worry” about her by sacrificing that which enables her to wield words as a weapon.

i personally don't think that VAL would be very likely to bite or cut out her own tongue, because of the vulnerability and dependence on the kindness of others that would necessarily require her to accept. i imagine it rather as a simultaneous guilty fantasy and intrusive fear-obsession she might have, neutering herself into something safe and sympathetic in a single decisive act of sacrifice that spites both the god that ate her and the girl she was who volunteered her life to it in the process, whilst knowing from experience that it wouldn't truly satisfy anyone, nor bring her peace or improve her quality of life.

[lazy-ahh]

ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

[639-hear-me-out-bby]

under a thousand moons | jinu saja

each night, he plays his worn bipa beneath the temple eaves—music born not of glory, but of need, of survival, of something quietly breaking. she hears it from across the city, a melody like a secret meant only for her. when they finally meet, it isn't grand or loud—it’s soft, inevitable, like a thread tugging two hearts closer. in a city that forgets the poor and passes by the quiet, one boy’s song and one girl’s pause become the start of something neither of them expected—and neither can forget.

pairing: kpdh jinu x f. reader (she/her pronouns used) genre: rom-fantasy, timeless love, angst, slow burn (i hope i deliver aaaaaa) rating: teen and up audiences warnings: poverty, emotional vulnerability, animal neglect (implied mention), soft angst word count: 2.7k+ credits & honoraries: inspired by @scribblewytch’s incredible fic—thank you for letting me build off your magic ♡ nabi's notes: this movie has me in a chokehold im tellin' y'all soooo here's my entry to the fandom. to many more!✧˖° ⊹ ࣪ ˖

the bipa had five strings. two were frayed. one never stayed in tune, no matter how often he coaxed it. but when he sat down to play, it didn’t matter. the sound it made was still beautiful—raw and unpolished, yes, but achingly human. like something old and weathered that still remembered how to sing.

each day began the same way. at dawn, he rolled up his sleeves and helped his mother run the small tteok stall they kept on the edge of the lower market row. it was nothing special—just a squat wooden cart, its lacquer faded from too many summers, with a rusted grill and a few baskets of skewered rice cakes waiting to be cooked. they brushed each one with a glaze of sweet soy, let the sugar bubble and crisp over the coals until it shimmered, then handed them over with folded hands. some customers came with kind words. most came and went in silence. a few haggled over every coin. but his mother never turned anyone away.

by midday, the heat clung to their skin like syrup, and the scent of grilled tteok soaked into his sleeves. his fingers were often sticky from the glaze, and the soles of his sandals were worn thin from standing. still, they didn’t complain. that stall kept them fed. most nights, they brought home whatever hadn’t sold and reheated it for dinner.

only after they closed up—after the coals died down and the cart was wheeled into the narrow alley behind their home—did he sling the bipa over his back and make the climb to the temple wall.

there, just beyond the final incense stalls, beneath the tiled eaves that curved like crescent moons, he sat and played. the space was small, no wider than a doorway, but it shielded him from wind and rain. smoke from incense coils lingered in the corners, curling like ghost-thin ribbons around the worn stone. monks passed by in silent rows, their eyes never drifting toward him. not out of cruelty—just habit. to them, he was part of the landscape. a boy and his old instrument, folded into the city’s edge like moss on a wall.

he wore the same clothes each evening: a thin tunic that might’ve once been sky blue, now faded to the color of old parchment, patched at the seams. a ribbon of cloth—once red, now rust-brown—tied his hair back from his face. but the wind always had its way. strands slipped free and clung to his cheeks, kissed by the night air. he never pushed them aside.

around him, the kingdom moved. the scrape of sandals on cobble. the creak of carts laden with root vegetables and late-summer melons. laughter drifted up from the market below, mingled with haggling and half-sung lullabies. somewhere down the slope, a city official barked at delivery boys, his voice sharp as cut metal. and still, the boy played.

not for attention. not for pity. not even for coin—though sometimes a silver or two clinked to the ground from a passing stranger. there was no jar in front of him. no woven hat. only dust, and the long, curling shadow cast by the setting sun.

the music was quiet at first. a murmur. the low breath of something buried deep beneath the city’s noise. it didn’t rise like a grand overture. it seeped. moved. unfurled. a melody not born from memory but from need—notes remembered by the body.

it wasn’t a courtly tune, nor one meant for festivals or drinking nights. it was older. nameless. felt, not recognized. like something that lived between stories and prayers.

his fingers moved not with elegance, but with persistence. each note was earned. grit carved into calluses, calluses pressed into chords. his wrists ached from lifting tteok all day, from the strain of playing the same refrain until it stitched itself into his bones. the pain didn’t stop him. it was part of the rhythm.

"that again," muttered a woman, shifting the baskets on her shoulders.

"always that same sound," her companion said, wiping his brow with a rag.

"like a funeral."

"no," she said after a moment. "like something trying not to die."

a stray cat had taken up residence nearby—a scrappy thing with matted fur and ribs like bent reeds. it limped with every step, its tail dragging like a tattered ribbon. he sometimes fed it. never touched it. but he never made it leave. it came back each night and curled beside him, closing its eyes like it, too, needed the music to stay whole.

when the final note came, it didn’t rise. it fell—quietly, like the last ember giving in to ash. there was no applause. no dramatic hush. only the wind and the continued murmur of the city.

but the air had shifted. ever so slightly. like something had been scraped away, leaving a raw edge where silence used to be.

he leaned back against the temple wall. the stone was cool. firm. familiar in the way old things are—unyielding but steady. the wind slipped past him, threading through alleyways, brushing across rooftops like a whisper. his music went with it, tangled in the scent of grilled tteok, smoke, and rain.

down the crooked street, past the baker’s alley and silk stalls, a girl paused.

she was running errands, a woven basket clutched to her chest. her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, hands dusted with flour. her hair was pinned in a loose coil, held by a carved wooden comb that had begun to slip. people brushed past her, muttering complaints, but she didn’t notice.

her head tilted. not toward him—she couldn’t see him from where she stood—but toward the sound. that soft, distant melody floating between rooftops and lamplight. she had heard it before. every night, as she closed her father’s shop. always that same tune, never quite the same twice.

there was something in it—something that curled beneath her ribs and settled warm in her chest. as if the music was calling to something inside her she hadn’t yet named.

she didn’t smile. didn’t cry. she just stood there, for one breath longer than necessary.

and then she moved.

but her steps were slower now. not heavy. not sad. just... changed. as though the music had rearranged something inside her. smoothed something out. stirred something else.

she always heard it.

and tomorrow—maybe—she would follow it.

she was the shaman’s daughter, her mother, the royal spiritual and physical practitioner to the queen and the women of the palace. her mother’s hands—soft, but stained with oils and ash—moved between this world and the next with a grace that was half-learned, half-inherited. she was the one the queen called upon for warding dreams, easing births, or quieting the tremors that followed sorrow. her words were few, her silences deep. the girl had grown up beside her, tucked into quiet corners of court halls and forest shrines alike.

that morning, she walked the palace path with a woven basket in hand, heavy with herbs and thread. she was to wait by the eastern courtyard, where the garden met the temple wall, until her mother finished tending to the queen’s favored attendant—a young woman who had woken with a grief she couldn’t name. the girl did not ask questions. she had learned to let silence carry its own answers.

she sat on a stone ledge beneath a fig tree whose limbs arched low like old shoulders. sunlight filtered through the broad leaves, dappling her arms and the ground with uneven gold. the breeze carried the mingled scents of jasmine, roasted barley, and sandalwood. around her, the palace stirred with its usual rhythm—slippers whispering against stone, the faint clatter of bowls after morning offerings, the low calls of guards changing posts.

and then—she heard it.

that sound.

the bipa.

the boy had moved closer. she hadn’t seen him at first, but the music reached her before her eyes did. it always did. the thread of melody wove through the morning noise, rising from somewhere near the incense stalls beyond the temple gate. it was unmistakably his—rough around the edges, aching in places, but with a core of beauty that couldn’t be dulled.

she rose slowly and stepped out of the fig tree’s shade.

there he was.

seated cross-legged near the worn stone steps, tucked into the angle where two walls met, his back straight and his hands steady on the bipa’s body. the instrument looked more frayed than ever—its lacquer dulled with use, one string stretched so thin she was surprised it held. yet he played it like it was whole. like it had never known a flaw.

he didn’t play like the court musicians. there was no flourish, no poised performance. his hands moved with the rhythm of someone who knew work: who had scrubbed pots, flipped skewers, stacked bowls, then picked up his instrument. his sleeves still bore faint traces of dark sauce—evidence of the morning’s labor at his family’s stall along the lower market road. she had passed it once. she remembered a woman—likely his mother—turning skewers of grilled rice cakes over hot coals, brushing them with sweetened soy as steam rose into her face.

now, in the hush at the temple’s edge, he played. not to perform. not for coin. but for something quieter. truer. as though the sound was part of his breath, and he simply needed to let it out before it collapsed inside him.

she watched his fingers curve around the strings—not with elegance, but with effort. there was strength in the way he played, the kind born of repetition and necessity. the music wasn’t delicate, but it was deliberate. it resonated.

around them, the palace continued—vendors calling prices, monks sweeping walkways, officials stepping from palanquins—but it all seemed dulled, like the world had slipped underwater, and only the music remained sharp.

her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.

her mother would appear soon—tall, solemn, cloaked in robes faintly scented with mugwort and pine. she would say nothing, only tilt her head in that knowing way, and the girl would follow. that was how it always went. routine wrapped in reverence. tradition passed like a cup of tea between hands.

but for now, she remained still.

her gaze lingered on the boy. his dark hair, tied back with a faded ribbon, caught the sunlight like thread in a loom. his face was calm, focused—neither hardened nor soft. his clothes were modest, worn but clean, carefully cared for even if the dye had faded to parchment hues. he looked like someone with nothing extra to give, but who gave anyway.

and the music—gods, the music.

it pulled at her, low in the ribs. not like a tune sparking memory, but like a sound tapping something older. like the cry of a crane over still water. like wind through hollow bamboo.

without thinking, her lips parted.

a hum slipped out—quiet, instinctive. a single note, then another. she didn’t sing in words, only tones. barely more than breath. a harmony beneath his melody. not strong enough to interrupt. just enough to thread through the spaces he left open.

her song met his like a second flame catching the edge of the first.

she didn’t know why she sang. only that her heart felt suddenly full—of smoke and sunlight and something she hadn’t named in years. something like longing. something like recognition.

and still, the boy never looked up.

he didn’t need to. the music didn’t ask to be noticed.

it only asked to be heard.

and across the courtyard, standing in that quiet pause between waiting and duty, she answered.

evening stretched thin across the city, staining the sky in folds of indigo and rose. the lanterns along the temple road were already lit, their warm glow pooling on the stone path like spilled gold. a breeze carried the scent of grilled chestnuts, burnt sugar, and the tail end of incense.

he sat in his usual spot, beneath the curved eaves of the temple wall, just beyond where vendors were packing up for the night. the bipa rested in his lap, its wood familiar beneath his fingers. he had just returned from helping his mother. his sleeves still faintly smelled of sweet soy and smoke.

he wasn’t playing yet. just sitting with the weight of the day in his limbs, brushing his thumb lightly across a string. adjusting. listening. breathing. the cat had already curled beside him, tail tucked in, eyes half-closed.

then—soft footsteps.

she appeared like a skipped beat in the rhythm of the street. a figure not meant to be there, and yet exactly right. she walked quickly at first, basket in hand, sleeves rolled from a long day, her hair pinned with the same comb now slightly askew. she looked like someone with tasks to finish, brisk in her steps, measured in her pace.

but then she heard it.

just a few notes, plucked like drifting questions. not a song yet—just a whisper of one.

she slowed. then stopped.

he noticed her before she noticed him. a slight hesitation in her step. a tilt of her head. she stood at the base of the stairs, caught between leaving and lingering.

he hadn’t meant to meet her eyes. but he did.

and something flickered—quick and quiet—between them. not quite recognition. just a shared pause. a subtle understanding neither of them could name.

she took a cautious step closer.

“is that a bipa?” she asked, voice low, careful not to disturb the silence.

“it is,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg. his voice was soft, a little rough from the smoke and the long day, but steady.

“it sounds like…” she hesitated. “like wind inside a memory.”

he smiled—not widely, but enough. “that’s a good way to put it.”

she looked at the worn edges of the instrument, the curve of its belly, the way it seemed to fit him like a second spine. “i always hear it from down the hill. at the weaving stalls. every night.”

“i didn’t think anyone noticed,” he said.

“i notice.”

another silence stretched—longer now, not heavy, but held. she set her basket down at the stone wall’s edge and sat, folding her legs beneath her. not too close. not too far. the cat, ever territorial, glanced at her, then looked away.

“do you take requests?” she asked.

he chuckled softly. “only if you don’t mind it sounding a little... frayed.”

“i don’t mind.”

she looked at him then—not just his face, but the whole of him. how the threadbare tunic sat across his shoulders. how the ribbon in his hair was more string than silk. how his hands looked strong and worn and capable.

“what you play,” she said, “feels like it’s holding something together.”

he paused. then nodded, gaze lowering to the strings.

“i play because if i don’t,” he said quietly, “i’m afraid something in me might fall apart.”

he plucked the first note.

it rang out, low and full, then trembled softly into the night. the next followed. and the next—until the music unfolded like breath held too long. there were no words to the song, but she understood it anyway.

he played for her—not with grandeur, but with honesty. like unspooling thread from the chest. the sound rose and fell, shifting between shadows and lantern light. around them, the city exhaled. voices passed. the day let go.

when the music faded, she didn’t speak right away.

“do you always play like that?” she asked finally.

he shrugged lightly, wiping his fingertips on his tunic. “only when someone’s really listening.”

she looked down at her hands. then up at him again. “i’ll listen tomorrow, too.”

he didn’t answer. but something in his expression warmed.

then she stood, lifted her basket, and introduced herself.

he nodded. “i know.”

her brow lifted, amused. “you do?”

“you ask for the broken tteok at the end of the day,” he said. “you give it to the street dogs when you think no one’s looking.”

she flushed. “so you do notice.”

he shrugged. “only some things.”

she smiled—not wide, not bright, but real. the kind of smile that made the evening feel whole.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

then she turned and walked down the path. her steps were quieter now, as if she didn’t want to disturb the fading echo of his music.

and he sat a while longer, fingers resting on the strings, eyes on the place where she had been.

they had met by chance.

but in the way the world stilled for just a breath—just long enough for two people to notice each other—they had met at exactly the right moment.

should i continue? heart, reblog, or interact whatever. i highly appreciate feedback!

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ BLOMSTERTID, PART TWO !

summary :: Centuries-old mage, Y/N L/N, possesses magical abilities unheard of. A few citizens monopolize the remnants of magic they find, of which they now title “Hextech”. Hearsay of this power bleeds through all of Runeterra, until Piltover and Zaun find themselves in an anarchic war to obtain said power. Before Y/N can even blink, however, the humans neglect their plans when they realize they’d rather have Y/N instead.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 10.9k

content warnings :: NO SPOILERS! yandere!viktor, obsessive!viktor, g/n reader, violence/gore, s3lf-harm, (very light) s3xual implications, needles, vomit, & terminal illness.

viktor's yandere traits are . . .

worshiper, heroic, & obsessive

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ ⸺ When the moon rises and the vibrant world eases, Viktor always finds himself dreaming of the same thing.

He imagines himself consuming the correct remedies and garnering the ability to walk, to run, to stand tall on his two feet. He is merely a child, but he is well aware of his weaker form. In the fragrance of these illusions, he can become capable and mighty; he can be the fearless warrior who protects his loved ones from lurking danger. 

To heal and obtain strength — that is the haunting desire which paints his dreams.

The young boy now greets the sun in all of its blistering heat. The cloudless sky casts a shimmering glint upon the rusted scrap metal and bent screws of his handmade boat. Viktor’s frail hands place the creation upon the surface of a river stream. In the light of his childlike wonder, he imagines himself the captain, guiding his loyal crew across a grand sea overwhelmed with thunder and lightning. His dreams remain stagnant in his brain, though, where they have remained his entire life. 

The jagged gears and sprockets hasten down the current before Viktor can bring himself to his wobbly knees. The boat has now accelerated to speeds little he cannot keep up with. When his crooked cane escapes from his grasp, he falls down with it. His nose aches from the harsh plummet against the ground and specks of tears begin to build in his bambi-brown eyes. He winces from the few painful jolts in his weak legs before he is finally able to stand once more. 

When he searches, Viktor cannot find his beloved boat anywhere in sight. His eyes follow the stream ahead, which descends into an abysmal cave. He measures the weight of his options, but ultimately decides that his boat is too precious to abandon.

With a gulp, he carefully treads forward into the cave. Here, there is no light to guide him, only sound. And every drop of water and subtle echo of breath has his tiny heart hammering. He imagines some great, big, green-hued monster to crawl from the darkness and chow down on his thin bones. Viktor imagines the utmost worse to occur, but does not relent with his original intentions. He has to be brave, he asserts to himself.

When he rounds a corner, he spots a strange patch of light in the distance. Within this light, he recognizes the familiar cog of his boat peeking from behind a rock. He is moments away from cheering and celebrating the return of his greatest invention, until he notices the journey he will have to endure to retrieve the boat.

Viktor will have to squeeze himself through a narrow crack, threatening to release the avalanche of boulders from above. Still, he concludes his boat to be more important than his safety. He wastes no time in rushing forward to enact on such.

There is a struggle as he sinks down to lay on his stomach, but he captures success when he finds his small frame to fit perfectly through the tight gap. Chunks of rock protrude rudely into his emaciated form as he crawls, but he continues onwards. Viktor reaches his hand out, grasping air momentarily, before he finally lodges the wheel of his boat between his two fingers. With a soft “yes!”, he yanks the boat back into his possession. 

Before he can leave, however, he finds something striking in his periphery. In its journey, his boat landed in a space overwhelmed with glistening crystals.

Viktor eagerly slithers himself into the expanse. Bringing himself to his feet, he proceeds to marvel at the sight before him. 

The one fraction of the area that fascinates him the most is the great boulder directly in the center. It twitches and heaves with faded life, while radiating an aura of blue and purple luster. The opalescence is muted from its old age, but the sparkles still captivate him beyond belief. It does not take much to impress a boy raised in the lanes, after all. It is beautiful, Viktor thinks to himself.

And in the height of his desire for answers, he slowly places a hand upon the surface.

His vision abruptly goes dark and flashes of images then skim through his head. 

Viktor sees a person, almost. They have jagged skin and colorful flesh, with swirling hues of blue and purple levitating from their open palm. The scars treading along their skin spell out some form of incantation. The letters are ineligible, but Viktor still attempts to grasp the meaning within the short spurts of clarity casted across his brain. Incomprehensible whispers in this language permeate from every corner of the cave, as though the bats have been assigned the task of delivering a message. 

Viktor cannot grasp any of the statements spoken, but one word is emphasized with acute clarity. 

Y/N. 

There is a vision of a grand tree, bristling with life and color, before that image is replaced by his normal sight of the cave. The floors and walls surrounding him all rumble and vibrate, threatening to crumble. A few loose stones descend from the ceiling and nick his ragged clothing. 

Viktor does not waste a second more before he is scrambling toward his point of entry. Squished through the skinny gap, around the several corners, and out the sunlit entrance — he has successfully escaped the crumbling cave with his boat held tightly in his grasp.

A thundering pain then sinks into his leg. The force brings him to the ground with a violent wince. When he looks to the source, he finds that his leg is in its normal condition. What he doesn’t find, however, is his cane. Somehow, he had endured the entire escape without the support of his cane, which has now been swallowed by the tumbling rubble of the avalanche. 

Viktor tries to catch his breath and find a feasible explanation. Was it adrenaline that got him to safety, or possibly… Magic?

The topic of this “earthquake” spread throughout the Under-City, before ascending into the glamorous land of Piltover. Without wasting a beat, Piltover swiftly claimed rights to the cave and utilized the expanse for resources, all of which Viktor watched from the high surface of a neighboring water tower. 

Seeing the men work themselves to the bone, shipping off samples of what was his discovery, Viktor makes a promise to himself. 

He will fight tooth-and-nail to cross the bridge of Piltover. Then, he will reclaim possession of those crystals and protect them as his. 

He will succeed, he solemnly swears to himself. 

In the span of the years that followed, this mysterious creature, Y/N, has ushered Viktor to chase after his brightest dreams: to heal and obtain strength. They have been his light as he guides himself to this goal; his lantern through a violent blizzard. 

The journey to success began when Viktor first dipped a toe into adulthood. 

The remaining years of his adolescence were spent in a ridiculous back-and-forth cycle with several prestigious schools in Piltover. Viktor was an exemplary student, that has been made abundantly clear. However, the elites in the academies were wary of his background as an Under-City citizen.

Time after time, he persevered past every expectation of him and flourished with flying colors. Viktor was prepared to stand outside their offices, down on his knees with fresh coffees in hand for their approval. 

It wasn’t until a few days after his eighteenth birthday were his efforts finally taken into account. It was through the eyes of Heimerdinger that Viktor finally received recognition, who offered the young scholar the role of his assistant.

Viktor accepted the offer with embarrassing speed.

The role of an assistant is not his dream, though. It is merely one stepping stone toward the finish line of his goals. These are facts he has to relentlessly remind himself of. Upon scrutinizing the failed efforts of a Talis scientist, however, he realizes how difficult this task is. Possibly bridging on the edge of impossible, if he is honest with himself. 

After an abrupt explosion, Viktor was sent to study the materials used in Jayce’s experiments and verify their safety. He ventured into his isolated office and began his scrutinization of the notes and toolsets scattered around. A steel metal box, adorned with intricacies of blue and gold, calls out to his curiosity. Flicking the metal tab open, Viktor lifts the heavy lid and finds the very last thing he expected to see. 

Held in copper claws are fragments of the crystals he discovered as a boy. All glistening and pulsating in those tones of blue and purple. 

“Y/N…” The word crawls out strangled from his throat. Accompanied with his stuttering gasps, he has been rendered to a man absolutely breathless. 

His hands tremble like a thundering earthquake as they take one of the crystals into his gentle grasp. And just like that, all the resentment and festering anger he harbored for Piltover had vanished. As though merely touching these shards provided him with the impossible tranquility found in forgiveness.

All he needed now was to return to you, then anything other than serene bliss can melt away.

