#Project Management Rail

[strategicrailsresource]

Global Rail Suppliers – Leading Innovations in the Rail Industry

Learn about the role of Global Rail Suppliers in driving innovation and growth at Strategic Rails Resource. This platform provides insights into the latest trends, technologies, and equipment from top suppliers worldwide. Discover how these suppliers contribute to enhancing railway infrastructure, sustainability, and operational efficiency on a global scale. Stay informed and connect with industry leaders shaping the future of rail systems.

[hausandhoney]

Railway Industry Fractional Procurement - Strategic Rails Resource

Strategic Rails Resource specializes in railway industry fractional procurement services, offering flexible and cost-effective solutions. Our expert consultants help you manage procurement needs on a fractional basis, ensuring efficiency, scalability, and reduced overhead. Whether you're seeking to optimize sourcing or enhance operational flexibility, our tailored services support your unique requirements in the railway sector. Leverage our industry expertise to improve procurement processes and drive value for your business with fractional procurement solutions.

[asundayasundaykeepsthedoctoraway]

First Sunday of the year, have a Sunday!

[heartbunnymoth]

current brain worms ms paint drawing

[voiceoutofstars]

Readability Revision: Management Strategy for Reporting Starskiff Traffic

Part of a series of readability revisions for Honkai Star Rail text.

Reminder that I cannot read or speak Mandarin. This is a fan revision for readability, not a re-translation. For a lengthy explanation of this pet project and repeated disclaimers, check here.

(Obligatory warning: this one, too, is just...bureaucracy in space. Good. Fun. Scintillating reading.)

Management Strategy for Reporting Starskiff Traffic

Regulations governing application submission for entry and exit permits. It is printed and distributed by the Sky-Faring Commission.

Public Document of the Sky-Faring Commission

Chapter One — Principles

One

This method standardizes reporting for incoming and outgoing starskiffs and ensures traffic safety within the Xiānzhōu. It was formulated in adherence with legislation such as the Xiānzhōu Luófú Transport Regulations and the Starskiff Safety Inspection Standards.

Two

This method applies to civilian starskiffs that dock, depart, or use offshore loading stations within star systems under the Xiānzhōu Luófú's jurisdiction.

This method does not apply to Cloud Knight fighter jets, star jets, or competition-class flight ships.

In this method, "reporting starskiff traffic" refers to all activities that involve the starskiff owner reporting their vehicle’s traffic information to the Sky-Faring Commission. Such information includes, but is not limited to, reports of docking, departing, and using offshore loading stations, and may be conducted via internet, mail, or other means of communication.

Three

The Sky-Faring Commission is the main organization responsible for starskiff traffic reporting, and oversees how said reporting is managed on the Xiānzhōu Luófú.

The Sky-Faring Commission’s Department of Aviation is specifically responsible for relevant aviation tasks, including receiving, verifying and managing exit and entry reports of vessels in its jurisdiction, new starskiff registrations, and the dynamic starskiff monitoring system.

Four

Starskiff traffic reports should be managed according to the principles of legality, fairness, and benefit to the people.

Chapter 2 — When to Report

Five

Starskiff traffic reports must be made to the local Department