Viktor offered (with a stifling fervency) to join Jayce in his efforts to learn more of this magic. From here, “Hextech” was born.

Many, many years have now passed since their partnership. In these years, only puny progress has been made in Viktor’s chase for his dreams. With what success they’ve grasped, they’ve managed to capture the attention of scientists and investors across the world.

Jayce, the born-and-raised Piltie he is, has claimed all credit for the perseverance of Hextech with loud, prideful words and his chest puffed out like a bird. He revels in the bouquets of applause and praise he is drowned in. 

Viktor, on the other hand (and despite being the sole reason behind Hextech’s success), cannot find it within himself to care for Jayce’s entitlement. All he has ever cared for is you and the dreams you keep safely nestled in your palms. Everything else is immaterial.

2021 has now reached its lively Summer. Unfortunately, the goals Viktor set out for himself that year are miles away from fruition. His primary focus has been the runes he saw adorning your form and what definitions remain in every scratch. Translating the characters will lead to your location, he is positive of such.

With that being said, all these wasted days have been spent finding himself in the same dead ends he’s visited countless times. He can feel his worn body eroding with every passing second, with the glimmer of his dream now beginning to flicker with old, neglected light.

Home again, Viktor partakes in his evening routine before bed, a routine he has followed for years. The thick paper in his at-home office is used to its utmost value, where the ink of his pen bleeds his heart out onto the draped scroll. 

If it weren’t for his broad vocabulary and expensive handwriting, you would think these scrolls were the works of a teenage girl gushing about her crush. In reality, it is Viktor releasing the pent-up emotions he’s forced into captivity during the hours at work. Here, within the safety of his home, all of these feelings can be exposed in all of its ugly brilliance. His sentences may be frivolous, but they are overwhelmed with an ardent need.

Without realizing, he sometimes finds himself unconsciously sketching your face from his memories as a boy. That breathtaking, tragically enchanting face has haunted him beyond belief. And that is especially the case now, as he signs off yet another letter to you with his signature “Yours Forever and Always, Viktor”. He takes one last longing glance to your features he sketched over the romantic words.

Propping himself onto his cane, he curls the scroll into itself. He then treads to his bedroom and rests the scroll on the flower bed just outside the window. Joining this letter is another gift he addressed to you.

Viktor takes hold of his handmade boat he carried with him into adulthood. It is now miserable and rusted, but remains one of the most sacred items he owns. He nestles it safely beneath the thick hedges of the flowers, ensuring no gusts of wind or fluttering birds can disrupt its placement.

These actions are taken with one intention in mind: garnering your attention. 

Surely, from wherever you may be, you will catch sight of the boat and be reminded of the connection you formed with him long ago. He is sure of this, despite waking every morning to the same, untouched flower bed. Still, this neglect is not anywhere near enough to hinder his efforts. 

Slowly, he situates himself into his bed and faces his body toward the window. Sleep is something that rarely ever finds him, but in the midst of these rarities, he sleeps like a restless child on Christmas Eve. One day, Viktor will wake to your heavenly silhouette peering at him through the window. He falls asleep with this prayer ghosting his lips.

Another day of fruitless work is what he is met with the following morning. No soft, jagged hands stroking his hair or crooked smile to rival the early-day sun. 

These failures, mended with the countless rough patches Hextech has faced in recent months, have taken a perceptible toll on Viktor. Again and again, he rearranges the runes of the Hexcore and provides it with a multitude of subjects to learn from. Still, he does not earn even a glimmer of a possible translation. All this effort forged into finding your whereabouts has resulted in defeat, yet again.

The hours of the day drag on in agonizing lethargy. The walls of the headquarters could almost resemble the metal bars of a prison. Here, however, the office space provided by Heimerdinger’s connections and Talis House money was far more luxurious than a dank cell. 

A window with intricacies molded into the surface provides a blinding light from their high-view point in the city. The gold spheres painting the marble floors and bright walls could almost resemble eyes scrutinizing his every move. The space is vacant, except for the wide desk built into the wall with notes and gadgetry scattered about the surfaces. 

The room is dull in comparison to others in the building, yes, but neither he nor Jayce had time to concern themselves with appearance. Maybe… Maybe you’ll help with decorations when the time comes. Maybe you’ll adorn these boring walls with those opalescent crystals and shimmering jewels of yours. You can provide this room with life, just the same as you did for him.

So engrossed in the bewitching pondering of you, Viktor fails to notice another person in the room. Sky, he thinks he can recall her name as. She rambles nervously about nonsense he cannot be bothered to discern. It is only when she treads a little too close to the Hexcore is he finally brought out of his inner turmoil. Her elbow unintentionally nudges a nearby house plant toward the Hexcore. 

A scolding bridges on Viktor’s tongue, but is replaced by a suffocating silence when the Hexcore clings to the plant. 

A bolt of purple springs from the runes and clasps to the plant like a hand, twitching as it absorbs the energy from the leaves. When the potted plant wilts, the Hexcore bursts with new energy and flourishes with greenery that reaches the ceiling. It radiates in the colors of blue and purple he knows all too well.

From the illumination is a character of one of the runes. Viktor watches in enraptured amazement as said rune unfolds and spells out something tangible.

“SAN T  RY”, the letters speak.

Santry? Maybe it is an incantation or a phrase native to the language you speak, he is not sure. Nonetheless, the heavy ache in his chest eases and welcomes the light of excitement. 

His brain dares to assume you would then somehow blossom with the flowery, there to breathe life into the dream he’s spent years striving after. Much to his horror, however, all the thriving organic matter soon withers away. As the decaying fragments descend, Viktor rushes over, discarding his cane. He clings to the dead remnants piling on the floor as though it were you who died in his hands. 

As quickly as it had begun, it has now ended. And through the shocked silence, he is sure he can hear the tortured remains of his heart die alongside this damn house plant.

Still, the tortured soul does not impede his intentions of translating the runes of the Hexcore. If anything, his motivation has endured an incredible increase. 

His crafted boat and another written scroll have found their home on his flower bed, once again, but Viktor is far from his bedroom. He remains in his at-home office, grinding the hours of the past week into understanding the meaning behind this groundbreaking discovery. 

Why was there such a dramatic reaction to biological matter? Does this serve as a step forward in the direction of his dreams or does this eradicate all his original effort? Will he have to scour through every note he has written in the past decade to find something that explains this revelation? 

And could it… Is it really you?

The runes scribbled on his notepad may as well have been chicken scratch. Despite his unwavering intelligence, he still cannot piece together the meaning of the characters the Hexcore had given him. At this point, translating a mere syllable would be enough for Viktor to shout “eureka!” from the highest building in Piltover.

“Viktor.” 

Time stands still. 

The voice that permeates through the office is almost strangled, as though his brain can’t quite grasp what the voice actually sounds like. Still, it is an elegant conundrum of the most ethereal music he has ever heard. And he knows, he just knows where this beautiful melody has perfused from. 

Oh, Y/N. 

My angel. My dearest. 

His brain begs for him to turn around and bless his vision with what he knows will be the most perfect sight he’ll ever witness. His body, however, has been reduced to that of a frozen statue, completely stiff and still. 

“Look at me.” 

The demand falling from your tongue erases all of that. 

His body seems to move on its own, beginning to slowly, breathlessly, turn around. He knows it will be too much for his weak body to endure, yet still, he cannot stop himself. It is as though you’ve plunged a hand into his nerves and began conducting his movements like a puppeteer.

Viktor finds you standing across the room and a sob is yanked from his chest. Your figure has personified in a mess of blinding brightness and confusing colors — a watercolor portrait detailing every speck of the word perfection. It strains his eyes to look at you. Yet still, he cannot bear to look away. Not now, not ever. 

What is clear in his vision, though, is what you present in your hands. You hold the rusted boat he crafted as a child, with your fingers exploring the gears and cogs plastered against the scrap metal. As you fidget, you tread closer to where he sits. And with tears seeping down his face, Viktor watches your every move in absolute devastation. 

“I’ve been searching for this for quite a while.” You hold the boat in an admirable presentation. “For you, as well.” 

His heart exhales, almost. As though something had been digging their tight nails into the gooey tissue and finally, finally eased their grasp.

When you bend down beside him, glorious face just inches away from his, Viktor can truly feel his freed heart melting down to puddled nonsense. Your hand then finds his cheek and you cup his boney face in your palm. Your touch feels like fuzzy static from the devices he tinkers with. Electrifying, and most imperatively, warm. 

“My beautiful masterpiece.” Your voice still remains a mellifluous scratch and punctures his soul with every timbre and tone. 

He can’t help but feel small beneath your gaze. Like a nasty insect. Weak, immaterial, and easy. Skittering across your flesh and ensnaring his prickly limbs around this grand sugar cube he’s stumbled upon. He is something so trifling in comparison to you. Potent, imperative, and intricate. Exuding saccharin with every step you take and indifferent to this foul pest lapping up any sliver he can get. 

“How could you let this drag on so long, Viktor?” You question. “You were cut from the cloth of my flesh. Soaked in the rivers of my blood. There is no you if not me. You and I are one.” 

Viktor has been rendered to a man overcome with twitter-patted hysteria. He is shocked he is even still able to breathe, no less, maintain consciousness in a moment of such frenzied elation. No words escape him in response; all he can do is stare and revel at the sight he’s been slaving his entire life just to find a glance of.

Another euphoria-induced beat passes before you do the unthinkable. With a few measured glances to his mouth, Viktor watches in astonished rapture as your eyes flutter close and your mouth subtly parts. Then, you lean into him. 

Just before your lips touch, impaling him with the inevitable exaltation he’ll surely die from, he blinks and finds himself face-down at his desk.

Reality may as well have slapped him across the face.

A light, delirious gasp leaps from him as consciousness settles in. Viktor finds his lips puckered against his knuckles, where drool seeps from the corner of his mouth and onto the notes beneath his head. He buries his face into his hands with a jagged, frustrated groan. 

Dreaming of kissing the partner of his dreams, is he a teenager again? Then again, you’ve always had your clever ways of making him feel as such. This romantic disposition of his did not flourish until the later years of his adolescence, of which he assumed were the normal changes every young man faces. Then, as a mature adult, he can continue his efforts of translating the runes with complete clarity.

Bridging on almost two decades later, these feelings have yet to cease. Viktor is still horrifically and irrevocably in love. Not even the promise of heaven could help fizzle out these emotions. What is heaven compared to you, anyway?

He peeks his gaze through the creases of his fingers and finds he had fallen asleep on his planner. In the ink (now diluted and splotched from drool), he finds the date of the fundraiser he had promised Jayce to attend. With a glance at the clock, he realizes he has several minutes to prepare himself until the event begins. Another groan rumbles from his throat. 

All Viktor wants is to return to the dreamscape of your enchanting words and magic-spun lips. Is that too much to ask for?

Dusk has now begun to fade down the horizon, illuminating the artwork of Mel Medarda in a scintillating glow. The art is irrelevant to all, however, as scientists and engineers across the globe have traveled here to sell their million-dollar ideas to Piltover’s greatest investors. 

Viktor now stands behind Jayce as they saunter through the gallery, stifling a grunt with every dry conversation he’s unnecessarily dragged into. The scientist they’ve found themself shackled in a conversation with trails on about his success in other nations. He is quite famous for his fruitful discoveries and resolute intelligence, but Viktor could not care less about what this stranger has to offer them.

Standing here, idle chatter and rich laughter perfusing from every corner, all Viktor can find himself thinking of is you. He juggles with the reality of the previous events, trying to differentiate whether it was another sugar-spun dream or a message sent straight from your pen. He’s never had a dream so explicitly vivid before, after all. Could it have been a sign? Was this your reciprocation? Do you truly possess the same feelings for him as he does for you? 

“That sounds incredible. Doesn’t it, Viktor?” 

A nudge from Jayce and Viktor is barely yanked back to reality. 

“Ehh, yes. Yes, it does…” 

Without another click, Viktor then returns to his favorite place: the thought of you.

That dream was the encapsulation of his greatest desires falling into his palms. The only proof he has that it was an actual dream and not reality were the current speeds of his fluffed-out heart. To witness you through his naked eye, to feel the genuine touch of your hand, to mold his needful lips against yours — it would kill him instantly. The fact that he is still alive now is all the evidence Viktor needs to realize that, unfortunately, it was just another dream in a sea of thousands. 

This does not halt his brain from soaking in the contents of his dream, however. All he could think about in the midst of this stupid cocktail party was your face, your body, your voice. God, could there be anything so indubitably perfect in this world?

And your kiss, oh, the things Viktor would do to receive such vehement affection. Your presence is enough to kill him, yes, but your kiss would revive him, just to kill him all over again. 

A delicious juxtaposition between life and death — that is what you are made of. This lethal, intoxicating essence swims through your veins and weeps from your soul; it is a weapon any sane man would be ecstatic to succumb to. Viktor surely would, he has no hesitation with his judgment. He merely thinks of your face and is moments away from collapsing to his knees.

A server treads by with a platter hoisted over their shoulder. On the surface are several gold-painted champagne glasses. Viktor has no second to think before the server is shoving one of the glasses into his hands, no regard for his resistance. 

He makes the motion to grasp the server's attention and return the glass, but something about it stops him. Twirling the glass in circles and watching the liquid swirl with the motions, he finds himself entranced. Viktor has never been one to drink alcohol, as it does more harm than good for his feeble body. With this glass now in his hand, he can’t prevent himself from contemplating the flavor. And perhaps the flavor could even be similar to you, maybe.

Would your kiss be as smooth as the thick liquid? Would it sting like the bubbling effervescence of the champagne? Just like the bolts of fervent electricity he garnered from the Hexcore? Would it be rich? Sour? Sweet? Maybe a mouthwatering collision no one has ever tasted before? 

Viktor’s mouth waters as these thoughts invade his brain. If he were correct, he’d bottle the essence and get himself drunk on the taste for eternity. Even if it was poison, he would welcome the paradisiacal venom with a sun-bright smile.

Just before his lips meet the edge of the champagne glass to truly test what his angel may taste like, something captures his attention. 

The words “Hextech” and “sell” should never exist within the same sentence, yet Viktor hears them crystal-clear from the mouth of this scientist. All bubbly, blissful nonsense frolicking through his mind is brought to an abrupt cut.

Viktor has caught the man halfway through a proposition regarding the sake of Hextech. 

“Just between us scientists, you can tell me the truth. You’re surely getting nowhere with your experiments in that cramped office, no?” 

Viktor tries to intrude and bring an end to the idea before it is even spoken aloud, but he is rudely interrupted.

“Imagine how much prosperity and success you can bring to the Hextech name with me there! All the profit you’d earn with my skills and experience.” 

His nails dig violently into his palm as he drags on with his proposition. Like hell will he let some greedy capitalists put his hands on what sliver he has of you. It hurt to simply let Jayce touch the Hextech materials, despite the fact they were originally in his possession in the first place. To send it overseas to god-knows-where would wound him in ways he would never heal from.

A brutal rejection bridges on Viktor’s tongue. Maybe even a foul remark to add insult to injury. When he glances at Jayce, however, he finds the man's expression to be scrunched into puzzlement. Almost as though he were considering this scientist's offer. 

A sharp shatter then pulsates through the room. 

Viktor looks to his hand and finds he had shattered his glass in the height of his fury, cold champagne seeping down his folded sleeves. 

A few partygoers fall silent and look at the sudden intrusion of volume, but soon return to their chit-chat when nothing feasible comes from the noise. Jayce, on the other hand, wastes no time in trying to inspect the glass shards punctured into Viktor’s pale palms. He yanks himself away before he can place a finger on him, however. 

“No!” Viktor asserts. 

He is not embarrassed of his outburst, either, despite how composed he presents himself to be. Not when you are on the line. How could he ever remain calm with this prospect knocking on his door? 

A sharp glare to Jayce and the man begins fumbling through an explanation. 

“I-I never said we would take the offer, just that-” 

“Just what, Jayce?” 

Viktor’s voice increases in volume. Eyes follow, but he does not care. 

“It-It’s just… I’m worried, Viktor. You are clearly not in good shape and I don’t think the future of-”

Viktor swings his frail arm behind him before surging it toward Jayce’s face. 

The punch does not land, as Jayce dodges it with ease, ultimately resulting in Viktor to trip over his leg. He lands on the marble floors with a violent thud, piercing pain spreading through his sensitive body upon impact. 

All eyes are locked on the two now, hushed whispers drifting through the silent room. As fast as it had begun, it was now over.

Jayce attempts to assist his partner, but Viktor bluntly slaps his helping hand away and brings himself to his feet. If he has proved anything over the past decade, it is not Jayce he needs. It is you and only you. When he is met with the possibility of losing you, he cannot restrain the rampant, infuriated emotions coursing through his bloodstream. 

Viktor then limps out of the building with rage still perfusing from him like a thick perfume. Jayce acquiesces, but does not attempt to follow his lab partner. The Talis name cannot be tarnished, after all.

He apologizes to the scientist with shame plastered across his expression. With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, he speaks in hushed tones and proposes the topics they spoke of beforehand.

Meanwhile, Viktor hastens to the sanctity of his home. It is the only safety he has been nestled with in the trajectory of his life. It is all done by your hand, as his home is where you are. Yes, with a slyly-sewn excuse, he was granted permission to keep the Hexcore in his possession, of which he wasted no time in snagging away. Now, he will protect and nurture this fragment he has of you by whatever means necessary.

Viktor soon trudges past the threshold adjacent to his living room, the mahogany doors creaking as he does so. Sauntering through, he is then met with an instantaneous peace.

His library is the place he possesses the utmost pride for, since all books present have been written by his hand. Here, every etch of ink correlates to you.

You are not something he can contain within the whorls of his mind, no. You must be expressed in any form of physicality Viktor can garner. Writing assists him in translating the runes, but it also serves as another desperate attempt to assure himself you are real and not just some psychic phenomenon he experienced as a child. You are real, you must be. You do not have a choice. 

Many of the books detail your physicality, as much as his fuzzy, muddled brain can decipher. Other books are unorganized gibberish regarding your whereabouts. The runes, the crystals, the Hextech — all this science is just stepping stones leading him closer to you. 

The other pieces, the more hidden ones, are for more frivolous exertions. Nights when these fantasies cloud his mind, he jots them down in messy splotches of ink and marvels at the ideas he bleeds onto paper. Said ideas are too intimate for him to revisit without flushing like a young boy stepping into the world of puppy-love. Nonetheless, they assuage him on the lonelier nights cramped in his office. 

All of these books overwhelm the several isles of shelves within the grand library. Through the warm wood and soft lamplights, Viktor rushes past and does not bother to drag his thin fingers across the leather spines, as he usually does in admiration of his work. Instead, he rushes to the set of double-doors opposite to the other doorway.

Through this entrance is his at-home office; the room in which most of his time is spent. The area is nothing short of dull, but serves its purpose — that being supporting Viktor’s hard work and delusional fits. 

That is certainly the case now, as the man chucks his cane to the ground and collapses onto a neighboring sofa. The materials are bristly and jut into his skin uncomfortably, but he cannot find it within himself to care. Not when his precious Hextech is at risk of being sold off like livestock. Not when you are moments away from being shoved onto a ship and sent overseas. 

“Ridiculous. Selling you? How dare he even consider it!” 

Viktor’s gaze finds the rolling chalkboard situated just beside his desk. On the green surface is a sketch of your face, drawn perfectly centered in the mess of numerous equations and jotted formulas.

“There is not enough money in the world- in the galaxy for me to even consider disposing of you!” 

He stands to feet, wobbling slightly, before he limps over the chalkboard. He rests a gentle palm upon the surface where your cheek would be.

“No… Never you…”

Viktor had not realized how shockingly realistic the drawing of you was until this moment. All the hours spent sketching your face have resulted in him becoming quite savvy in his artistic abilities, as it shows, to a degree where he finds himself captivated with the sight. As though you were standing right before him, just as you were in his dreams.

“Never you…” His thumb caresses the jut of your traced cheekbone. “Perfect, magnificent you…” 

With a light thud, his weary head lands against the board, where your foreheads align. From here, the neglected taste of champagne then returns to his memory. Truly, how would you taste? What emotions would he be flooded with if his dreams weren’t so rudely halted? 

Viktor is now breathing heavily before the chalkboard, practically panting against the rugged surface. The idea of kissing you is not foreign by any means, but as he is still fresh out of the arms of his fuzzy dreams, his body cannot restrain itself from reacting dramatically to the concept.

He then presses a languid kiss to your chalk-drawn mouth. Sure, the surface may not have the softness and jagged texture he is certain you possess, but the concept alone is enough to get his heart burning. 

Viktor’s mind becomes overwhelmed with the thought of you, like some hungry parasite latched into the fleshy grooves of his brain. How you’d taste, like lapping up the juice seeping from the forbidden fruit. How you’d feel, like the warm blanket of heaven’s clouds embracing him. Viktor is overwhelmed with the contemplation of everything; all the madness and repose that would follow with your lips on his.

The kiss hastens, until he begins utilizing his tongue in the state of vehemence. Thick chalk pervades through his mouth, but he is too far muddled by the fantasies bleeding through his head to pay any mind. He is messy and inexperienced with his mouth, yes, but the feverish need seared into his affections eradicates any nervous ticks or fearful hesitation.

Viktor’s efforts are abruptly cut short when he is overwhelmed by a coughing fit. He failed to anticipate how his fragile body would react to the thick chalk. It is an inevitability he should have realized sooner, had he not been so blissfully blinded by the imaginary, dusty lips of his lover. 

What was expected as a few coughs to rid his throat of the dust resulted in him choking on rugged gags. His body slams against the surface of his desk as a desperate means for support.

Blots of hot blood and chunks of chalk amalgamate and splatter out from his retches. Far too light headed to notice, a few drops of this excess land on the Hexcore. Immediately, it begins pulsating with new life. From this vibration, a heavenly aura of violet and blue perfuses and sways in languid circles. A new set of runes he has never seen before join the cloud of color, which spell out incomprehensible letters as they glisten and churn. 

This sudden change soon grasps Viktor’s attention, who is now met with a new sense of clarity upon discerning the sight. When the revelation simmers, he may as well have died right at his desk. 

“Oh, dearest…” A wide, almost manic smile stretches on his thin face. “Is it me you need?” 

The emotions swarming through his body have rendered him weak, but he has never known strength like he does in this moment. Viktor should have known from the beginning: you have always been calling out to him. It was never the measly plants that triggered a reaction, it was him! It was always him! 

And so fervently will he give himself over to you. Whatever it is you desire, Viktor will personally deliver on a golden platter. He will be your warrior and your servant; he will set the world ablaze to ensure your happiness.

“Y/N… I promise…” 

Viktor collapses before he can bring this new revelation to fruition.

The sounds of a robotic beeping is what greets Viktor next. The steady rhythm guides him as consciousness pervades his body. Through his blurry vision, he finds white walls, white floors, and himself in a white bed beneath white sheets. Everything is stale in its dull, depressing appearance. 

Turning his heavy head, he finds a figure seated beside him with their head buried in their hands. A glimmer of hope sparkles through him. 

“Y/N?” 

Jayce raises his head with sharp speed and Viktor is met with acute disappointment. He fails to notice the trepidation and pity in his partner's eyes. 

“Viktor… The doctors, they, uh, they said…” 

He sinks further into the mattress. His goals, his dreams, everything he has ever wanted — none of it will be his.

Even beneath the weight of shocked grief, all that permeates through his weary head is you.

The runes inked on your flesh, how he’ll never caress them. The crooked frame of your smile, how he’ll never earn it. The contours of your jagged hands, how he’ll never hold them. The symphony of your musical voice, how he’ll never hear it. Viktor will never be able to have the one thing that matters most to him and this fact punctures him worse than any weapon forged by man. 

“I-I know- I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but…” 

Viktor’s waiting gaze deepens. “But…?” 

Jayce’s eyes dart around the room, searching for something other than Viktor’s eyes to look at. With a deep breath, he breaks the silence.

“Hextech is going nowhere, Vik. We just keep finding ourselves at dead ends and clearly, it's taking a toll on-!” 

“Wait, what are you suggesting?” 

“What I’m saying is…” 

Jayce stammers before finding the words to speak. 

“Some scientists arrived overseas and I gave them a tour of our office. I think we should-” 

“You what!?” 

“I-I just showed them around and they provided some guidance. All I’m saying is that I think it’d be best for us to-” 

“Absolutely not! I will not give up Hextech!” 

The beeping of his heart monitor accelerates. 

“You’re not listening, Vik. There is no you, anymore.” 

Beep, beep, beep. 

“What is that supposed to mean!?” 

Beep, beep, beep. 

“With how much… time you have left, I-I made the decision to give your role to one of the scientists.” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep. 

“I’m sorry it had to be like this.” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 

“No, no, Jayce. Please- Please don’t do this.” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 

“I’m sorry, but I promise this is for your own good.” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 

“I will do- I’ll do anything, Jayce, don’t- don’t do this to me!” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 

“There’s nothing I can do, Vik. It’s out of my hands.” 

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beepbeepbeep. 

“We’ll be collecting the Hexcore from-”

BeepbeepbeepBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP- 

“I WON’T LET YOU HAVE THEM!” 

Viktor falls to the tiled floor, his shout spurting out like a glass shatter. Sharp and ragged, it is a tone he cannot recognize; the picture frame displaying the heart-shattering devastation of his unmet dreams. 

The tubes strapped to his narrow limbs snap and spring into the air. Tears seep down the jagged juts of his cheekbones. Viktor’s slender, ghastly fingers grip the edge of the bed frame and he drags his limp body forward. Crusted fingernails dig into the ankles of Jayce, who abruptly stands from his seat and cowers away from the crazed man. 

“They’re mine!” 

The door bursts open and a gaggle of nurses and doctors follow the intrusion. They swarm into the scene like a school of fish darting away from the jaws of a great-white. Before Viktor can merely blink, they ensnare their hands around his thin body and restrain him to the cold ground. Despite his resistance, the needles of their syringes glint in the glow of the lamp. 

Jayce mumbles another apology under his breath before he scurries away from the mess he has made.

The night passes quietly. So quietly, in fact, the staff that had stuffed Viktor with needles before had forgotten of his existence altogether. The door to his room has remained closed since their departure, and obliviously, they remain unaware of what remains beyond that threshold. 

Just after the clock strikes three, the door peers open. A tiny squeak perfuses through the lengthy halls of the hospital, but the quiet night does not react to this intrusion. A head of brown hair peeks out from the opening. Assuring the coast is clear, Viktor takes a careful step out. He takes another, then once more, before he finds himself in a hurried limp out of the premises. 

The streets are cold and unforgiving. Every street lamp and drunk pedestrian has his heart hammering. The sight of a horribly-emaciated man in a hospital gown will surely raise a few eyebrows, but nonetheless, he perseveres. As he stated before, nothing else matters when it is you on the line.

Viktor soon reaches the doors of his home. He wrestles with the key momentarily before the lock clicks and he’s barreling through the entrance. It is a weakened effort, but he rushes through his home and arrives at his office. When he finds his beloved equipment safe and sound, he releases a pent-up sigh of relief. His lanky hand rests upon the arm of the neighboring couch, as his body is just mere inches away from sinking into unconsciousness. 

Viktor’s gaze, swaying with dizziness, then finds the rendition of your face he sketched on the chalkboard (which has since been smudged by the works of his mouth, but not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone). In a dazed attempt at finding your chalk-ridden lips again, Viktor begins to limp over to the chalkboard. In his efforts, his weak body fails him and his hands reach for his desk to maintain his balance. Here, he is greeted by the sight of the Hexcore, still glistening and pulsating with its hues of blue and violet. Still beautiful as ever, he thinks to himself. 

He sits himself in the adjacent chair and continues to marvel at the runes illuminating the dim room. Viktor’s brain, always hungry, then treads toward the runes etched into your flesh, spelling out the same vocabulary scribbled across his desk. 

As a child, he always wanted to be you. His mother often found him etching these runes with markers across his arms and legs, scolding him as she scrubs the doodles. As an adult, however, he found he’d rather be with you. Now, those inked stains have since washed away and he can’t help but ponder over their permanence.

An idea then flickers in his brain.

Viktor grasps the letter opener left languidly on the surface of his desk. With a few rushed breaths of fear, restless assurances begin permeating his brain. He no longer has a choice anymore. A second more of waiting and you’ll be ripped from his weak hands like candy from a baby. Spending his entire adolescent years without you was torturous enough. To do so for the rest of his lifetime will kill him before this illness does. 

He faces this revelation head-on and begins reminiscing about the day he spoke to you. The day you truly spoke to him, no dreams or fantasies in sight. When you grasped one of the plants on his desk and gifted them life, before scribbling out a message just for him.

“SAN T  RY”, you spelled out in magic runes.

Forever the mad scientist he is, Viktor has dissected every scratch and itch of this rune, trying so desperately to decode your letter. Now, things are different. There is no ‘tomorrow’ to start anew, there are no more second chances. All he has left is tonight. And he will stop at nothing to understand the words you whispered to him.

The tip of the letter opener punctures into his thigh with a wet squelch. A muffled groan of pained agony fights against his clenched teeth as he finishes carving the first character. Then, Viktor moves onto the next. Moist blood seeps down his thighs and spills onto the marble floors as he continues, spreading like the excess of a thick soup. 

Sweat cascades across his body. His legs begin to quiver. The blistering ache almost becomes a second home. Still, Viktor refuses to relent and soon, he sits in a pool of his warm, oozing blood and gapes at his work of art. Sloppily engraved into his pale-white flesh are deep-red incisions spelling out your last distinguishable message. 

A sense of pride fills his chest at the prospect of displaying his level of reverent devotion to you. At the prospect of earning his place at your side, to a degree where the pain seems like an afterthought. Huffs of lightheaded, delirious laughter fill the empty silence. Unbeknownst to him, a lazy finger makes contact with the Hexcore.

The Hexcore then begins to tremble, palpitating like the speeds of Viktor’s heavy heart. A light then floods from the runes and drowns the room in its blinding effort. Through the flashes of white, Viktor is overwhelmed with visions of an uncharted territory. Tall trees align the edges of a pathway, where whispers of incomprehensible incantations dance with the cold winds.

“SAN T  RY”, the phrase that has haunted him for weeks, finally receives its final pieces. 

A few bolts of prismatic lightning from the Hexcore and the word “SANCTUARY” glistens in a blinding presentation on his thigh.

And without another second wasted, that is exactly where he rushes to.

On the outskirts of the Under-City, Viktor stands at a clearing in a deep, overgrown forest. The trees that swayed in his vision from before are identical to those here, aligning the path he has been treading on. Blood continues to hasten down his thighs and into the dirt beneath his bare feet. Despite the searing pain, he continues forward. With the inevitability of losing you just upon the horizon, no pain in the world could falter his efforts now. The fear is more formidable than any torture he could endure. 

As he continues limping forward, the ground suddenly begins to rumble violently. The force of it sends him to his knees, his frail hands digging into the soil for stability. A whirlwind then sprouts from the ground, forming a thick cloud of dirt and wind around him. Viktor cowers into himself in a desperate attempt at protection.

This tornado accelerates and spreads, engulfing him in its entire wrath. Roots then pierce out the soil and stretch into two tree trunks, chunks of dirt spattering upon the aggressive intrusion. The roots soar into the air and intertwine with one another, intricate grooves of warm brown slithering up their jagged bark. They soon meet and their limbs intertwine like two loving hands, forming an oval shape.

Just before he is sure the force of this whirlwind will take his body with it, the wind reaches its breaking point and bursts into the air. The storm has now been reduced to a gentle fog resting against the forest floor. The ground stops rumbling, the whirlwind eases, and Viktor can finally see the night sky in sheer clarity.

Trailing his vision forward, his attempts at standing are halted when he finds the newly-grown trees. The space within the oval has been filled by a sort of gray haze, almost like a portal. It is reminiscent of a surface of water, Viktor notes. Glistening like a midsummer lake beneath sunlight, with hues of violet and blue swirling around the edges. There are icicles descending from the leaves of the two trees like a weeping willow, as well, which sparkle in swaying hues of the same tones.

Scrutinizing further, Viktor is almost certain he can discern what lies beyond this newfound portal, but the mist is too distorted for him to reach a conclusion. When the image of you flickers through his mind, he garners strength he did not know he possesses. He then barrels past the threshold in animalistic speed. His vision is overwhelmed with a blinding white as he lands with a violent thump, before it eases back to its normal precision. 

The clean pavement is harsh against his skin as he stands to his feet. Illuminated by heavy moonlight, Viktor finds himself on a quiet street. There are a myriad of shops and centers aligning the pathway as he saunters through. A library, a performance hall, an alchemist’s laboratory, a farmers market — an entire civilization has been cultivated right beneath the nose of the Under-City.

He limps over to several of the locations, pounding his fists on the door, calling out his lover's name, but none of his efforts are brought to fruition. Soon, he abandons his intention of entering the locked premises and continues onwards. 

When he reaches the end of the street, Viktor discovers a tree that could touch the moon with its tall height. The trunk is almost as thick as a building with several holes punctured into the wood. From these holes, a blue and violet hued sap bleeds out and cascades into a fountain centered in front of the tree. Blossoming leaves adorned in these same colors stretch down from its branches and nearly graze the ground.

Through the leaves, golden lights flicker with warmth. Here, the broad branches of the colossal tree support the weight of several homes, all connected to one another with wooden bridges. One of the larger branches hidden beneath the canopy of leaves serves as a form of bridge. Surrounding this tree are towering mountains, which this bark-woven bridge leads to.

Viktor thought crossing the bridge to Piltover would reach the height of his amazement, but Topside riches have never left him this breathless. Then again, he has yet to find something that engrosses him with wonder the way you do. 

When the tip of his foot collides with the edge of the fountain, he realizes he has been mindlessly wandering forward, too enthralled with the sights he has discovered to care for clarity. He attempts to scrutinize further, before his body is overcome with a sudden rush of lethargy. He collapses against the edge of the fountain and clings to the corners for stability. Blood seeps from his nose and oozes onto the pristine stone. 

Before Viktor can scold himself for this disgusting weakness of his, two pairs of arms ensnare around his waist and hoist him to his feet. A sparkle of hope tells him it is you, but with flesh too smooth and bones too prominent, his delusions are brought to a halt before they could even run free. The appearance of these two remains a mysterious blur as they guide Viktor forward. 

In his sluggish state, he watches his feet travel up the staircase wrapped around the trunk, limping past the lively houses, and across the bridge connecting the tree with the mountains. And passing this bridge was not reminiscent of his previous journey into Piltover, no. Had it not been these strangers keeping him upright, he’d have collapsed to his knees upon the newfound sight before him.

Nothing short of a palace has been built into the mountainside. Those familiar tones of blue and violet paint the expanse, accentuated with a rich gold. Stained glass windows reflect in the moonlight and irradiate the land in its colorful glow. Ensnaring the walls is a beautiful ivy, where Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers adorn the growing vines and blanket the intricate, elegant architecture. 

A grand waterfall descends from the mountains above the palace and into the several rivers spreading throughout the land, meeting the fountain below in its journey, as well. The palace is almost a moat, but the sea of trees disturb any attempt of obtaining the title. The trees resemble the several he has already seen with drooping leaves and twinkling icicles, painting the land in heavenly hues of that familiar azure and violet. 

It is far more extravagant and palatial than anything he has ever seen in Piltover. It is more grand than anything he has ever seen in his entire life, for the matter. He couldn’t conjure a better estate for you than this, as you deserve to rest in the pinnacle of luxury and opulence. And this palace is not lacking in those areas in the smallest slight. 

Dragging forward (as Viktor has completely abandoned using his feet anymore), they pass through the stone-carved doors and enter the palace. Once through the entrance, Viktor begins to study the interior. And the interior is an almost perfect reflection of the exterior. 

Blue and violet permeate the expanse through surrounding furniture and decor, most of which support the weight of art sculptures and trinkets Viktor fails to discern in his lethargic state. They go hand-in-hand with the spreading greenery, which you have evidently and happily allowed to perfuse throughout the entire place. 

These details spread through the several twists and turns these helpful strangers drag Viktor through. They finally reach a halt in one of the numerous rooms.. Softly, they loosen their grasp and guide him to the ground. They promptly take their leave without a single word spoken.

A greenhouse is where he has found himself, he assumes. The walls and ceilings all consist of windows, with intricate white frames woven across all surfaces. The edges of the stone pathways beneath his feeble body are adorned with hedges and flowers, all varying in different colors. They compliment the wisteria drooping from several miniature trees, their thin branches adorned with several ornaments that exude a golden light. 

Languidly bringing himself to his feet, once again, he finds one of the larger wisteria trees hovering over a pond. It resides in the corner with a small arrangement of rocks surrounding the edges, supporting the stream of a small waterfall leading into the pond. Here, birds surround the stream and bathe their feathers. 

The embodiment of tranquility, that is how Viktor would describe this. He almost considers the possibility he had died in that hospital bed and this was the heaven waiting for him. All that is missing in his nirvana is you- oh, God, it’s you.

Simply shifting his gaze to the left, he finds a slab of stone residing in the middle of all this greenery. Upon the surface are several clay pots and cloth-woven bags overflowing with fertilizer. And tending to these products is no other than you. 

A strange, overwhelmingly perfect light radiates from your body. Beneath this light, he finds you are draped in a cloak of varying adornments, all shimmering in opalescent hues. There are jewels and crystals sewn into your torso, pearls and wind chimes dangling off shoulders. There are feathers draped down your arms, with seashells aligning your ankles. Harp strings are woven around your every limb and tied into pretty knots. Your body is a centuries-old story told through the embellishments aligning your flesh. 

And Viktor, oh Viktor. 

No words could encapsulate the ethereal, deific, uncanny, godlike emotions this moment has overwhelmed him with. 

There is no room to merely think with these feelings suffocating his brain. It is as though the melody of your love has swelled in their highest magnificence, the Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers blossoming into its most surreal beauty. It is the perfect moment.

Everything he has ever wished for conjured up into a single creature; the light at the end of the tunnel every sorry soul dreams of reaching — he almost doesn’t even believe it to be true. As though the creeping hands of his desires have ensnared their hands around his throat, allowing him one last morsel of illusory bliss before his life fades. 

When you then turn over your shoulder, blessing him with the sight of your beautiful, tragically beautiful face, there is no denying the authenticity. This moment leaves a harsh toll on his physical state, as well. 

Viktor’s eyes begin to roll back into his skull, but he strives against the force to continue indulging his vision in this glorious sight. Nausea pulsates in his stomach like a wrangling insect, but a few hard swallows keep the sickness at a weak bay. His knees tremble, threatening to buckle once again, but he maintains his posture with acute effort. 

It is a battle against him and his body, of which inevitably, leads to failure. Throat pulsing with gagged coughs, Viktor then leaps to the ground and finds a nearby, empty plant pot. He empties his guts into the container. The excess looks like coffee grounds; all blood-stained and chunky. Guilt and shame are expected, but they have no room to thrive. Not when you are here.

He is, in fact, met with the very opposite when he watches from his periphery as you tread closer and bend down to his level. Weakness overwhelms him as he begins to digest more of your physicality. His body sways again from the weight of it all, beginning another descent back to the ground. You halt the motion by catching his cheek in your palm. The effort is enough to set his skin aflame, with a simultaneous bitter chill tickling down his spine. 

His body is overwhelmed with these suffocating emotions, but is also blissfully light and peaceful. Horrifying euphoria stirred with devastating tranquility — a delicious juxtaposition. 

And the way Viktor looks at you could rival the most devoted of religious followers finding the face of heaven. Eyelids lazy and drooping, framing the glassy tears building in his honey-brown eyes. His gaze is buried into you, more attentive than he has ever been with his brows furrowed into a weak, stuttering curl. Mouth hung agape in fervent shock, drool pools on his tongue and his bottom lip trembles like a child who skinned their knee.

He doesn’t even think before he’s leaning in to kiss you. 

“This was not an easy effort, I can imagine.” 

His intentions are bluntly interrupted, yes, but he could not have imagined a better way to be halted. A deific incantation, a call straight from heaven, a harmony the world's best musicians have devoted their whole lives trying to emulate — that is how Viktor would best describe the tones that drift from your lips. In fact, your voice catches him off guard to such an aggressive degree, he forgets he had even tried to foolishly kiss you in the first place.

“If I may ask, how did you find us?” 

A flurry of words drift through Viktor’s head, toppling out of his mouth through stuttering gasps and pathetic attempts at the human language. It all becomes a mess of English and his mother tongue the further Viktor trails on of how he found the sanctuary, his first encounter with you as a child, and all the turmoil he gleefully endured just for this moment. Sprinkled in with gallons upon gallons of praise, of course. 

There is some clarity, however. Fragments, albeit, but he does manage to establish coherency. One statement strikes abundantly clear.

“My Y/N, there is not a line in the world that I would not cross for you.” 

And of course, inevitably…

“I love you.” 

Those three words, heavier than the world he’s been blessed to stand on with you, continuously tumble out of his mouth. Viktor repeats the same sentiment again and again and again, each time possessing the same heart-shattering devastation. 

You do not react, however. Despite his wishes for you to be overcome with euphoria upon receiving his confession of devotion, all you do is stare. You do not return his affection, either, but he is too muddled to notice this. 

“You work beside Jayce Talis, correct?” 

Viktor’s eye twitches. A flicker of betrayal catches flame, but the ignition is weak.

“Then, I am sure you have heard the Council speak about the influx of ‘Shimmer’, as they have titled it.” 

The jealousy (that failed to overpower the miserable rapture, albeit) is eased instantly. If it is not Jayce you are concerned with, then what is it about Shimmer that has engrossed his beloved so? 

“As gutted as I am to admit my faults, I am partially responsible for this distribution.” 

Through the distorted daze of Viktor’s jubilation, he clings to your every words. You? Y/N? A drug lord? This does not make any sense… 

“I am not aware how, but someone has grasped possession of my Dusk-Petals. They are only bred at my hand, so I fail to understand where they have retrieved them, but nonetheless, they have obtained them. They have derived the possessive component of my Dusk-Petals and have utilized the essence as the major component in this “Shimmer”. All for the sake of power and profit.”

Not a word is uttered from Viktor as your explanation settles. His darling has been so overcome with guilt and he was so oblivious! He attempts to scavenge the power to adorn you in reassurances, but beneath the weight of your light, he might as well have been a lifeless corpse on the stone pavements of your greenhouse.

“If I had a…” 

Your gaze returns to his, expectantly. He nods along dumbly to every word parting from your mouth.

“Messenger, of sort, I may garner the opportunity to halt the expansion of this poison.” 

A gasp, equivalent to that of one witnessing a murder, flees from Viktor’s chest. Yes, yes, yes, a million times, yes! 

“Oh, my Y/N, you do not have to ask! Of course I will help you!” 

He attempts to scoot closer to you, practically throwing himself into your warm arms. You hinder this effort. 

“You… Y/N, you could shatter this entire world to nothing but scattered shards and I would crawl over the sharp glass with utter elation! As long as I can deliver whatever demand you send directly into your palms, I will do it all with a smile-!” 

He interrupts himself with a coughing fit, rendered breathless from his own blabbering. He scrambles to wipe his hand of the inevitable blood that has spattered from his throat. In this effort, however, he is startled to find no blood at all. Not even a mere drop. 

His gaze returns to you in all your heavenly form. You return his gaze, almost knowingly. His body cannot resist just melting beneath your attention.

“I love you, sweet angel.” Viktor confesses for the umpteenth time. “I cannot feel anything but my love for you.”

Your expression remains blunt and calm, as it remains stagnantly. Nothing short of utterly bewitching.

“Very well.”

Like the triumph of a curtain call, Viktor’s dreams have come true: to heal and obtain strength. After an entire lifetime, he is finally strong. Here, beneath the light of you, everything sings. 

Now, his dreams have shifted. Viktor will be your loyal warrior. 

No matter what it takes.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ I WILL LOVE YOU TILL I DIE AND

I WILL LOVE YOU ALL THE TIME . . . ❞

gif creds.

(you are free to imagine Y/N however you’d like to. nonetheless, this and this were my inspiration for what Y/N looks like, in case you were wondering. (nothing adhering to the gender or physicality, just their style and character!)).

tag list: @honey-beeuwu @mrprettycom @makangelo @thelonelyme @solavily @eldritch-bunny @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @orbitingmarswithp @frickidyfrog @phantomdomi @mermaidm0tel6 @numbu5 @applepinsss @anon34570 @biohazardousbunny @vogelaqwry @lorely788 @mellowangeltree @myathegoat @alix-37 @lavandercinnamon @vrnicky @mellowfishauthoreggs

[wroteclassicaly]

For The Record

(Steve Harrington x Female Reader)

Summary: You have a surprise for your best-friend Steve.

Word count: 1,647

Warnings: Language, NSFW, creampie, vaginal sex, slight choking, slight breeding kink if you squint, and fluff.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

A/N: Just a filthy little thing that I’ve been nurturing for a few days. No point to it, just showing Stevie some love! Haven’t written anything this lengthy in a while, but I hope y’all enjoy? ;P 💕❤️🥰♥️

Steve. Steve-fucking-Harrington. The heart of your group with a head of hair (that you’d washed, brushed, picked monster guts out of, and pulled, one too many times), a comforting smile that reminded you of Summer’s fading sunsets that give way to fall colors. All copper, rust, orange, mossy caramels swirling together, deep browns that look like cinnamon (smells like the gum he chews, or the breath spray he carries in his back pocket), sometimes even red in how his cheeks tinge on cold days, the way he makes your body warm. To his protective - fighter mode, like a crafted out of the finest marble guardian-angelic-god.

You’d worship at his temple. All day. Every single day.

His mouth has been in as many places as his hands. He knows every scar, just as much as he’s aware of spots, in which kissing you will cause goosebumps to electrify, sparking themselves known across your skin, or where his fingers will cause that high pitched whine to come from between your lips. You can’t really fathom that it’s been happening, especially for how long. There’s been no talk of labels, what anything means, it’s just been two friends crossing a line and fucking one another on it. You don’t know what you would’ve done, had it not been for Steve-the-hair-Harrington, King Steve, your extra heartbeat, your best-friend, your everything.

And that’s what led you to your current predicament, your planned leap of faith. Wrapped in a maroon colored mini gift bag, you had placed the packet. Steve arrived not long after, movies and pizza balanced in his massive hands, keys dangling from the middle finger of his left hand, a cheesy grin pressing into that beautiful mouth. “Hey, honey,” he had said. “Really missed you today, you know that?”

You’d taken in his appearance of dark Levi’s and a black belt, his signature Nike’s, and a low dipped white v-neck that he’d thrown a plain blue button over, leaving it open, his gold chain visible, nestled in that patch of chest hair. Salivating more at him than the food, it took you a second to help him inside.

You ate in avid chatter, watched one of the lamest, but most comforting horror films Steve could find on the shelves (that no one rented but he knew you’d appreciate), whilst being tucked beneath his bicep, warmed at his side. That’s when you’d retrieved the gift off your coffee table, his palm rubbing circles across your spine, kneading tension until you returned to your position. You handed him the bag and his bushy brows had pinched together, an adorable confusion clear. “For me? What did I do?”

“Just open it, Harrington. Before my nerves make me take it back.”

He cradled the parcel protectively, a pout forming as his watch strapped wrist dips inside. “No way, no how. Nope, not now.”

“Steve…” you laughed lightly, suddenly swallowing as he pulled the packet out, trying to make sense of the name.

“Contraceptive? I don’t… Isn’t this birth control?” He shook the packet before planting it in his massive palm.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, choking you like a vice, preventing you from answering in a full sentence.

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s yours? Why did you wrap it up and give it to me?”

“There’s a few missing already, Steve. I just wanted to get used to them before… Before I told you.”

“Told me, what?” He still looked puzzled, seeking out where you’d opened the package and taken a few tablets.

“That I just wanna use these from now on. Nothing else. If you, if that’s okay with you...?” You had felt the sharp claws of the butterflies, threatening to demolish your remaining courage. But this was Steve, you needed to remember that.

It took him a few moments, but then his pupils expanded within the enriching mossy flecks of his irises, at a rapid pace. His tongue licked at the five o’clock shadow above his upper lip. His voice, you’ll never forget how it sounded. Honey-hot and hoarse, raspy with bitten want, raw fucking desire. You’d clenched your thighs together, tongue eager to lick him… every-fucking-where — the burn of it felt on the muscle’s tip.

“Isn’t that something you do with a boyfriend, though? Not casual sex with a good friend, one of your best-friends?”

And you nod, vision swimming with shapes. Had you messed up? Fuck it. “It is.” Is what you’d responded with, taking the packet from him and tossing it with the bag back onto the table. The movie was rolling credits in the background and you were watching Steve’s dotted jugular as he swallowed, showcasing those tendons, all the way up to that stubble bitten jawline, dotted with freckles and moles.

“And who is your boyfriend, honey?” He had to hear you say it. If it’s what he thought it was, or you’d simply break his heart and move on to this guy. Could he really believe in a good thing again?

You leapt off that faithful precipice, years and feelings following, eyes locking, gaze unrelenting. “I was hoping it would be you.”

He was obviously choked up, orbs alight with mirth and excitement, among other things. “Funny that you mention that, because I’ve been hoping for the exact same thing.”And he’d fallen into your arms, seizing you with a kiss, noses nudging, tongues eager and messy. Clothes couldn’t come off fast enough.

The king sized condom lays unopened on your plush blush rug. Having fallen out of Steve’s wallet, that had also tumbled from his jean pocket in haste. Everything was out of control in the best possible way. You could’ve sworn you died a few minutes prior and came back as immortal — able to see through particles that floated on the air, hear cars, horns, music from houses all across town, smell the leaves that clung to the trees, damp with rain water and Autumn air. Your eyes roll back, perspiration damp behind the backs of your knees, where he’s got his current pinching grip, the fat of your thighs pressed into your tits, squishing them.

You realize in the moment, that you truly loathe condoms. Because this? Feeling that wet pre-cum smear down his shaft and around your opening as he pushed himself into you without a barrier for the first time, it was an indescribable experience. Each ridge, every vein, so hot, soft, and fucking, soaking wet. You aren’t sure where he ends and you begin. It hurts like hell, aches in the deepest parts of you, a place you know that he could easily put a child if you slipped up on your only remaining protection.

That thought makes you tighten around him, cream spilling out and further slicking back the curls gathered at his base. He drops your thighs, sweat-slick pelvis smashing into yours, stimulating your swollen clit. His chest hair scrapes against your pebbled nipples, making you arch your back and your toes curl, legs locking around his lower waist. He whines, palm coming up to grasp at your breast, calloused thumb strumming around your areola. “God, honey, your fucking nipples were made for my mouth to suck on.”

And he’s descending, his lips closing over one, tongue flicking and stimulating. You cry out, hand fisting into his honey streaked, chestnut locks. His shoulders work and bend, the dips and freckles and moles visible, glittering with the salt of sweat, his gold chain swaying out from his hairy chest and back again when he stops, nose bumping yours, hot breath on your mouth. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

And holy hell, his vocalizing focus doesn’t cease. “Who took your virginity, honey?” You both know it wasn’t him. But you are well aware what he’s getting at, and as he gives a harsh snap, those full and fat balls smacking your slick ass, you lose further coherency. “That’s right,” he’s speaking again. “They don’t matter, but I do.”

You weren’t aware that you could make the noises that you are. Only able to speak once Steve’s tugging himself and pulling out, stringing from your cunt to his shaft, a squelch echoing. You both groan, emptiness already jumpstarted. You plead for him. “Please, Stevie, need you! Put it back in —“

“Say it, say you’re just a hole for me to fill. That you’re only mine, baby.”

“I… Fuck! Stevie, all my holes are only yours, I’m only yours!”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, before his jaw drops open and he whimpers. His hand leaves your breast and slides across your sternum, your collarbone, and settles at your neck. You nod to encourage, and those defined digits wrap around your throat.

“Tell me you love these big hands, sweetheart. Because they’re for you. They belong to you!”

“Want them all over me, Steve. All the time. Can’t get enough of you.”

He’s holding firm to his cock, stroking and teasing. You lick your lips as you stare at it, drooling. Reaching down, you tap his wrist (his arm, all muscles and tendons, thick and available to trace with your tongue), as he presses the thick red head into your clit, smearing the combination of you two all around. You mewl in appreciation, legs stretching so far apart that your muscles protest. He’s speaking next, panting out, “Like that? Hey, look at me. He grabs your chin, thumb tugging down your bottom lip. “Like. That?”

Your lip releases with a plop.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop, Steve, never wanna not feel you again, baby boy!”

“That’s a good girl, that’s my girl.” He circles your sore opening and slips back inside with a loud, wet ease. You bite back the burning pain, welcoming the damp tears of pleasure along your lashes.

Your manicured nails cling to his back, his chest gliding along yours, heartbeat to hammering heartbeat. It’s frantic whispers and begging cries. And when he’s close to coming, you find his cheek with one hand, holding. “For the record, you’ve never been casual to me, Steve Harrington.”

// Eat me paragraph //

[cchrysallis]

You sure you still want to be a proxy?

Sometimes you ask yourself how you ended up here, in this life.

Same routine — wake up, patrol the forest, kill, hunt, come home, clean your weapons, sleep. The cycle repeats. Every. Damn. Day.

Some proxies like it.

Most who tolerate it had no future to begin with — just another broken child, another failure, another horror in the system.

They had nothing.

They were “saved” by the Operator — that blessed excellence that drains you every day — the cancer under your skin.

Those who couldn’t tolerate it... they had something.

A future.

God, you still remember how Brian’s shoulders used to drop whenever someone brought up psychology, or that café he used to go to every morning during college.

He had a future.

He had a life — and it was stripped from his hands like a mother taking candy from a child’s mouth.

It’s pathetic.

They all fight for space, for approval, for survival in the woods — forgetting that deep down, they were all the same children who heard doctors whisper to their mothers that there was no cure.

Gurneys, gloves, syringes, files.

All lab rats.

All puppets.

All clawing for scraps from a man in a suit behind a desk, sending mission after mission just to see what the human mind does when it breaks.

You see how Tim comes back—exhausted.

He can’t take it anymore.

The dark under his eyes says it louder than his mouth ever will, or the way his cigarette keeps slipping from his trembling fingers.

You used to ask how his night went after his endless patrols through the woods.

But his eyes told you everything:

God doesn’t walk these woods anymore.

Run — or be consumed.

You see how Brian returns — mud on his camera, blood on his hands, breath heavy.

His eyes cut into your skin every time you dare speak after he walks through the door.

You remember it well — his worn eyes while he cleaned the barrel of his gun.

"Clean the barrel, or let it jam when it counts. You decide."

He taught you how to clean a weapon.

He taught you prayers won’t sanctify your blood — but a tourniquet just might.

God is not in these trees anymore.

But out of everyone — out of every soul working under this cursed thing —

it’s him that unsettles you.

The twitching boy.

The one with the tangled hair.

The bloody axe.

The filthy hoodie.

The leather boots.

The fucked-up jokes.

Goddamn — he’s a fucking maniac.

He kills.

He enjoys it.

He comes back brighter.

He feels pure curiosity in the face of agony.

And you ask:

Does he feel guilty?

Guilt?

He chews the word like cartilage stuck in his teeth.

Guilt is for those who pretend they had a choice.

He didn’t choose this.

He became it.

Like rot becoming part of the bone.

Like rust becoming part of the blade.

Like the axe becoming part of his anatomy.

Like the Proxy symbol carved into his skin like a cancer — slow and patient.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

But still — you think you can fix him.

Patch him up like some broken doll, spit out and painted over, left to rust in a scrapyard collecting dust for eternity.

You always think you know everything, don't you?

You think you're above it — smarter than the roots, the moss, the stench. You think you're sharper than every single bone buried beneath your snow covered boots.

You always think you were smarter than the trees — but they think you taste the same as the others.

Now you know it. You carve the symbol, you bury your name, remember that.

But you aren't afraid of the woods anymore, don't you? You know them. You walk like you belong here now — maybe you do.

That's why you did it.

You walked to his cabin in the dead of night, feeling the cold air graze your skin, the wind whispering in your ears — as if the trees were greeting you.

You sat on the couch in that godforsaken cabin.

The air stank — like rotting meat soaked into the walls.

Ash-covered tube TV.

Ashtrays filled with crushed cigarettes.

Torn carpet.

That old brown couch with holes exposing the yellow foam inside.

And the fireplace still burned — not for warmth, but maybe to keep something worse from crawling in.

And there he was.

Sitting.

Sharpening the blade of his axe.

Tic after tic.

Laugh after laugh.

You couldn’t help but watch him — every line of his face, every twitch of his mouth, every ripple of muscle as the whetstone kissed the edge of steel.

You remember that night clearly — the firewood crackling like bone under pressure.

The silence chewing into your skin like teeth in slow motion.

You remember the question.

"Why do you use an axe?"

And what you got back was just a low laugh — a twitch at the mouth, then the shoulder before he answered.

"B-because it’s f-fun. Nh-h-hm… G-guns end too f-fast. Kn-knives s-s-slip. But this?.."

He lifted it slightly — like showing off a pet.

"Y-you f-feel it... down t-to the bone. They ss-scream and crawl and — nh-hhh — th-that’s the b-best part.

He chuckled — raising the axe in front of him like a muse, like something holy.

"It’s fun to w-watch ‘em… l-listen to th-them plea… b-beg… ffuck—sometimes they cry."

And you could see the memories crawl through his eyes.

Hell, you could almost hear the screaming — right before the skull split down the center.

And it was that night you finally understood.

There are no rosaries in these woods to cleanse you.

No saints to hear you.

No angel names strong enough to stop the blood from warming against your neck.

The forest only respects the sound of a trigger — and the silence that comes after.

You shoot before you cry.

You bury before the crows arrive.

You learn to scrub the blood off your coat before the cold freezes it stiff and shatters you with it.

Because in this land, climbing up is just a slower way to drown.

You rise through the ranks on a staircase made of rib cages and broken promises.

Each step is a name you forget.

Each rung, a piece of you that never comes back.

And when you finally reach what you thought was the top — there’s no light.

Just more woods.

More eyes.

And one truth carved into your soul:

God doesn’t walk where the mud swallows the crosses.

You are no different from the others who fight to survive.

You just bleed quieter.

You run with clenched teeth.

You learned not to scream when the blade goes in.

Everyone here kills to eat — or dies to teach.

No one’s special in the woods — not even you.

The only thing that keeps you from rotting next to the others is how well you carry your own silence without losing your mind.

And if one day you think you’re stronger, smarter, chosen — remember this:

The woods eat the proud before the weak.

Because the weak pray — but the proud answer.

And here? The ones who dares to answer vanishes.

You survive because you’ve accepted being less than human when needed.

Because you know an empty stomach is more merciful than a stranger’s bullet.

Because you’ve killed with a shiver down your spine and hunger in your eyes — and didn’t apologize after.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if you cry or spit.

If you pray or bite.

If you carry a rosary or a blade.

Everyone turns to dirt just the same.

And in the end, there is no purity left.

Not the name they gave you at baptism.

Not the smell of your mother’s kitchen.

Not the memory of her smiling before the world turned its back.

What’s left is what you did.

What you lost.

What you left behind just to keep breathing.

Because when the blood dries on your knuckles, and the trail swallows your footsteps — you realize you were never the exception.

You were never the victim.

You were never the curse.

You were never the salvation.

You’re just another body in motion.

Another weapon with hunger.

Another silence with legs.

You are no different from Brian. From Tim. From Toby.

Not by choice.

But because now — like them —

you’ve gone too far to come back.

[v1kastr4p]

smoke in her lungs, ash on her hands // 1

sevika x fem!reader enemies to lovers

Chapter 1: Smoke, Steel, and the Scent of Lavender

Zaun never truly slept.

The Undercity was alive with the grind of machinery, the hiss of exhaust from shimmer pipes, and the ever-present buzz of life just clinging on. Y/N knew the rhythm of it better than her own pulse. Her boots tapped a staccato rhythm down rusted metal grates as she crossed the narrow bridge into the market district, satchel hanging from her shoulder and curls half-tamed beneath her shawl.

She wasn’t dressed like much—a faded brown wrap, loose pants tucked into weathered boots, her belt jingling slightly from scissors and vials she hadn’t had the chance to put away. Her fingers still smelled of antiseptic and sage from a poultice she’d made that morning. She was tired. She always was. The kind of tired that settled in your marrow and made you crave silence, warmth, something sweet.

But just as she turned down a quieter alley, she saw it.

Blood. Not pooled—dripped. Fresh. Bright arterial red.

It led behind a stack of rotting crates behind an abandoned shimmer lab, the stench of chemical burn thick in the air. She stepped forward slowly, instinct overriding reason. Her breath caught in her throat as she spotted the collapsed form behind the crates—sprawled out in a patch of oil, breathing in wet gasps, hands shaking.

He was barely a man, maybe a year or two older than her—Zaun-born, inked across his throat in an old gang brand, his jacket torn and soaked with blood. One arm hung useless, bones shattered and sticking out at the elbow. His face was a mess of bruises, lips split, one eye swollen shut. He looked like death already had its fingers wrapped around his throat.

"Shit," Y/N whispered, already dropping to her knees beside him.

“Don’t…” he gasped, flinching. “She’s… she’ll come back.”

“Not if I get you out of here in time,” she snapped, already unfastening her satchel, eyes scanning the damage.

The boy was half-conscious, too far gone to resist when she jabbed him with a painkiller and started bandaging his wounds, wrapping tight with surgical gauze and splinting his arm with metal scrap from the alley. He didn’t speak again.

She carried him the whole way back—5’3” of sheer willpower and adrenaline, dragging his nearly dead weight through side alleys and rat tunnels until she made it to her little home, tucked beneath a collapsed chem processing plant. Her clinic was crude but clean. Handmade tables, glass bottles lined neatly on wood shelves. She patched him up in silence, sweat sticking curls to her cheeks as her hands moved with practiced speed.

She never asked names. Never gave hers.

That was how she survived.

But Sevika wasn’t a woman who liked surprises.

The lab was still smoking when she arrived—long strides, coat sweeping behind her, metal arm humming with leftover fury. She stepped over corpses, crushed canisters, the smell of burnt flesh and melted steel curling in her nostrils.

“Where the fuck is he?” she snarled, kicking over a half-destroyed desk.

“He was here,” one of her scouts muttered. “Didn’t die here though. Got dragged out. There's... tracks.”

Sevika’s nostrils flared.

He shouldn’t have lived.

He had information.

Schematics. Formulas. Shit his gang wasn’t supposed to know. Silco had sent her to erase the problem—clean and silent. But now the problem had legs again, and worse: a story to tell.

Her fury bubbled under her skin like a second pulse.

It didn’t take long to find the trail.

Zaun whispered. Someone had seen a curly-haired girl in a brown wrap hauling a body through the industrial quarter. Sevika followed the scent of antiseptic and blood, boots echoing through the old tunnels, until she found the place—small, barely a shack, tucked into the skeleton of a broken factory. Too neat. Too quiet.

She didn’t knock.

The door crashed open under her boot, slamming against the wall.

Inside, Y/N jumped.

She was tying off a linen wrap around her wrist when the door burst open, light from outside slashing across her face. She turned sharply, curls spilling over her shoulder, eyes wide and dark and startled.

“What the hell—?” she began, but stopped.

Because the woman that stepped into her home wasn’t just anyone.

Sevika was massive. Steel-arm massive. Her presence sucked the air from the room. Smoke clung to her coat. Her eyes were metal—sharp, narrowed, set in a face carved from anger and war. Every inch of her said: I kill for a living.

“You,” Sevika growled.

“Me?” The younger woman blinked, setting the bandage aside.

Sevika was already across the room in two strides. Her metal arm shoved her hard—not even full force, just a warning. But it was enough. Y/N stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a shelf as glass vials rattled violently.

“You patch him up?” Sevika spat. “That rat with the broken arm?”

“He was bleeding out,” Y/N said, heart hammering but voice steady. “He needed help.”

“He needed to die.”

Y/N's jaw clenched. “That’s not my decision to make. I don’t choose sides—I treat whoever walks in needing help.”

Sevika’s mouth curled into something cold. Her voice dropped low and venomous. “You think this is a fucking charity? That bastard had intel. Dangerous intel. The kind that starts wars. You think you’re helping? You're giving them ammunition."

“I’m giving them a chance to live,” Y/N snapped.

Wrong move.

Sevika was in her face in a heartbeat, breath hot with rage, steel fingers curling like she was fighting the urge to grab her by the throat. Y/N refused to back down, though every inch of her trembled.

“You just made my job harder. And I don’t like that, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Y/N said, voice cracking like fire over frost. “And maybe if your job involves murdering bleeding people in alleys, someone should make it harder.”

A beat of silence.

Then Sevika laughed. A low, dangerous thing. No mirth in it—just disbelief.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” she said, circling her slowly like a predator. “But you just interfered in my business. You don’t get to cry innocence when that comes back to bite you.”

“I’m not innocent,” Y/N said quietly. “But I swore to help people. I don't ask what gang they belong to.”

Sevika stopped. Turned.

And for the first time, she looked at the girl.

Really looked.

Not at the shawl. Not at the clinic. At her.

Young, maybe mid twenties. Too soft for this world. But eyes like tempered steel, and a stubborn fire in her that hadn’t been stamped out yet. Sevika had expected some old crone, a babbling alchemist, a medtech dropout with more ambition than brains.

Not this.

Not dimples and defiance in the same breath.

She hated how surprised she was.

“You keep this shit up,” Sevika said, voice a low rumble, “you’re gonna end up dead. You hear me? Someone’s gonna gut you just to make a point.”

“Then they’ll have to try harder,” Y/N said.

Another beat.

And Sevika stepped back.

Not much. But just enough.

She tilted her head, cracked her neck like a wolf losing interest—for now.

“I see you patch him up again,” she said coldly, “I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t just shove you.”

“I won’t stop doing my job,” Y/N said, lifting her chin. “Even if you threaten me.”

Sevika’s smirk was dark. “Yeah. I figured.”

She turned and walked out, the door creaking in her wake, heavy boots thudding into the distance.

Y/N exhaled. Hard.

Her knees buckled as soon as the sound of footsteps vanished.

And yet, even as her hands shook, even as she went to pick up the vials that had fallen from the shelf… she couldn’t get those silver eyes out of her head.

Or the way Sevika had looked at her.

Like a warning. Like a promise. Like a storm just beginning to form on the horizon.

next part

[beefycupcakes]

I watched the Cars trilogy recently and with that came a wave of nostalgia and a strange desire to make my own designs for the cars as humans. Aka taking all the charm out of Cars but scratching the brain itch.

So, no need to drag out the intro any longer, I have some notes written out about em for those who might be interested or just bored.

Lightning McQueen:

I tried to make his suit look as professional as possible, with references pulled straight from McQueen's paint job/stickers, while also keeping in mind that I do intend to draw him more so I didn't want to go too crazy with the design. In a perfect world I would've let my maximalist cravings win, but alas let's keep it digestible for my sanity.

I feel like everyone's kinda on this unspoken agreement that McQueen as a human would pretty much look just like Owen Wilson, and that's the big picture here. I used Wilson as inspiration while tweaking and exaggerating a few things to my preference. (Okay, well not everyone, lmao.)

The chevron markings on the front cut off at the side seams not wrapping around the entire suit as to not clash with the sponsor logo on the back.

Also, he's wearing special gloves to help him grip & have control over the steering wheel. I think sometimes that looks a little weird when his sleeves are down & cuffed, but I just feel like he needs to have the gloves there— especially when he comes out of the top half of the suit. (It's also lowkey supposed to mirror his 4 tires when you consider his shoes are also black.)

So yeah, that's basically all I have to to say regarding Lightning McQueen's page. I feel like a lot of my design choices are self explanatory and, honestly probably shared universally... I mean, he's really cut & dry. (But I love him ⚡︎)

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Mater:

I'm not gonna lie, Mater was a bit challenging for me. I definitely had to step out of my comfort zone but I wanted to stay true to the character and not butcher anything.

My first thought was to give him a fishing pole to substitute for the tow hook— but then the more I was thinking about it, the more that felt so... out of place? Radiator Springs is in Arizona, which is (not entirely, but mostly depicted in the movie as) a desert. And even though there are beautiful bodies of water in Arizona, in the movie I don't recall seeing any prominent ones, at least in relation to Mater. So, scratch that, instead I gave him a lasso, which isn't supposed to entirely substitute for the tow truck— no, he still drives a tow truck, but the lasso is so he can grab people/things similarly to Tow Truck Mater (very cartoony). My explanation for this is the cattle ranch. Yeah, Mater is a tow truck driver but perhaps he has a side hustle, or hobby, if you will.

Also, I didn't want to make him... dirty(??) Like, yeah, of course, Mater would obviously get a bit filthy from time to time, it's just in his nature, but that is NOT going to be the core of my design. In regards to the rust happening on him, I felt like instead I would substitute this with being very tan. Again, Arizona is a desert. Because of this, he would take off his shirt often, and this would substitute for the missing hood like on Tow Truck Mater. The removal of the shirt also reveals just how tan Mater actually is.

It's his uniformed overalls that have his original aqua color, but from years of wear & tear they've been patched up with brown patches, this would also reference the rusting. The one strap is supposed to mimic the one headlight being broken, and I know that's a stretch, believe me, I wanted to do something with his eyes but eyes are not the headlights in the Cars universe..... think about this. Think about it really hard... if you know what the headlights are in the Cars universe then this actually makes perfect sense.

He is taller and wider than McQueen, which is a reference to the literal frame of their vehicle counterparts. (A little hard to picture with these images, but eventually I'll draw them together!)

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That's all I have to say really, but do let me know what you guys think! Gas it up and it might encourage me to make a part 2 with some of the other characters! Who would you like to see next? ♡ Thank you so much for reading & have a great day, Kachow!!

[nizhspo]

nantucket reds.

chapter one: ashtrays.

m.list | next

synopsis: you left missouri with two duffel bags and a busted car. you didn’t ask for a summer in nantucket. and you definitely didn’t ask for a lazy-eyed boy with tan skin, a sharp mouth, and a trust fund in his back pocket. but now you’re stuck with both.

pairing: rintaro suna x f!reader

the heat made everything stick.

shirts to skin. thighs to car seats. grief to the inside of your ribs.

you lived in kirksville, missouri. average income barely scraping 20k. high school dropouts, teen moms, and meth. it was the kind of town where kids got pregnant on accident and stuck around on purpose. where cars ran with cracked windshields and bald tires. where the only two things open 24 hours were a gas station and god.

your apartment complex sat on the edge of north lincoln street—the cracked end, past the dollar general and the tire shop with rotting flags. the road hadn’t been repaved in ten years, maybe more. the buildings were long rectangles of beige siding and chain-link fences, boxed in like the people inside them. behind it was a ditch full of beer cans and runoff. out front, a busted vending machine that only took quarters and only gave out sprite.

you’d lived here for four years. the longest you’d ever lived anywhere.

not because it was nice, because it wasn’t. the carpet was gray-brown with stains you didn’t put there. the drywall had holes punched through and patched over so many times it looked like bruised skin. the kitchen had one working lightbulb. the fridge was white and humming too loud, cluttered with rusted alphabet magnets and expired coupons. there were always roaches hiding in the corners, always at least one neighbor fighting with someone over something.

but you had a mattress. you had a routine. you had a front door that locked.

and that was more than you’d had most of your life.

when you were little, there was never one place for long. your mom was always chasing the next high or the next job, whichever came first. you’d crash in strangers’ houses, men with names like dewayne or lenny who smelled like cologne and ashtrays. some of them had kids of their own. some didn’t. some left you juice boxes and turned the cartoons on for you. some didn’t speak to you at all.

your mom always made sure you were protected. never left you alone with them. never let them near your room. she was never cruel. just broken. and broke.

you remember sleeping on blow-up mattresses that deflated overnight. sharing moldy couches with people definitely trying to outrun the law. places where the ceilings leaked and the power went out if someone ran the microwave and the AC at the same time, not that AC ever really existed.

you remember eviction notices, begging letters, payday loans. you remember the old neighbor lady across the hall dying in her recliner and no one noticing for four days until the smell seeped through the walls.

this place? the one-bedroom on lincoln street?

it was paradise in comparison.

your mom had turned the living room into your room when you were ninth grade. dragged your mattress out behind the couch and said, you’ll get more light out here, baby.

and you had. but light didn’t fix heat.

especially now. may was curling in at the edges, heavy and wet. the window unit had given out last summer and never came back. it was hotter inside than it was outside, but at least inside you didn’t have to look at what you were missing. at the few kids in town with working cars and working parents. at the grocery carts full of name brand cereal.

you had a summer job and a piece-of-shit car. you were saving every cent for college—not because you thought you’d make it out, but because hope felt like a habit you couldn’t break.

and that wasn’t to say your mom never tried. because god, she tried.

you heard stories sometimes. from aunt atsuko once, from people at church, from old neighbors who used to live next door. stories about your mom before the drugs. before you. about how she was the youngest of three, the baby. the one everyone thought would make it. how she got straight a’s and was on track for a scholarship, how she didn’t even smoke cigarettes back then. not until him.

your father. the one who put the first bruise on her.

you never knew him. not really, he disappeared sometime before you turned five. you remembered the sound of yelling, sometimes. the way your mom would flinch when the door slammed. how she always told you he loved you even when she didn’t believe it herself.

sometimes, when you couldn’t sleep, you tried to picture her the way they described her senior year of high school, bright-eyed, untouched. hopeful. probably with a big-ass smile and wild 80s haircut. before she met the man who would ruin her. before you became the reason she stayed ruined.

you wanted better for her, even if you’d never say it out loud.

but most nights now she came home smelling like hospital bleach and someone else’s sweat. the graveyard shift paid enough to keep the lights on. barely.

you knew she was doing more than cleaning. you weren’t stupid. you weren’t the kind of kid who believed the men picking her up and dropping her off when you couldn’t were just friends. you weren’t blind enough to think the landlord was accepting late rent out of the kindness of his heart.

you never said anything, but you knew.

sometimes, she’d crawl into the apartment at 4am and tuck a little cash in the envelope taped to the inside of the fridge. you’d already started paying for your own clothes by the time you were thirteen. groceries by fourteen. now you paid half the rent.

you worked gas stations, diners, fast food—anything that would pay you under the table when you were too young to clock in. legit now that you were over sixteen.

double shifts on weekends. back-to-back closings with school in the morning.

tonight, the air was thick with may and something else. something final. something heavy enough to make your lungs ache without moving.

you knew before she said it.

the ac had been completely out since spring break. not a dramatic death, just a slow one. first it stopped turning on by itself. then it started coughing. then it stopped altogether, and the heat crept in like mold.

you didn’t have the cash to fix it, not after gas, not after rent. and she hadn’t asked. she hadn’t asked for a while now. even when you offered, even when you tried to hand her a couple twenties you pulled from your diner apron—she’d always shake her head. always say keep it for yourself, or you deserve something nice, like either of you believed in things like that.

but the guilt had been blooming in her all year, quiet and restless.

she’d started spending more time in her room, hush-hush on the phone with the door crooked open, whispering between pauses. her voice always low, always tense. and when she looked at you, it was like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out, like she was trying to memorize your face before it changed.

you were laid out on your mattress, the same twin you’d had since you were a kid, just in a sports bra and shorts. a fan two inches from your body and still useless. sweat clung to your skin like saran wrap. your back stuck to the sheet every time you shifted.

that’s when she came in. door creaked open, same as always. footsteps slow, uneven. she set her bag down like it weighed more than her body. took the same seat at the kitchen table she always did, like muscle memory, like maybe if she sat there, she could still pretend things were okay.

but she didn’t pretend.

“y/n?” she called. “can you come here for a second?” her voice cracked on the end. just barely. you already knew it wasn’t good.

you peeled yourself off the mattress and came over.

she didn’t look at you right away. just stared at her hands, shaking, paper-thin, calloused at the knuckles from scrubbing industrial floors. her nails were chewed down. her wrist was still red from where the cleaning cart caught her last week.

when she finally reached for your hands, it felt like something collapsing. tears welled up in her eyes before she even spoke.

she was always emotional. always. but not like this. never like this.

was she using again?

your stomach flipped.

“i’m so sorry, baby.” her voice was barely more than a whisper.

you didn’t say anything. you just stared at her—at the woman who raised you in church basements and borrowed living rooms, who spent your childhood clawing her way out of a hole and then sliding back in when no one was looking. the woman who loved you harder than anyone ever would, but never had the tools to show it right.

“mom,” you said, careful. “what’s going on?”

she let out a breath, ragged, trembling, like her ribs were trying to hold something in that had been fighting to get out for years.

“i’ve failed you. i’ve failed you as a mother, and i hate that it’s taken me this long to admit it, but i have.”

a tear slipped down her cheek, slow and shaky, catching the kitchen light on its way down. she wiped it away quick like it betrayed her, like if she moved fast enough, it wouldn’t count. her jaw twitched. her shoulders were caved in, arms curled close to her chest like she didn’t know where to put them anymore. like she wanted to hold something and couldn’t figure out how to hold you.

you opened your mouth. tried to stop her. tried to say no, you didn’t, or it’s not your fault, or you did what you could. but the words caught somewhere in your throat and died there.

so you just looked at her.

looked at the rings under her eyes, deep and purple like bruises that never healed. looked at the frizz curling at her roots, that soft, wiry texture you both shared, now puffed and uneven, pressed back with a headband she hadn’t changed in weeks.

she was only thirty-eight, but when the light hit wrong, she looked older. tired in a way makeup couldn’t fix. worn like an old shirt you kept anyway.

“i don’t want to depend on you to get me to and from work,” she said, voice warping. “to keep the lights on. to make sure there’s food in the fridge. you’re my daughter. not my mother.”

“mom, please,” you started, chest aching. “it’s not your fault—”

“no, baby,” she said, cutting you off, eyes shining again. “it is my fault.”

her hands moved then, palms open, hovering just above the table like she didn’t trust herself to place them down. then they dropped, slow, curling in like claws. her body seemed smaller all of a sudden, collapsed into itself. she shook her head, more to herself than you.

“you’re smart, y/n. so smart. and so beautiful. and you’ve had to carry so much, and it’s not right. it’s not fair. and i don’t want that for you. i don’t want you to spend the rest of your life surviving like this. not when you could have something better.”

she rubbed her face with the back of her hand, not gentle, not pretty, just tired. raw. she exhaled like she’d been holding it for minutes. her fingers twisted together in her lap, knuckles pale, shoulders hunched tight like she was bracing for impact.

“i’ve been talking to your aunt atsuko.” there was a pause, a shift in the air, you could hear the fan sputtering behind you. her voice cracked on the next part. “and you’re going to nantucket this summer.”

you blinked, then: “the fuck i am.”

she flinched.

you didn’t curse at her often—not directly, not to her face. but you’d had your share of blowouts. especially in middle school, back when you thought you knew everything and wanted to prove it. back when you’d crash at friends’ houses for three days straight, ignore her calls, post half-naked selfies for older guys on social media.

you’d grown out of that. learned to stop hating her for the cards she couldn’t shuffle right. learned to shut up, take the rules, and at least try to be decent.

but this?

“y/n,” she started, soft. “i understand that—”

“no,” you said, laughing. but it was sharp, not funny. your body tensed, jaw tight. you stood up fast, the chair screeching against the floor. your hands curled into fists without you realizing it. “no. you can’t be serious right now.”

her mouth pressed into a tight line.

you could see it then—the fear she wasn’t saying. the shame.

“i understand you have a life here,” she said, measured. “but you deserve so much better than this… than me.”

you started pacing. tight circles between the kitchen table and the wall. your heart was pounding. your hands were shaking more than hers now. your voice rose with every step.

“so you’re just gonna send me away?” you turned to her, eyebrows raised. “like i’m some charity case?”

your mouth twisted around the words. “mom, she has all that money and couldn’t even send you to rehab. your sister’s a bitch. her kids—”

“they’re your cousins.”

“they’ve never even been to our house. you think they care about me?” you scoffed. “they’ll probably accuse me of stealing their silverware my first day there.”

“they’re not bad kids. and—”

“and you couldn’t care enough to be a mom the first seventeen years of my life,” you snapped, louder now. your hands were up, gesturing wild and angry. “and now you wanna be responsible?”

you pointed at her. not to threaten, but to accuse. to call it what it was.

“you’re still barely a mom. you think now’s the time to start pretending you give a shit?”

her face crumpled.

not all at once. not in a dramatic sob or some big collapse. just this tiny movement. a flinch. like your words hit her in the chest and broke something delicate. like she didn’t see the blow coming until it landed.

you didn’t mean it. not all of it, at-least. not like that. but you didn’t take it back either; because part of you was angry—not just at her, but at everything.

at how hard you had to fight for a life that didn’t want you back. at how she was still the only person you had, and still not enough. at how even when she tried, it felt like losing something.

you took a shaky breath.

“this is my last summer with my friends,” you said, quieter now but still trembling. “i have a job. i have responsibilities. i’m not going to play barbie at some country club just because you feel guilty about not being a mother.”

her resolve didn’t crack this time.

your words hit hard—they always did, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t cry again, didn’t beg you to understand. she just took it. let it roll through her like every eviction notice, every cold shoulder from her own family, every man who said i love you with his hands and then disappeared. she’d heard worse from people who didn’t even know her.

sure, it hurt more coming from her own daughter. but hurt was familiar. hurt was manageable. so when she spoke again, her voice landed clean. steady.

“you’re leaving in a week.”

no tremble. no softness. just fact. just final. just a mother doing the only thing she thought she had left to give.

“no, i’m not.”

“i am your mother,” she snapped. “you leave wednesday.”

you stared at her, eyes hot, throat thick.

“yeah?” you muttered. “we’ll see about that.” you grabbed your keys off the counter and stormed out.

the apartment complex was buzzing. box fans stuffed into cracked windows, neighbors yelling across balconies, someone’s toddler screaming in the stairwell. music vibrating through drywall, bass heavy and distorted. the whole building felt alive and rotting.

your beat-up honda sat crooked in its usual spot, its front bumper still zip-tied to the frame from that winter you spun out and kissed a dumpster. one of the headlights was fogged over. the inside was hotter than hell. the fake leather seats burned the backs of your thighs as you slid in.

you shoved the key in the ignition. gripped the wheel like it could anchor you.

you called issei.

he picked up on the second ring, voice thick with smoke or sleep, rough around the edges like he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. “you good?”

you looked out over the parking lot, busted streetlamp flickering like a dying pulse, some kid riding a bike too small for him in circles near the dumpster. the sky was this ugly, washed-out blue, swollen with heat.

“you won’t fucking believe what my mom just said.”

a pause.

you could hear him shift on the other end. maybe sitting up. maybe reaching for the blunt he always left in the ashtray by his bed.

“shit. what now?”

“can i just—“ you swallowed. hated how your voice caught, cracked right in the middle like a glitch in a song. “can i just come over?”

the just broke something in you. you hated that—being vulnerable like that, letting it slip out into the open where it didn’t belong. hated letting it be heard, especially by someone like him, someone who always seemed to look right through you, who only touched you when you wanted to forget shit, not remember it.

but tonight, the weight of it all, the house, your mom, the heat, the fucking helplessness: it sat too heavy in your chest. too much to carry alone.

another pause. longer. then: “yeah. door’s open.”

you didn’t say thank you. didn’t need to. you just turned the key in the ignition, peeled out of the lot with your windows down, the wind hot and full of whatever the hell was burning on main street.

…

issei matsukawa had technically only been a grade ahead of you, but he dropped out junior year after getting picked up on a possession charge.

you’d heard the story from someone at the diner your first week, that he’d been selling pills out of the back stairwell during third period. that someone snitched. that the cops came during lunch and pulled him out of the cafeteria like it was a scene out of a movie.

he only did juvie, since he was a minor, but he never went back to school. got his GED in a youth reentry program and started working full-time right after.

you met him when you started at the diner at sixteen, bussing tables and doing side work for tips until you could legally be on the register. he was already the line cook then, tall and bored-looking and permanently smelling like grease and smoke. he never talked much unless you were getting on his nerves or asking the dumb new girl questions—both of which you did often.

your old manager was a creep.

like, really a creep. arrested six months ago for soliciting minors online. it made the local paper and everything. the assistant manager got bumped up to fill his spot, and issei, who’d been there the longest and actually knew how to keep the place running, got slid into the supervisor role.

not because he wanted it. not because he was management material. just because there was no one else left.

he didn’t take it too seriously. he let people clock in five minutes late and stole fries from every plate that hit the window. but he liked you. not in the cheesy, flirty way most of the backline boys liked to “like” girls.

he liked you in the real way. the kind of way where he covered your shifts without making you owe him. the kind of way where he let you crash on his couch the night your mom locked herself in the bathroom with a bottle of smirnoff and three anti-anxiety pills. the kind of way where he’d listen when you needed to scream at someone and say nothing but damn, that’s rough and offer you the last hit of his blunt.

his apartment was in worse shape than yours, but it had its own door and two bedrooms, and that counted for something.

third floor. no elevator. the hallway smelled like piss and weed and mold and broken dreams. the carpet was torn up in places, patched with duct tape. someone had sharpied “freak bitch” on the stairwell banister three months ago and no one bothered to scrub it off.

he opened the door shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, blunt between his fingers.

“makki’s… busy,” he said, nodding toward the closed door behind him. the bass from inside it thumped hard, steady. definitely music. probably not the only thing going on, knowing makki. you didn’t ask.

you just stepped inside. let the door swing shut behind you like you’d done it a hundred times before, because you had.

he flopped onto the couch, feet up on the armrest, and you collapsed next to him like you belonged there. like you always had.

“she’s sending me away,” you spat, kicking your shoes off without aiming, one skidding under the chipped particleboard coffee table. “with her pretentious ass side of the family.”

issei didn’t look surprised. just took another hit and exhaled slow, his lashes low and lazy. “the ones from the hamptons?” he asked, lips curling around the blunt like he already knew the answer.

“nantucket,” you corrected, sharp. still seething.

“damn.”

he passed it to you and you took it without looking. brought it to your lips, took a long drag. the smoke hit hard, bitter and earthy, stinging your lungs on the way down. you didn’t cough. just let the burn sit there.

he didn’t say anything at first. didn’t ask questions or joke the way he usually did. just leaned into the cushion beside you and kept tracing slow, deliberate circles into your bare thigh. his hand was rough, calloused from the grill, knuckles scraped from some fight he wouldn’t talk about, but warm. grounding. solid. something to anchor you while your whole life rearranged itself again without asking.

finally:

“so why are you mad about that, may i ask?” he tipped his head, smirking just a little, but his voice wasn’t teasing. not fully.

just…curious.

“there’s like a thousand movies about why this is great.” he gestured vaguely toward you with his free hand. “poor girl goes to the rich beach town, gets a glow up, lives happily ever after.”

you glared at him. not hard enough to cut, just enough to warn.

“because i have a life here,” you said. your voice didn’t crack, but your throat burned. you sat back, arms crossed, knees pulled up like armor. “and i’m not like them.”

you could feel it—the way they’d look at you. your accent. your clothes. the way your nails were chipped from working the register and scrubbing dishes. you knew they’d smile in that tight way, say bless your heart and mean stay in your lane.

issei nodded. let that settle between you for a moment.

then: “you want my honest opinion?”

you turned to him, eyes sharp, face unreadable. “sure.”

he leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees. the blunt burned low between his fingers.

“i think it’d be good for you.”

his voice was even. not patronizing. not smug. just quiet. real.

“what the fuck?” you laughed, bitter and sharp, like glass breaking under pressure. you pulled your legs up onto the couch, turned toward him, incredulous. “i’m literally your favorite coworker and give excellent head, and you’re trying to send me away.”

issei smirked, barely. just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. then he leaned in and rapped his knuckles lightly against your forehead.

“this place is a shithole, y/n.” his voice dropped a little, serious now. “and you’re smart as fuck.”

you blinked, caught off guard. not by the compliment—he gave those out sometimes when he was high and soft, but by the way it landed. like he meant it. he pulled back just enough to look you in the face.

“yeah, you got a smart-ass mouth, but you don’t belong here.”

you scoffed, tried to hide how the words tugged something low in your stomach. he always said things like that. matter-of-fact. no sugar. just real. and maybe that’s why it stung more than your mom’s tears ever did.

because he saw you exactly as you were—and still didn’t think you should stay.

you stared at him. jaw tight, face blank. “never took you for the motivational speaker type.”

“yeah?” he snorted, the sound low and dry. “why, ’cause i dropped out?”

you shrugged. didn’t answer. he sat up a little straighter, elbows on his knees, the blunt burning slow between his fingers.

“i plan on starting college. maybe next year. i don’t know.” he looked down, then turned toward you again, his voice steadier. “i want to better myself. i just don’t have a way out yet.”

he met your eyes, dead-on.

“you do. and you should take it.”

you didn’t say anything. just turned toward the muted tv, where tom was chasing jerry with a frying pan. the colors flickered over your face, pinks and yellows, soft and stupid.

“you’re an asshole,” you muttered, then held out your hand.

he passed you the blunt with no hesitation, fingers brushing yours.

“i think you know i’m right.”

you took a hit, slow. felt the smoke drag all the way down. let it settle there for a second, then looked at him—turned toward him fully now, shifting your weight so your knee brushed his thigh.

“maybe.” another hit. this one quicker. you looked up at him through your lashes, chin tilted slightly, lips parted just enough to look like trouble. “but i think it’s gonna be pretty hard to replace me, though.”

and he looked good in that moment, shirtless, sweatpants hanging loose on his hips, skin golden under the dim lamplight. his hair was a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed or just finished fucking. eyes half-lidded, dark and hooded from the high, a slow grin creeping up like he wasn’t even trying to fight it.

your hand moved without thinking, just a slow drag across his thigh, then lower, settling right on top of the warm stretch of his sweats. you didn’t grip, didn’t tease. just pressed your palm down, light but certain.

his breath hitched, barely audible, and you leaned in.

kissed the side of his neck, right under his ear, slow and soft, then down to the corner of his jaw. you felt the shiver move through him, quiet and restrained, like he was holding something back.

he leaned back against the couch, exhaling through a crooked grin.

“almost knocked the blunt out my hand,” he murmured, voice sticky with smoke.

he reached over, tapped the blunt into the tray, then tossed it aside. when he turned back to you, his fingers curled gently under your chin. he tilted your face up, but it felt more like surrender than guidance—like he was giving you access to something no one else got.

so you took it.

kissed along his throat again, slower now, letting your mouth linger a little longer, feeling the pulse beneath his skin.

you crawled onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance. his hands slid down, firm and warm, settling low on your waist, then over your hips, then lower, resting there like they belonged.

and then you kissed him.

slow at first. dry from cottonmouth, but purposeful. his lips tasted bitter, from the smoke, the heat, the quiet resentment of your situations that neither of you would ever admit to. your mouths moved together like they’d done so many times before, like they knew how to make it count without making it mean too much.

his grip on you tightened, pulling you closer until there was nothing between you but heat and breath. your bodies pressed together like you were trying to climb inside each other, like you both knew this was temporary, so you had to make it feel like forever for just a second.

his hands slid up your sides, rough palms dragging over soft skin. they paused just beneath the hem of your sports bra, thumbs teasing along the curve of your ribs. he looked at you once, that lazy, half-lidded gaze that always felt more like a dare than a question, and then lifted it.

slow. careful. not reverent, not romantic. just like he wanted to see you. like he needed to.

the fabric peeled away, sticky with sweat and heat, and his eyes dropped to your chest. he didn’t say anything, just let his fingers settle there, before tracing along your sternum first, slow and wandering, like he wasn’t sure where to start. then down, skimming over soft skin, the pads of his thumbs brushing across your nipples with this distracted kind of focus, like he was memorizing the way your breath hitched every time he got too close.

he leaned in, mouth brushing your collarbone, then lower. tongue warm, slow, deliberate, and thorough. he kissed the top of your chest, dragged his lips across your skin, teeth barely grazing, and your whole body went still, tight with anticipation, already burning.

his hands weren’t still, either. they shifted, one sliding up to cup you. gentle at first. then firmer. his mouth followed, lower now, lips parting against you, breath hot. just raw want, real and tangible and slow like he didn’t want to miss a second.

you let your head fall back, thighs tightening around his hips. one hand in his hair, the other gripping the couch cushion like it might keep you tethered. he was quiet with it—no performance, no ego. just the steady rhythm of someone who knew your body like it was second nature.

your hips started to move without thinking, slow at first, like your body was chasing something it didn’t have words for. friction building in small, deliberate waves. his hands steadied you, fingers digging in just enough to hold you there, just enough to let you keep moving.

he didn’t stop you. didn’t rush it. just let you find your rhythm, let your weight settle against him like he could take it. his mouth was still on you, soft and warm and just a little rough where his stubble scraped your skin.

every breath between you was heavy. not just from the heat, or the weed, or the way the air felt too thick to swallow—no, this was something else. something electric and quiet and aching in all the wrong places, and when he finally looked up at you again, face flushed, mouth slick, that same half-smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, it hit you right in the chest.

you were gonna miss this.

not just the heat or the high or the way he touched you like you were something breakable pretending to be tough. you were gonna miss him. in all the ways you weren’t supposed to.

and he knew it.

you saw it in the way his eyes lingered, like he was already starting to let go.

his mouth found yours again, hungrier now. the kiss tasted like smoke, like salt, like something that wasn’t gonna last. but that didn’t stop either of you from sinking into it anyway.

you broke the kiss for half a second, just to catch your breath, and that’s when he said it, what you both were thinking but you weren’t sure how to say, right against your lips, voice barely more than a murmur:

“imma miss this though.”

you didn’t have time to ask what this meant, because he was already kissing down your neck, soft, open-mouthed, then dragging his tongue along your collarbone.

he nipped once, then soothed it with a slow kiss. then another, right where your pulse thumped loud and traitorous.

your hand found the back of his head, threading into his hair, holding him there, and for a minute, in that dim, smoky room, you weren’t being sent away. you weren’t the daughter of a broken woman. you weren’t leaving.

you were just his, and he was just here, and both of you were warm and bitter and burning a little slower than before.

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“Love’s Gonna Get You Killed”

Chapter 6

“Distance + Retaliation”

Synopsis: A wounded mafia heir stumbles into a late-night convenience store, where a quiet clerk patches him up. He walks out—but can’t stop watching her. As danger circles and their worlds quietly collide, one question remains: Can you stay untouched in a life soaked in blood?

Word Count: 2,440

Karina X Male Reader

Suijoon dragged his bloodied leg across the cracked pavement, leaving a smeared trail as the van idled under the moonless sky. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and failure.

The driver lit a cigarette, watching him struggle. “Zero for two,” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. “Boss’ll be thrilled.”

“Shut the fuck up and drive.”

The silence in the van was thick. The only sound was Suijoon’s labored breathing and the rattle of broken weapons at his feet.

They pulled into the shipyard—the Syndicate’s ghostlike base carved into rusted steel and sea rot. Floodlights hummed to life. Armed men lined the path in silence, eyes tracking Suijoon’s limp like vultures scenting weakness.

Inside, the boss sat beneath a single bulb, suited in black, rings gleaming like threats on his fingers. His chair creaked as he leaned forward.

Suijoon didn’t even get a word out.

The backhand came fast—sharp, practiced. He hit the floor hard, copper in his mouth.

“I said nothing,” the boss growled, low and precise. “Because I’m done hearing excuses.”

Suijoon coughed, spit red on the floor. “Boss, it was a setup. I didn’t expect—”

“You didn’t think. That’s your fucking problem.”

The room stilled.

The boss stood, walking toward him with deliberate steps. “Do you think this is a game? You’re not some street punk throwing punches for pride. You’re wearing my colors. That means when you bleed, it stains me.”

Suijoon looked up, jaw tight. “I’ll fix it.”

The boss crouched, grabbed him by the jaw. “You’re not fixing shit. You’re lucky I haven’t fed you to the harbor yet. Two failures. Two.”

A blade glinted in his hand—not raised, just there, a quiet threat between them.

“You’re becoming a liability,” he whispered. “And you know what we do with those.”

He let go. Suijoon slumped, chest heaving.

“Now get out of my sight. And pray you’re worth more alive tomorrow than you are dead tonight.”

While the scent of gunpowder still lingered in the air and the distant echo of sirens began to creep into the night, you and Karina crouched in the shadows of a narrow alleyway. The glow of a single flickering streetlamp above you cast long silhouettes on the wall. Your back leaned against the cold brick, hand pressed tightly against your side—warm blood slipping through your fingers.

“You good?” you asked, your voice ragged, panting.

Karina looked at you, face pale but steady. “I should be asking that,” she replied, eyes darting to the spreading red on your shirt. “You’re bleeding—Y/N, you’re hit.”

“Yeah,” you managed, smirking despite the pain, “just a scratch.”

She scoffed, trying to stay calm, but you could see her hands trembling as she reached into your coat pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. She pressed it against the wound with shaky but determined pressure.

The truth hadn’t quite settled in her eyes yet. You could see it—the storm building behind her silence. She had questions, hundreds of them, but her lips didn’t move. Not yet. Instead, she stayed beside you, kneeling in the filth of the alley, pressing against the bullet wound of a man she only thought she knew.

The next night, you came by the convenience store again.

Same time. Same door chime. Same quiet “Hey Rina.”

But something had changed.

She didn’t turn around immediately like she usually did. No soft smile. No teasing remark. Just a faint nod over her shoulder as she restocked a shelf of instant noodles. “Hey.”

You tried to pretend it was nothing.

You placed the brown paper bag on the counter like always. Kimbap. Her favorite. You remembered.

“I brought you food again,” you said casually, like your hands hadn’t held a gun last night, like you didn’t have a stitched-up bullet wound under your coat.

She didn’t move from behind the register. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you said, your voice low, “but I wanted to.”

Her eyes flickered to the bag, then to you. There was something unreadable in them. Not fear exactly—just a distance. Like someone looking at a stranger wearing someone else’s face.

“You didn’t tell me,” she finally said.

You stayed silent.

She looked down at her hands. “I thought you were just… someone who liked midnight snacks. Someone with good taste in tteokbokki and bad jokes.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into my world.”

“But you did,” she said sharply, not angry—just tired. “And now I can’t unsee it.”

Silence settled between you, heavy like the gun you still had holstered under your coat.

You wanted to reach for her. Say something. Anything.

But she stepped back slightly, a subtle shift in weight that said more than words could.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, grabbed the untouched food bag, and turned to leave.

And for the first time in weeks, the door chime behind you didn’t sound like comfort.

It sounded like goodbye.

Monaco. 12:47 AM.

The alley was wet—fresh with blood and rain. Sirens screamed in the distance, but no one dared approach. Not when he was in town.

Two men already lay crumpled on the pavement—one with half a face missing, the other still twitching, as if trying to crawl out of death. A trail of smeared crimson marked his final attempt. He didn’t make it far.

A third man was breathing—barely. Curled behind a dented trash can, knees to chest, his body trembled with each breath. He hadn’t even realized he pissed himself.

Then came the footsteps.

Not rushed. Not heavy.

Measured. Calm. Like death taking its time.

Click. Clack. Click.

The man’s heart pounded so loud he thought it would give him away. He pressed his back tighter against the brick wall, eyes wide, lips quivering in silence.

Then

A voice. Smooth. Low. Cold enough to burn.

“You know what happens to people who flee?”

The words wrapped around his throat tighter than fear.

Silence.

“They perish.”

Another step closer.

“Because people who flee… are cowards.”

A breath hitched. He bit into his knuckle to keep from screaming.

Smoke curled past the edge of the trash can. A faint scent of blood and gunpowder mixed in the air. The air was heavy—wrong—like the alley itself was holding its breath.

Draco’s voice came again—soft, but with enough weight to crush the world.

“I know you’re behind that trash can.”

Silence.

“Right where rats like you belong.”

A pause.

“Let’s make this simple.”

Draco’s boots stopped a few feet away.

“Do you know a gang called ‘Uncharted’?”

The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just the soft click of his tongue failing him.

Then came the final sound.

A single gunshot.

BOOM.

One bullet. Clean through the trash can—and the skull behind it.

The body slumped forward, twitching once before going still. A small pool of blood began to form, stretching out slowly like it wanted to escape but couldn’t.

Draco stepped over it. Unbothered. Untouched.

He lit a cigarette and took one drag, eyes barely flinching in the smoke.

“Cowards don’t speak,” he muttered to no one.

“Only corpses do.”

He walked away, the sound of his boots echoing long after his shadow disappeared

Back at the base, the air was thick with smoke, curling lazily toward the ceiling like ghosts of your thoughts. You lay on the bed, half-dressed, a cigarette between your lips, and melancholic music spilling softly from the speakers—slow, somber, almost too fitting. The kind that echoes in your chest long after the last note fades.

Your eyes were open, unfocused, tracing the cracks in the ceiling you never bothered to fix.

You never expected acceptance.

Not really.

Not with a last name like yours, Not with blood on your hands before you were even old enough to shave, You were born into shadows, and whether it was loyalty or fear, people never truly saw you.

They saw Draco’s heir.

They saw the empire.

They saw the violence, the weight, the name.

But you accepted it—because it came with privilege, with power. And power costs. You knew that. You’ve always known.

Still…

Even her?

Even Karina?

She didn’t flinch the first few times. She smiled, even. Laughed when you brought her snacks. Teased you for your coat. Gave you something you never knew you missed—normalcy. Something soft.

But now?

Now, there’s a distance in her eyes. A hesitation in her voice. Like she’s already writing the ending in her head.

You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to be tangled in this world?

Who would want to love a man who can kill and smile in the same breath?

You inhaled, the tip of your cigarette glowing red in the dark. You watched the smoke drift away, disappearing into nothing.

Just like the idea of her staying.

You told yourself it was fine.

You’ve been alone before.

You’ve lived in silence before.

You’ll do it again.

But the thing about softness is… once you’ve felt it, it hurts more when it’s gone.

And she was the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Nightfall. 3:12 AM. Somewhere in Seoul.

A concrete room dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Cigarette smoke hung like a veil in the air, curling around the edge of Suijoon’s jaw as he leaned over the table — maps, surveillance photos, red circles scratched in anger around one girl’s face.

Karina Yu.

“Convenience store clerk,” he muttered, tracing her image with a gloved finger. “Works the graveyard shift. No parents. In debt. No one to miss her.”

He looked up at the handful of men standing before him — all in black, armed to the teeth, faces cold, eager. A smaller man handed him a tablet — CCTV footage. Y/N and Karina, smiling, eating tteokbokki. Another angle — Y/N shielding her behind the counter when the gunfire broke loose. Suijoon sneered.

“Draco’s heir… falling for a stray. How poetic,” he said bitterly, snapping the tablet shut. “This girl? She’s not just leverage anymore. She’s the wound. And you don’t beat the heir by going for the head. You beat him by infecting the heart.”

He walked to the weapons rack, grabbing a knife, then a silencer-equipped pistol. He flipped the safety, slow and deliberate.

“We won’t kill her. Not yet,” he said darkly. “We grab her. Make it public. Let the son of Draco come crawling.”

A grunt of agreement echoed around the room.

“But sir…” one man dared to speak. “Didn’t the boss say not to—”

“The boss,” Suijoon interrupted, stepping forward until their foreheads nearly touched, voice low, venomous, “doesn’t have the balls to end this war.”

He stepped back, smile forming like a crack across ice.

“I do.”

He turned to the group. “Gear up. Black vans. No masks. We’re not hiding this. I want him to know.”

He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes — wild, cruel, desperate to prove something.

“Tonight,” Suijoon said, exhaling smoke like a devil whispering prophecy,

“we cut out his heart.”

Back at the estate, you were still lying on your back, smoke curling lazily into the ceiling, headphones on as melancholic jazz hummed through the room—your only comfort lately. You hadn’t seen Karina in days. Not really. Not like before. Her eyes no longer lingered. Her smile no longer reached you. You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to love the heir of Korea’s most feared mafia?

Suddenly, the door burst open.

“Sir!” Jun-ho shouted, breathless, eyes wide. “We’ve got movement. Four black vans. Same make. Same pattern. They’re circling Gangseo District. Near the convenience store.”

You sat up instantly, gun already in hand. “Karina.”

Jun-ho nodded grimly. “Yes, sir. They’re after her.”

You stormed down the hallway, boots heavy with urgency. Just as you neared the armory entrance—thud.

You bumped shoulders with a tall figure standing in your path.

Killian Draco.

Sharp suit, colder eyes. A calm storm in human skin. He lit a cigarette slowly, took a drag, and exhaled in your face.

“Where do you think you’re going, son?”

“I don’t have time—”

“You make time,” he cut in coldly. “For me.”

Silence swelled.

“Don’t do this,” he continued. “She means nothing. A girl scraping for debt. A pawn they’ll use the second they realize she matters to you. Is that what you want?”

“She’s not a pawn. She’s—”

“She’s a weakness,” Draco interrupted. “And love? Love is an art of vulnerability. Loving means weakness. And I didn’t raise a weak little squirt.”

You glared at him, chest heaving. “You didn’t raise me, you dumbass!”

His eyes narrowed.

“You taught me how to kill, how to gut a man, how to clean up blood without flinching. But you didn’t raise me. You raised a weapon. She’s the only human thing I have left.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “You think you’re different from me. You’re not. You carry my blood. You love her now? Good. Watch what happens when they put a gun to her head because of it.”

“I’d rather die trying to save her than live like you—numb and alone.”

He stepped aside slowly, his expression unreadable. “Then go. Save her.”

You moved past him, steps furious—but he called out behind you, voice like frost cutting the air:

“But remember this, son… If she brings war to our house, if your heart turns into our downfall…”

He turned, smoke dancing from his cigarette like a curse.

“Then I’ll end it. Even if that means you.”

You didn’t look back.

You just ran

You ran.

Through alleys slick with rain and streets that smelled like metal and neon. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Your coat, half-soaked, flared behind you like a shadow chasing a ghost.

You turned the corner.

The convenience store.

Lights flickering inside, humming faintly under the pale glow of the streetlamp. But something felt off.

You pushed the door.

Ding. The chime echoed like a scream in an empty church.

No footsteps.

No soft hum of Karina’s voice singing under her breath.

No rustle of snack wrappers or the tap-tap-tap of her scanning items at the counter.

Just silence.

And blood in your throat.

“Karina?” your voice cracked.

Behind the register, taped sloppily onto the plexiglass, was a note. Scribbled in red ink.

You yanked it free.

“Looking for your little night clerk?

Should’ve kept her hidden, heir.

You want her back? Come bleed for her.

— Suijoon.”

Your fists clenched so hard the paper crumpled, veins pulsing like live wires.

And in that moment, everything else — the mafia code, your father’s warnings, the war it might start — it all drowned under one truth:

He took her.

And you’re going to burn the whole fucking world to get her back.

[that-fan-girl]

Say Yes

Summary:

Three friends. A few bad decisions. Late nights, stolen lighters, feelings that don’t stay in their lanes and learning that it's never that serious.

18+ MINORS DNI!!!

Pairings: Curtis x Zac X OC

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Angst, Unprotected Sex (Wrap Before You Tap), Oral F! Receiving, Anal, Praise Kink, Drink Spiking, Weed Smoking.

They say Curtis doesn’t talk to anyone.

Like it’s some haunting, mysterious thing. Like he’s cursed or cursed someone or maybe just too good for the rest of us. But I’ve always figured he just doesn’t see the point.

He’s the kind of boy who moves like smoke—quiet, grey, impossible to pin down. Headphones in. Eyes low. Always wearing that same old jacket with the frayed collar and the patched-up sleeve. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice. Not really.

But sometimes, when I pass him in the hallway, I swear he looks straight at me. Like he’s waiting for something.

Fourth period drags. I sit by the window and count the cracks in the glass. There’s gum under my desk and someone keeps coughing behind me like they’re dying.

I chew the inside of my cheek until it stings. There’s nothing here for me except the slow ticking of the clock and the burning want to get out.

Out of this school. Out of this town. Out of my own skin.

When the bell rings, I leave without speaking. No one expects me to anyway.

I cut through the parking lot, duck past the back of the cafeteria, and walk the long way home. There’s this spot by the old train yard where I go sometimes. It smells like rust and piss, but no one else goes there, and that’s kind of the point.

I light a cigarette and lean against the fence, watching the sky rot into orange. My fingers are cold. My throat’s already raw from this morning. I don’t care.

I hear the rumble of a car behind me. Low, growling engine. Familiar.

I don’t turn around.

Curtis parks across the gravel, gets out like he’s made of fog and bone and heavy thoughts. He doesn’t say anything. Just stands a few feet away and lights his own cigarette, the flame quick and sharp in the dusk.

We don’t look at each other. Not really. Not yet.

But I feel it. The hum in the air. The silent click of something shifting.

He doesn’t stay long. Just long enough to smoke half, flick the rest, and crush it under his boot. He walks back to his bike without a word.

But just before the bike starts, I glance up.

And he’s looking at me. Not in a curious way. Not like he’s wondering who I am.

In a way that says he already knows.

I go home and Dad’s passed out on the couch, TV buzzing static in the dark. There’s an empty bottle on the floor and a half-eaten microwave dinner still steaming on the coffee table.

I step over it, go to my room, lock the door.

The next day school feels the same but something feels different.

There’s always a new kid.

They show up looking like hope in a clean hoodie. Fresh backpack, clean shoes. Smiling too much. They don’t know yet.

Give them two weeks and they’ll be just as grey and ground-down as the rest of us.

But then Zac walks in, and I know instantly:

He’s not like the others.

He’s got this curly brown hair that looks like it’s never seen a brush and somehow still works. He smiles like he means it. Wears this denim jacket with patches stitched all over it—band names, flames, a weird cartoon skull flipping off the world.

He slides into the seat behind me in third period, and five minutes later he taps my shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. Voice low and warm.

“You got a pen?”

I hand him one without looking. He taps it twice on my desk before pulling back.

“Thanks, pretty girl.”

I freeze. Not because it’s the first time someone’s called me that—just because he says it like it’s obvious. Like I should already know.

By lunch he’s sitting with Marcel and a few guys who think they’re cooler than they are. Curtis is there too, leaning against the wall near their table, arms crossed. Eyes distant.

I linger near the vending machines just long enough to see it—Zac, mid-laugh, tossing something at Curtis. A balled-up chip bag. Curtis catches it without even flinching and throws it back without smiling. Zac howls like it’s the funniest shit in the world.

It’s weird.

Curtis doesn’t usually let anyone near him. But Zach? He gets in close. And Curtis doesn’t shove him out.

Zac finds me again after school.

I’m standing outside, waiting for nothing, when he walks up like we’re already friends.

“Hey, Dahlia.”

I blink. “How do you know my name?”

He grins. “Asked around. You’re kind of a mystery.”

“I’m kind of not.”

He kicks a rock with his boot. “You always walk home?”

“Most days.”

“I got wheels. Want a ride?”

I shake my head. He shrugs, no pressure. Starts to walk off, then looks back.

“Well, if you ever get tired of walking, you can sit shotgun. I got a decent playlist.”

I watch him go.

And for the first time in what feels like years, I kind of want to follow someone.

That night, I lie awake with Zac's voice echoing in my head.

Hey, pretty girl.

Got a pen?

Zac texts me after school.

u ever jumped off the old bridge?

I don’t answer. Ten minutes later:

come on, don’t make me go alone

marcel’s bringing snacks

curtis might show

u can bring cigarettes

we’ll trade

I go.

I don’t even bother coming up with an excuse. Just climb out the window, hoodie zipped up, boots half-laced, cigarettes in my back pocket. The air’s warm with leftover sun. It smells like dirt and engine oil and pine needles.

They’re already there when I get to the river. Marcel’s sitting on the hood of his car with a bag of chips, talking shit. Zac’s half-undressed, barefoot, already climbing the railing.

Curtis is leaning against his bike, arms crossed. Watching.

Always watching.

“You came,” Zac says when he sees me. Like I do this all the time. Like we’ve been friends for years.

I flick my lighter. “Someone’s gotta supervise.”

Zac grins like I just told him the secret to life, then launches himself off the bridge. Arms wide. Full yell. Big splash. Marcel whoops from the car.

Curtis glances over at me. His voice is low.

“You ever done it?”

I shake my head. “Don’t plan to.”

He nods once, like he understands. Like he respects it. Like he doesn’t know that I already feel my bones aching to jump.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing on the railing. Hoodie ditched. Socks in my boots. Bare toes gripping rusted metal. Zac’s in the water, yelling up.

“Come on, Dahlia! Don’t punk out!”

My heart is hammering. But I don’t want to be the girl who never does anything. Not tonight.

I jump.

The water hits like a slap. Cold and full of fire. I surface gasping, hair in my mouth, lungs burning—and then Zac's hands are on my arms, steadying me, laughing.

“You did it!” he yells. I want to hate him for how happy he is.

But I don’t.

I kind of want to do it again.

We lie on the shore after, damp and breathless. Marcel’s playing music from his phone, tinny and too loud. Curtis sits a few feet away from me, legs stretched out, face tilted toward the sky.

His hoodie is in my lap. I didn’t ask. He just handed it to me when I was shivering.

It smells like cedar and smoke. I don’t give it back.

Later, when we’re packing up, Curtis brushes past me. Just for a second. His hand grazes mine.

I swear I stop breathing.

I don’t think it was on accident.

Back at home, I sleep in his hoodie.

And in the dream, I’m still falling—but I’m not scared.

The next night Marcel invites me to the beach. The bonfire smells like smoke and sweat and bad decisions.

Marcel’s got a few people here from school—mostly strangers. I’m standing by the fire, sharing a joint with a couple of them. Everyone’s drunk enough to forget the real world, but not so wasted they don’t care about the moment.

Then some guy—half-drunk, full of himself—leans in close and says,

“You got any tattoos I can’t see?”

His breath is warm beer and Axe body spray. The fire crackles. I blink at him.

I don’t answer.

The mood shifts. Like a knife sliding out of a pocket.

Marcel, trying to save it, jumps in—

“Spin the bottle, guys! Come on. Let’s not get all serious.”

No one wants to, but Marcel spins anyway.

The bottle lands on me.

Then on Curtis.

I swallow hard.

Curtis’s eyes flick to mine. Just once.

We kiss.

It’s fast. Quiet. More heat than I expected in half a second. My hands shake a little when we pull apart, but I play it off.

Then Marcel spins again.

The bottle lands on me.

Then on Zac.

This kiss is different.

Warm. Soft. He grins against my mouth. It’s messy with teeth and laughter.

Everyone cheers like it’s all a joke.

Zac checks his phone.

“Gotta bounce—early shift.”

He ruffles my hair. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He grins. I try to smile back.

I watch him disappear into the dark, and something inside me knots up.

I take another sip of my drink.

It tastes… weird.

My tongue feels heavy. My hands go cold. The fire suddenly feels too loud. Too bright.

Faces blur at the edges. Sound gets slippery.

My skin itches like it doesn’t fit right.

I try to take a step, and the ground moves under me.

Curtis is in front of me before I hit the dirt.

“What the fuck?” His voice cuts through everything.

He grabs my arm. “Who gave you this drink?”

I blink. “I—I left it on the table.”

His jaw tenses. “You left it?”

I try to answer, but nothing comes out.

“Wait here,” he mutters. Then shakes his head. “No. Fuck that. Come on.”

He picks me up. Full-body lift like I weigh nothing. The whole party watches.

He half-drags me through the crowd until he finds the guy from earlier—the one who brought the sketchy cooler, the one who’d been eyeing me all night.

Curtis shoves him, hard.

“What the fuck did you put in her drink?”

The guy stumbles. Tries to laugh it off.

Wrong move.

Curtis punches him.

Fist to face. Clean. Loud. The guy hits the dirt.

Marcel yells something. Curtis doesn’t even look.

Back at the bike, he lifts me again, pulls his helmet over my head.

“Hold on,” he says, voice tight.

I do. I hold on like my life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

The ride is cold and loud and terrifying and safe. Curtis smells like sweat and leather.

At my place, he helps me in, takes off the helmet, sets it gently on the floor.

I can barely speak. But he’s there.

Hands steady.

Eyes on me like I’m the only thing that matters.

He gets me water. Tucks a blanket around me.

When I reach for his hand, he doesn’t hesitate.

He sits beside me on the bed

I stare at the carpet, my voice a whisper.

“I'm scared.”

Curtis squeezes my hand.

Then, quieter—softer than I’ve ever heard him—

“I would never let anything happen to you.”

I glance up at him.

He looks deadly serious. Not dramatic. Just sure. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

“You’re safe now,” he says.

“I swear.”

And I believe him.

I fall asleep holding his hand like a prayer I didn’t know I needed.

My phone’s buzzing before I even open my eyes.

I blink at the screen.

Zac (8:12am):

what tf happened last night

Marcel said Curtis knocked some guy out??

I stare at the message for a second, thumb hovering. My head’s still fuzzy from everything. The spin of the drink. The warmth of Curtis’s jacket. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t broken glass for once.

I text back:

yeah

someone spiked my drink

Curtis got me out of there

Three dots. Then—

Zac:

are you okay??

where are you

do you need anything

I sit up slowly. Blanket still around me. Curtis must’ve left sometime earlier.

I’m home

I’m okay now

Zac:

I should’ve stayed

I feel like a dick

I didn’t know

My phone buzzes again:

let me come pick you up

get some food in you

you’ll feel better

I hesitate. But my stomach aches, and I know I’m not gonna make myself anything.

okay

gimme 10

Zac’s car pulls up with music already playing. Something summery and old, windows down even though it’s still early.

He leans over and opens the door for me like we’re in some corny teen movie.

"Hey, pretty girl," he grins. "I brought Tylenol.

He holds out the little packet like it’s a peace offering.

We get drive-thru breakfast and sit in the car, parked under some trees. I eat slowly. He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t push. He just lets the silence stretch, playing with the straw in his drink, humming along to the radio.

At one point he looks over and says, “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

I don’t say it’s not your fault, because that feels fake. So I just say,

“It’s okay. Curtis handled it.”

Zac nods like that hurts a little. Then he shrugs and tosses his cup into the backseat.

“I wanna show you something,” he says. “You feel like a drive?”

He takes me out past town. Up winding roads, trees thick on either side. We end up at this little waterfall behind a chain of rocks, the kind of place that looks like it shouldn’t exist here.

I step out of the car and just… breathe. Everything slows down.

On the drive back, he’s talking about music and roadtrips and how his uncle used to let him drive on backroads when he was twelve, and I laugh and say, “I’ve never driven anything in my life.”

Silence.

“What?”

I glance at him. “I don’t know how to drive.”

Zac slaps the steering wheel. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Oh my god. That’s criminal. We’re fixing that immediately.”

We pull over near an empty lot and he makes me switch seats.

“Gas is right. Brake is left. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You’re totally freaking out.”

I stall it three times. He laughs so hard I punch him in the arm.

But I get it going. The car lurches forward. I scream. We almost hit a mailbox. He cheers.

“See?” he says. “You’re a natural.”

The next few days blur together.

Curtis doesn’t text.

Doesn’t call.

Doesn’t even look at me at school.

Something about that burns worse than the night it all went down.

But Zac shows up every day. After class. After work. He takes me out to empty roads and teaches me to drive. We eat fries in parking lots and listen to stupid songs and talk about nothing until it starts to feel like something.

One afternoon, he pulls up outside my house with this beat-up little hatchback.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“My uncle fixed it up. It’s not much, but... it’s yours.”

“What? Zac—”

“I’m paying him off with my tips. Chill. You need wheels.”

I stare at it like it might disappear.

“You bought me a car?”

“Technically I’m buying you a car,” he smirks. “Don’t make it weird.”

I don’t say thank you. I just hug him. Tight.

That night, I’m driving home by myself for the first time. Radio on. Windows down.

My phone lights up at a red light.

Curtis:

I’m sorry I ghosted you

I felt weird about everything that happened

didn’t know how to deal with it

My heart trips over itself.

I don’t reply. Not yet.

He doesn’t say anything the next day. Not in the hallway. Not at lunch. Not when I catch his eyes across the parking lot and hold them for half a second too long.

But later that night—after I’ve already replayed that text like twenty times—he shows up.

At my house.

I hear the rumble of his motorbike before I see him.

I step out onto the porch, hoodie on, cigarette half-lit.

Curtis stands at the bottom of the steps, helmet in one hand, looking like he’s been through hell and back since the last time I saw him.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I say, voice quieter than I want it to be.

He shrugs. “Took me a while.”

We sit on the steps. The silence stretches. I don’t try to fill it.

“I felt... fucked up,” he says finally. “After that night. After everything.”

I nod. “Me too.”

Curtis looks straight ahead like it’s easier than looking at me.

“I don’t do good with... closeness. Or people. Or you.”

That catches me off guard. “What does that mean?”

He glances at me now. His eyes are sharp. Tired. Full of something heavy.

“You get under my skin. I didn’t know what to do with that.”

The cigarette burns down between my fingers. I let it go. Watch it die in the dirt.

“You don’t have to run from me,” I say. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why it scares me.”

A car passes in the distance. Someone’s dog barks once. The night hums around us.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and finally says,

“I thought about you every day.”

That makes something in me ache. Deep and warm.

I want to tell him that I missed him too, but the words feel like too much.

So I bump my knee against his instead.

He bumps mine back.

We sit there for a long time.

Not together, not apart.

But closer than we’ve been in days.

The next evening starts casual. Like most dangerous things do.

Marcel texts:

chill at mine tonight

beers + snacks + Mario Kart

you, Zac, Curtis

come thru

I almost don’t. But then I do.

When I show up, the door’s already open and the place smells like weed, Doritos, and boy.

Inside, Zac’s on the floor, yelling at the TV. Marcel’s on the couch in a tie-dye hoodie, absolutely baked. Curtis is sitting in a bean bag, dead silent, eyes laser-focused on the game.

Zac looks over and beams. “Dahliaaa! Come save me, I’ve been getting my ass handed to me by a literal corpse.”

“I’m not dead,” Curtis says flatly. “You just suck.”

Zac throws a cushion at him. “You’re dead inside, bro.”

I kick my boots off and settle cross-legged on the floor. Marcel passes me a vape. I take a hit, pass it back, and reach for the controller.

Ten minutes in, I’m screaming and leaning like that somehow makes my kart go faster.

“You’re a menace,” Zac laughs, shoving chips in his mouth.

“You’re just mad I keep passing you" I grin.

Curtis, out of nowhere:

“She’s the best out of all of us.”

The room goes quiet for a second.

Zac raises his eyebrows. “High praise.”

Curtis shrugs. “Facts are facts.”

We keep playing. We drink. We laugh until Marcel has tears in his eyes.

At some point, Marcel disappears to his room with a wave. “I’m clocking out. You guys can stay if you want. Spare room’s free.”

It’s just the three of us now.

Music’s playing low. Something slow, dreamy, and old.

I glance at the clock. It's stupid late.

Curtis stretches his arms behind his head. “None of us are sober enough to drive.”

Zac’s sprawled across the rug. “I’d literally crash into a tree.”

“Same,” I say.

Curtis sighs. “Spare room it is.”

The bed is big.

We all just… kind of stand there for a second.

Curtis kicks off his boots. “I’ll take the floor.”

Zac laughs, already peeling off his hoodie. “Man, I’ll take the floor.

“Oh my god,” I cut in. “Shut up. Just sleep in the bed. Don't make it weird.”

There’s a beat.

Then Zac shrugs. “Bet.”

Curtis hesitates. Then nods. “Fine.”

I crawl into the middle because no one else will.

Zac drops in beside me with a soft “oof.”

Curtis climbs in on the other side.

We all lay there, high, quiet.

For a while, it’s just the hum of the ceiling fan and the warmth of their shoulders brushing mine.

Zac shifts. “This is kind of cozy, not gonna lie.”

I smile, eyes on the ceiling.

Curtis turns slightly toward me. “You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just… feels like something’s about to happen.”

Curtis: “Like what?”

Zac’s voice is lazy, teasing. “She probably means this.”

And then—he kisses me.

Right there in the dark. Slow, warm, unhurried. His hand finds my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek.

I don’t pull away.

When he breaks the kiss, I blink at him.

And then I turn toward Curtis.

He’s already watching me.

We don’t speak.

We just lean in at the same time.

His kiss is different. It’s deeper. Hotter. Hungrier.

Like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

I pull back, dazed.

“I—”

I look at them both.

Zac’s hand is on my thigh. Curtis is looking at me like he’s seconds away from snapping.

And I’m sitting between them, heart thudding, mouth dry.

Zac leans in— all warm lips and soft scruff and sugar-sweet confidence. His kiss is grinning, messy, teasing. He makes a sound in the back of his throat when our mouths open to each other.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, nipping at my jaw. “You always do. You taste like fucking cherry's.”

Curtis still hasn’t moved. His eyes are burning into mine.

“Come here,” I whisper.

He obeys. Of course he does.

Curtis kisses me like I’m the last good thing left in the world. Slow, reverent. His hands are trembling where they touch my waist.

“You’re so beautiful, Dahlia,” he whispers. Like he needs me to hear it. Like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

They both start touching me at once.

Curtis runs his fingers under my shirt, up my ribs, worshipping every inch of skin like it’s sacred.

Zac palms my thigh, pushes my legs open, kisses my neck and says, “You tell us if you want to stop, okay?”

“Okay" I breathe.

They undress me slowly. Together.

Curtis lifts my shirt over my head, pressing kisses to my stomach. Zac undoes my jeans, laughing softly when I almost kick him trying to get them off.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he says, dragging the denim down my legs.

They take their time with my underwear.

Curtis kneels between my legs and kisses the fabric. Just kisses it. His breath warm. His mouth barely touching.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs.

Zac leans over me, stroking my hair.

He kisses my cheek. “We’ve got you.”

Curtis slides my panties down slowly, reverently.

Then he spreads me open with both hands and groans, “Jesus Christ.”

Zac’s watching from beside me now, shirtless, hard in his boxers, kissing my neck as Curtis lowers his mouth to me.

The first lick is slow. Gentle. Testing.

My hips jerk.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.

Curtis hums against me, like he likes how I taste. Like it’s what he’s been craving since the day we met.

Zac leans in and whispers in my ear, “You’re doing so good. So fucking pretty like this. Let him make you come. You deserve it.”

Curtis eats me like it’s his purpose.

Tongue working slow, then fast, then slow again. One hand on my stomach, holding me down, the other teasing lower — slick fingers circling, pushing in just enough to make me whimper.

I cry out. Loud. Honest.

Zac kisses me to muffle it, fingers tangled in my hair.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. You’re so fucking good, baby.”

I come hard — shaking, twitching, moaning into Zac's mouth while Curtis keeps his tongue on me until I push him away.

“I can’t,” I gasp. “It’s too much.”

“Not even close,” Zac says, smiling.

They get undressed fully now, both of them hard, flushed, breathing uneven.

I watch them.

Curtis is broad and lean and intense — eyes locked on me like I’m something unreal.

Zac is golden, grinning, cocky and sweet at once.

I lie back.

“Please fuck me" I whisper.

Curtis moves up, kisses me on the mouth and lines himself up.

His cock pushes in slow. My legs shake.

He doesn’t move at first. Just breathes.

“You feel so good,” he says, voice cracking. “So fucking good.”

He starts slow.

Just shallow thrusts. Careful. Worshipping.

Zac lies beside me, stroking my cheek, kissing my collarbone.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “Every fucking inch of you.”

Zac leans close to my ear.

“Can I fuck you too, baby? I dont think I can wait.” he whispers.

I nod. “Please.”

He licks his thumb, then reaches down — between my cheeks, slow, gentle.

He works me open while Curtis is still inside me.

One finger.

Then two.

Then his cock.

The stretch is intense. Hot. Sharp. Then so good I nearly cry.

Zac moves first. Slow. Gentle. Whispering praises.

Curtis grips my hips. Watching me. Letting Zac set the pace.

“You’re incredible,” Zac says, breath hitching. “Taking both of us like this. Fuck.”

Curtis leans forward, kisses my lips, moans when I clench around him.

“You okay?” he breathes.

I can’t even speak.

I nod. “Please don’t stop.”

They move in sync — one pulling out while the other pushes in.

My whole body is on fire.

Zac whispers filth and sweetness in my ear.

Curtis groans my name every time he thrusts deeper.

I come so hard it blanks me out.

They follow, nearly together.

Zac lets out a deep, wrecked moan and shudders behind me.

Curtis grips my hips and cries out softly, hips stuttering.

We collapse in a heap.

I’m sandwiched between them, bare skin and sweaty sheets.

Curtis presses soft kisses along my shoulder.

Zac’ hand stays on my hip, thumb tracing lazy circles.

No one says a word for a while.

Then Zac laughs.

“Okay,” he says. “That was a little weird.”

I laugh into Curtis’s chest.

“I liked it,” I whisper.

Curtis kisses my temple. “Me too.”

I wake up sore in places I’ve never been sore before.

My thighs ache. My back’s tight. My everything feels… well-used. In a good way.

In a fucked out but also floating-on-a-cloud kind of way.

The bed’s warm. Too warm.

I wrap the sheet around myself and roll out of bed, still a little shaky.

My underwear is nowhere. My shirt is god knows where.

I grab the nearest thing — Zach’s black tee from the floor — and tug it on.

It hangs loose and smells like cologne and sleep and sex.

The house is too quiet.

I shuffle into the kitchen.

Marcel’s gone — his keys aren’t on the hook and there’s a note that says “work. don’t destroy my house. love you.”

So that answers that.

The second I turn around, I see them.

Curtis is shirtless, in boxers, pouring pancake batter into a skillet.

Zac’s got a spatula in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. Also just in his boxers.

“Morning, sunshine,” Zac says, biting back a grin when he sees me in his shirt.

Curtis glances over and goes a little pink. “You okay?”

“Alive,” I say. “Barely.”

They both smile.

Zac walks over, wraps an arm around my waist, and kisses my temple. “You want coffee?”

“God, yes.”

Curtis flips a pancake with the kind of focus I couldn't muster if I tried.

Zac hands me the mug, then whispers, “You were kind of amazing last night.”

I take a sip, hiding the blush behind the rim.

Curtis kisses my cheek before handing me a plate.

Zac sits beside me, thigh touching mine, grinning like he knows I’m reliving every second of last night.

No one says what happened out loud.

No one calls it what it is.

But when Zac takes a bite of pancake and says, “We should do this again sometime,”

And Curtis brushes my cheek—

I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be

[bellybuttonbooks]

I want you.

Warnings: contains spoilers from chapter 43 of my Ekko x OC fanfic, smut.

Full fanfic can be found here.

Word count: 4.1k

*Six and Momo are the same person.*

"There's no way—" Ekko breathed, eyes blown wide as he looked around.

He knew this place.

Knew it well, actually.

They picked one of her lanterns from its hanging and used it to light their path down the narrow passage. They were met with stiff, heavy metal at the end of it, but it didn't take long for Ekko to realize what that metal was, and why no one was able to move it. It couldn't be pushed forward. It had to be rolled to the side. Once it'd been rolled out of the way, they stepped into a place Ekko spent countless hours in.

His personal little scrap yard where he stored bits of metal that was too large and plentiful to keep at the treehouse.

"You've been here before," Six stated rather than questioned. She was looking up at a massive, green Firelight symbol that had been painted on an enormous, slow-turning vent fan. Sizeable patches of rust tainted all four of the fan's wings, while mass pillars of metal that had fallen over with time were visible through the gaps. One of them had fallen in front of the hole they came through, which is why Ekko hadn't noticed it there before now.

"This is where I... keep stuff," he said, unsure how to phrase it.

She circled the place, looking around. The space was impressively vast, walls lined with mossed over metal and naturally lit by swarms of firelight bugs.

She looked at the various things he collected here. Old aerogliders, metal parts she thought might've belonged to a topside vehicle but couldn't be sure, sink taps, a busted radio, and... was that a sink?

There was also a couple of old shimmer barrels, which if she had to guess, were emptied before they were brought here.

But the most eye-catching thing about the space was a white-painted, metallic pseudo-throne. Stretches of fence-like metal pieces branched out from the back, held together by a loop of alloy.

"What's this supposed to be?" she asked, moving closer to get a better look.

"That," he said, getting closer as well, "—is a long story."

She looked over at him in intrigue. "Whose idea was that?"

"It was combination of things," he said before turning around and plopping down into the seat, leaning back and resting his arms on the metallic armrests. "Some of the kids got into the habit of calling me 'King Ekko', and some of the guys picked up on it and made this as a gag." A smiled formed on his lips as his gaze went unfocussed, his mind replaying the memory. "Walked into the meeting room one day and my usual chair was replaced with this thing."

A ghost of a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth as she watched him reminisce. She looked him over, and as she did so, her smile slowly faded away, while her eyes widened just so.

The way he was sitting with his legs spread, his posture hunched against the backrest, and his arms propped atop the makeshift armrests, fingers curling to grip at the edges, made her heat up and her pulse rush to her ears.

Ekko looked up and caught her gaze with his own then gestured with his head for her to come closer, seemingly unaware of how she was currently feeling.

She moused closer to him, her joints suddenly feeling awkwardly stiff.

Ekko seemed to feel the same, his movements rigid yet had a determination about them as he leaned forward, peering up at her with his pretty brown eyes seconds before she felt a slight pressure behind her thighs.

His fingers.

He slid his hands behind her legs and pulled her closer, holding eye contact with her. He looked at her with intention, his eyes glazed over with something dangerously clandestine.

He didn't have to speak for her to know what his intentions were.

He pulled her closer, her legs buckling on their own, and before she could fully process it happen, she was straddling his lap.

The weight of her on his lap seemed to draw him out of his sudden bout of boldness, and she saw as a look of realization sprung to his face.

"I—Is this okay—?" he asked, almost in a panic.

He heard her swallow and saw her give a slow nod.

He didn't say anything else, instead leaning back in small increments until he felt the metal of the throne press into his back. He took her with her, and she readjusted the position of her legs on either side of him to be more comfortable.

And that's how they stayed.

Eventually, their endless staring made her feel dizzy. It was when she blinked away the slow-forming blur from her eyes that she remembered something she wanted to do earlier.

She looked down and picked up one of the ends of her scarf.

Ekko watched as she plucked a piece of wool from one of the frills, then took one of his dreadlocks in the front into her fingers.

She circled the wool around the lower end of it and then secured it with a tight bow. She dropped the dread, and the end of it poked his forehead when it fell. He noticed she'd chosen the dread next to the one that was threaded with her ribbon.

Her eyes dropped to look into his. "Happy Snowdown," she spoke in a hushed tone.

Suddenly, it felt like all of the air in the room had been syphoned out, and all that was left for them to breathe in was each other.

Ekko moved forward and caught her lips with his own, his eyes falling closed along with hers.

This time, it didn't start slow. This wasn't like any other time he'd kissed her. This kiss was esurient.

Tectonic.

And she liked it.

She tried matching his intensity and was met with his tongue fighting its way into her mouth to stroke around hers.

It was dizzyingly endless.

His fingers were in her hair again, careful not to touch too closely to the scar on the base of her skull. He held the back of her head as he ravaged her mouth.

His lips shifted and pressed against the corner of her mouth before leading a wet hot trail to the right side of her neck.

Her head lolled to the side on its own like a reflex and her skin broke out in goosebumps as his tongue pushed past his lips to lave at the skin there. The sensation was so shockingly new that it drew a whimper from her mouth. One that she didn't register.

But Ekko heard it, and it shocked something inside of him to life.

The hand in her hair dropped to join his other one in rubbing sensual paths up her back while he kissed at her neck.

"E—Ekko..." she whimpered out, causing him to still.

He pulled away from her neck to look at her, worried that he had taken things too far.

She looked at him with visible vulnerability, and she struggled to hold eye contact with him. "What... what are we...?"

A soft smile crept on his lips when he realized what she was asking.

"Each other's," he said after a moment.

She blinked. "Each other's?"

He hesitated.

"I... I want... to give you everything that I am... and... to love everything that you are... i—if that's okay with you..."

His words seeped past her skin and bones, embedding itself into her heart so deeply they became a part of her.

Her response was a kiss.

Momo pressed her lips to his, the kiss a contrast to the hungry way they ate at each other's mouths moments earlier.

Careful and slow, allowing them to feel each tiny crevice of each other's lips and the warmth of their shared moisture.

When she pulled away, it was to press a tickling kiss to his cheek.

Their eyes opened and met, and it felt like they were tying themselves to each other.

The moment was transient, both of them seemingly unable to go too long without their lips connected.

They leaned in at the same time, their mouths rejoining and moving with the intensity of waves on the ocean. Deep like the sea and soul-pulling like the tides.

His tongue pried its way into her mouth again, and her tongue met it with eager caresses.

He groaned into her mouth, and it was then that she became aware of a stiffness that had formed between them. It poked her between her legs. She jolted, but didn't pull away from the kiss.

She wanted this.

Wanted him.

Needed him in her blood.

But then, he pulled away, and she almost wanted to sob in protest.

He panted, his hot breaths huffing from his mouth and fanning her face. She heard him swallow in between breaths.

"I... I want to... try something..." he said, still breathless and somewhat hesitant.

She reached up and stroked his cheek with one of her hands, her thumb caressing him underneath his eye.

"What is it?"

His eyes circled her face before reconnecting with hers.

"Can I... try and... make you feel good...?"

Her eyes widened and she slowly sat back, causing her to feel more of his hardened cock. Her throat swelled with an unreleased shriek.

He felt her fingers twitch on his face, and he placed his hand over hers, stroking soft patterns over the tops of her fingers. "It's okay to say no," he spoke gently.

"I want you," she blurted out. "I want you in everyway."

He searched her face for any doubts.

There were none.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly.

Her eyebrows pinched together in confusion when he started shrugging his coat off his shoulders and pulled his arms out of the sleeves.

"What are you—"

"Hold onto me," he said, his fingers feeding underneath her thighs to grip them firmly.

She clung to him, her arms wrapping around his neck in a secure hold. Her breath pinched when he stood, taking her with him.

He spun with her in his arms to face the throne, where he laid her down on the seat with care. His coat acted as a barrier between her and the rough metal.

Momo pushed herself up on her elbows and saw him lower himself to sit on his heels. He started to untie the laces on her boots and then tugged them off her feet.

His eyes found hers again, and they drew him closer. He leaned forward, gaze dropping to look at the waistband of her pants. He reached up and tucked his fingers underneath the very top, then dragged his eyes up to look at her again to search for any signs that she might've changed her mind.

Her chest and face burned with the intensity of a fever, despite the frigid air circulating around them. Her heart caught in her throat when she felt him hook his fingers underneath the waistband of her pants. She noticed him pause and peer into her eyes, wanting more confirmation before he continued. She nodded, and her skin jumped when he started to leisurely pull down her pants, revealing the soft expanse of her legs.

Her pants fell to the floor beside him, and he took his time admiring the parts of her that hadn't been revealed to him until now.

Her legs were slim and hosted a significant amount of raised laceration scars. His eyes burned, and it took everything in him not to break down at the sight. He couldn't understand how someone could perform such atrocities on someone. He forcefully shed the thoughts from his mind. This moment was theirs, and he refused to let fleeting thoughts ruin it for them.

His eyes raked up her legs and stopped at the soft-pink panties she wore. Above it, her clothed tummy rose and fell with elevated breaths. He met her gaze and held it steady.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, then gently slid his hand underneath her ankle to raise her right leg. He pressed a kiss to her inner malleoli and then a trailway up her leg, each kiss becoming more open-mouthed than the last, leaving small patches of moisture in their wake.

She inhaled a shivering breath when his lips met the pillowy portion of her upper thigh, the wet feel of his mouth forcing currents of exquisite heat up her thighs and between her legs.

"P—Please—" she heard herself say, and her fingers dug into his coat.

He lifted his head, his lips falling from her thigh with a faint, wet pull.

"You don't need to beg, Momo... you can have anything you want."

His words stole her breath. She noticed his pupils were blown wide, bringing a deep darkness to his eyes. The way he spoke to her was a discovery. A new side of him that was just for her.

His hands ghosted a titillating trail up the sides of her thighs and stopped at the top of her panties.

He peered into her eyes with something brand new. A gentle, wordless demand that she understood like they were communicating in their own quiet, personal language. A transfer of thoughts by staring alone.

She held eye contact with him as he started to pull her panties down her legs. They wrung and twisted during their journey down and soon they joined her pants and boots on the floor.

Ekko's eyes weren't on hers anymore, now drawn to the sensitive parts of her between her legs. He looked her all over, memorizing the straight line of her unparted folds that were still nestled neatly together, a glistening dampness painting along the slit and catching a green glimmer from the light the surrounding firelight bugs emitted.

She squirmed nervously, and she saw the muscles in his neck strain as he swallowed.

He tugged on the very beginning of her slit with his index finger before using his thumb and middle finger to part the two halves of her folds, causing a quiet wet sound to emit from the parting flesh.

A whine died in her throat as her wetness caught the chill of the cool air.

He stared at the silken skin that unveiled before him, taking his careful time to study the most delicate part of her. He wanted to imprint the sight before him permanently into his mind so he could revisit it later.

While he hadn't seen a pussy before, he knew some things about its anatomy.

There was a tiny hidden knot nestled above her inner lips. It peeked out from a sleeve of skin.

Her clit.

Ekko thought it looked cute.

How was it that everything about her was adorable?

When he felt his knuckles brush against her thighs as she tried to close them, he realized he was probably staring for too long and making her nervous. He peered up at her through his lashes, but once he noticed the notes of insecurity etched on her face, he inclined his head more to look at her fully.

She quickly averted her gaze, her eyes falling closed in embarrassment.

"I—I just... fuck... you're so beautiful, Mo," he breathed out, keeping his eyes latched onto her face despite the almost painful desire to look down again.

She peeked her eyes open and looked at him through a blur of unshed tears.

The sight made his heart stretch and pull in his chest. She looked so vulnerably stunning in this moment; it caused his longing for her to bolden.

"You're perfect. All of you... it kind of put me in a trance..."

Momo felt like she might collapse in on herself. She couldn't speak. Embarrassment had tied her tongue. Her lip trembled, and suddenly all she wanted was to be held.

She wordlessly opened her arms, reaching upwards for him.

He knew immediately what she was asking for. He lifted himself off the floor enough to fold himself over her, where he then balanced his weight on his left forearm, while his right slid between his coat and her back, embracing her close. His face pressed against the crease between her neck and shoulder, where he pressed a sequence of open-mouthed kisses.

"So beautiful..." he whispered against her skin in between kisses.

"So lovely..."

Kiss.

"So precious..."

Kiss.

She whimpered at his continuous praise while tears spilled from the corners of her eyes, forming wet streamlets down her temples.

"Mine," he murmured against her neck.

A soundless gasp fled her mouth.

"You're mine."

He shifted, lifting himself and sliding his hand out from underneath her. His fingers crept across her cheeks so he could cradle her face, and he looked down at her with hooded eyes, which soon fell closed as he leaned forward to seal his lips over hers.

It lasted a small moment but also forever, mouths gliding as their bodies melted together.

He pulled away seconds later and slowly leaned back, his hands floating down her clothed sides until they reached her naked waist, where they paused for a moment before switching directions and drifting between her legs.

Her thighs fell open at his touch, and he moved his hands closer. He used his thumbs to part her folds, this time further than before. Her clit peeked out from its hood from the pull. His face drew closer, and he was inches from her pussy when he felt Momo's right-hand paw at his forearm.

He moved, grasping her hand and locking their fingers together while rearranging the fingers of his other hand to keep her spread for him.

He viewed up at her, eyes lidded with arousal while he leaned forward again. The first thing he did was loudly inhale, and her legs started to close from embarrassment.

"So good..." he groaned out.

Before she could further react, he experimentally used the tip of his tongue on her tiny bead of nerves.

Her hips jerked and she squeaked.

He did it again but stopped when her sounds and jolts told him it was too much. He didn't know what he was doing, but for some reason he felt determined rather than discouraged. He wanted to learn how her body worked—listen to the sounds she made and feel its small movements.

He tried again, this time instead up licking her clit directly, he nudged the side of it. Slowly. Up and down. Over the hood. Then repeated on the other side. He witnessed her beautiful response, sincere whimpers flooding from her mouth and her hips twitching with each stroke.

The slow torment from his tongue sparked electric filaments to life that zigzagged their way down her thighs and to her toes. Her breathing faltered, her brain going numb from the slow-building pleasure, causing its automatic processing to hiccup.

The crescent traces of his tongue developed into full circles, tracing tight rings around her clit. By now, she had eased into the stimulation, allowing him to apply more pressure.

She let out her first moan, her head pushing back into his coat and her eyes rolling closed.

He glanced up at her from over her mound, encouraged by her reaction. His tongue strayed from her clit, instead delving lower to taste her natural lubrification. He groaned, sending vibrating ripples through her body that caused her hips to tense.

He pulled away just enough to speak. "You taste so good..." Then his tongue was on her again, lapping at her wetness and making sounds that made it seem like he was the one being pleasured.

She panted during the momentary break on her clit, and her head lolled to the side where her eyes opened to watch him feast on her. The sight of him between her legs, mouth hungrily latched onto her pussy, sent fresh wetness spewing from her. It was so erotically pleasing to watch. Such a gorgeous man with a beautiful tongue.

And he was hers.

She whined when his tongue abandoned her inner lips to drag her wetness upwards, spiraling it around her clit to create more slickness around the nerves. He went back to circling it with his tongue, easing her back into it until he wrapped his lips around it again and sucked.

This time, she moaned out loud, her hips bucking and her grip on his hand tightening, fingers nipping the sides of his. Her eyes fluttered closed once more, and in the darkness all she knew was him and the pleasure he was pulling from her body.

Momo couldn't feel her feet, feeling only tingling. Her whole body twitched when she felt something firmer poke her inner lips, pushing them further open and then circling around the ring of her entrance.

Ekko peered up at her with his mouth still latched onto her pussy, watching her reaction as he carefully pushed his index finger of his free hand past her opening.

Her body automatically clamped down, trying to push out the invasion. She released a broken whimper, prompting him to pause his movements and pull away.

"You okay...?"

"Y—yeah—it's just—it feels... different..."

He studied her face. "...Good different...?"

She swallowed. "It's just... new..."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No—! No... please..."

He blinked, and after a few moments a slow smile curled at his lips, which became hidden when he returned his mouth to her pussy, keeping his eyes on hers as he lapped at her clit. He spun his finger around and pushed further inside, feeling her inner muscles hug him. She was so warm and wet inside, and it caused his cock to strain further against the barrier of his pants, painfully so. He wanted her. So badly. But this wasn't about him. He wanted to introduce her to overwhelming pleasure; his own needs were the least of his worries.

Her body started to relax around his finger, and he responded by fully sheathing it inside, right to the knuckle, while making sure he kept a good pace on her clit to help her hole remain accepting of him.

At a long, maddeningly slow lick of his tongue, she arched forward, the fingers of her free hand curling and clawing at his coat, while her other hand started to tremble in his hold. Her insides felt like they were searing, melting away into liquid molten that leaked out and ran down his knuckles.

Her moans became more urgent, her hips starting to stutter and squirm. She hardly registered the soft strokes of his thumb on the curve between her index finger and thumb, her body trembling and tingling. She was approaching something, yet it remained out of reach, circulating inside her tauntingly but refusing to break way.

"E—Ekko—" she whimpered out pitifully. She wasn't even sure what she was going to say.

He responded with a grunt against her pussy and decided to try something. His finger curled upwards, probing at the upper muscles inside her pussy. He pushed his saliva forward in his mouth, further lubricating her clit to prepare it for his increased sucking.

"Oh God oh God—" Her mind went liquid and spun upside down, her nerve endings jumping. Bursts of light twinkled across the dark void under her eyelids, lighting up her head like visual tingles. Her legs spasmed and locked, and she would've squirmed onto her side if Ekko hadn't pulled his hand from hers to hold her down.

Ekko listened to her sweet whines and moans as she fell apart against his mouth, her arousal spewing out of her and coating his finger. He groaned against her, her pleasure his own.

He listened to her body when he felt it start to buck away from his touch, gone sensitive from her orgasm. He slowly freed his finger from her pussy and replaced it with his tongue, lapping up the mess he made.

When her mind finally rebuilt itself, her eyes tiredly opened and watched as Ekko continued indulging on her pussy. She forced herself up on her elbows so she could see more of his features.

His eyebrows were pinched, his eyes closed. She heard as he made the softest of groans.

His eyes opened suddenly, meeting hers, and she felt him smile against her folds before he pulled away.

They stared at one another in charged silence, interrupted only by their breaths.

She was the first to move, throwing herself forward and wrapping her arms around him.

He jerked in surprise and quickly placed a hand behind him to support both of their weights. His other found its way to her back to pull her closer.

He smiled into her hair.

"...Can I do it again?"

Full fanfic can be found here.

[a-ikus]

curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction won't bring it back.

pairing: touya todoroki x f!reader w/c: 1.3k warning/s: lots of world building lmao, sci-fi/horror au, eventual smut + body horror notes: helllooooo!!! another repost i apologise but this is the prologue to a longer fic im working on, just a lot of world building in this inspo/acknowledgements: playlist

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates + voting • kofi • askbox

it was a dream come true when dr. kurogiri had accepted your internship application, a world famous astro-biologist, astro-geologist and astro-botanist, one of the last to work in an actual expedition team. you hope working beneath him will finally sate the curiosity you'd grown up feeding into.

nearly all crews formed in the space boom had disbanded, old hangars once housing ships torn down to become labs, rusted metal tossed aside for tempered glass, engines exchanged for supercomputers, pilots turning from aerospace to the astro-sciences to study all they'd discovered during the boom. 

kurogiri and shimura's team was one of the last left, the latter inheriting the hangar and his ship as a teenager, his lucky morgana. he was young, not even eighteen when he did his first expedition, returning to earth famous, dr. kurogiri and commander shimura's name's well-known in your household as you grew up; both for his age, of traversing the stars in solitude, and for his discovery: shimura wasn't the first to find life, certainly not the last. he was the first to recover such an organism alive. to bring it back to dr. kurogiri's lab, to maintain the alien life for years. something no one has ever come close to again.

he'd been a respected, house-hold name ever since that fateful expedition. at only nineteen, he'd met his pilots, touya todoroki and shuichi iguchi. by the time you'd joined his team, he'd built a whole crew; in-house mission specialists, toga himiko and bubaigawara jin, payload commander, hikiishi kenji and flight engineer, sako atsuhiro.

watching the crew from the lab, you'd always been curious about him, about his reputation, of his crew. staring through the window, you watch toga bound around the hangar, skipping as she pokes bubaigawara's shoulder, remembering the hushed warning your friends had whispered in your ear the night you'd gone out to celebrate your internship; that shimura's team was crazy.

cursed.

rumours had swirled ever since shimura returned from his first expedition, stumbling from the ship that left him orphaned, only a bandage in place of his left thumb, index and middle finger, limping down the runway holding a gnarled gash at his side, skin and tendons split, torn and jagged at the edges like something had tried to tear him in half. like wildfire, a rumour spread that his ex-mentor had set him up on his exploration, an attempt on the young commanders life, to kill him before he could tell the world of the life he'd found. the legend of shimura's curse only spreading more when iguchi and todoroki were named pilots on his second expedition.

from what you'd heard through the trusty grapevine, the pair were once pilots for the air force.

allegedly, their final mission resulted in one of the worst explosions in recorded air force history. iguchi, unconscious from the blast had suffered burns to most of his body — losing one of his legs, his right covered in grafts, his torso mangled by the fire, angry scares from the tip of his fingertips all the way up the side of his skull, not a single hair growing on the left side of his body, dark brown stubble dotted over the other half of his face, the jagged patch of hair atop his head buzzed, dyed a soft pink. he'd been closer to the explosion, the censored files making it clear he was lucky to survive. that he wouldn't have without todoroki.

EXPLOSIVES INCIDENT RESULTING IN GRAVE INJURY TO AIR FORCE PERSONNEL january 1st | east hangar casualties: 2 victim/s: shuichi iguchi, male, 21 rank: officer injuries: third degree burns to 30-40% of body, smoke inhalation. AMMENDED: third degree burns to 35% of body, left trans-tibial amputation.

victim/s: touya todoroki, male, 23 rank: first officer injuries: third degree burns to 15% of body, second degree burns to 40% of body, smoke inhalation.

INCIDENT REPORT: at the time of the explosive - believed to be carbon bisulphide - officer iguchi was inside the cockpit of LV-011 knocked unconscious inside the aircraft after the initial explosion. surveillance captures first officer todoroki running towards LV-011's burning wreckage, dragging iguchi from inside the aircraft, both officers suffering wounds from the fire as well inhalation related injuries. alarm both victims are reported to have been wearing civilian clothing at the time of the incident, the victims in the midst of locking the eastern hangar at the time of the explosion. first officer todoroki's report pending. first officer iguchi's report pending.

your nosiness was cut short only moments after it began, each report after the initial one required authorised access, all you knew was both men were honourably discharged soon after, before they'd even woken up.

the next day, you couldn't help but stare through the glass window once more, todoroki and iguchi working side by side, like they had been their entire career. todoroki ditched his uniform, shedding the thick material in favour of a black shirt, standing beneath the big spacecraft. he stretched his arms above his head, tapping the bottom edge of the wing as iguchi spoke, the shiny scars snaking over his fingertips stealing your attention easily, the dark patches of scarred skin stretching over his hands and wrists. like a winding path, it leads you to the next scar, a large span of disfigured skin where an angry flame had engulfed his arm, a long winding path of marred skin curling around his bicep and shoulder blade, disappearing under his shirt at his back, although, you see a sliver of it continuing around his collarbone before it vanishes again beneath the shirts neckline.

from what you'd heard, his arms and torso were the worst, the flames licking at his skin as he dragged iguchi out, spreading from iguchi's clothes to his as he tugged him from the burning wreckage. the scars elsewhere had healed to a light, raw pink; the patch of skin up the side of his face, singing half of one of his eyebrows off, and a patch of skin at his jaw and the side of his throat burnt smooth, and a patch of white hair missing just above his ear.

your eyes are glued to him as he speaks, one and a half eyebrows drawn down in a thoughtful expression, icy blue eyes glancing between iguchi and morgana, back and forth as the pair spoke. until the electric blue met you.

in a few short strides, he's at the lab door, "your parents never teach you it's rude to stare?"

his tone is light, a playful lilt as he pokes his head through the door, staring down at you at your desk.

"i-i didn't- i wasn't trying to—"

"second degree," he gestures to his face, to his throat, the pink skin shining under the sterile white lights of kurogiri's lab, your eyes following his fluid movements, watching his scarred hands as they dragged the neckline of his shirt down.

"and third." he splays his palms in front of you, like he's trying to convince you he's innocent of something, twisting his wrist to show the uneven patches of scar tissue spanning over his wrists and forearms , even tugging the hem of his shirt up to show you the same swirling scars at his hips, nearly covering the entire sliver of his stomach you can see.

"what happened?" your voice is soft, like your tone needs to be gentle on the tender, raw skin.

"some tanks beneath the ship exploded, they say it was a freak accident, the steel overheated or something," he gracefully glides into the lab, leaning on your desk, "iguchi says it was an accident, i think it was an attempt. but i'm like a cockroach, they should've known i'd come crawling out of there."

he winks, his eyelashes long and dark unlike his snow white hair, and your shoulders sag, relaxing more around him as he joked, "so, newbie, tell me at least a little about you, other than you have a staring problem. start with your name, i'm touya."

your eyes twinkle, a heat burning your cheeks as you repeated his name, the weight of his given name on your tongue so much heavier than reading it in articles and reports. dropping your pen, you offer out your name, and your hand.

© all works belong to @a-ikus and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.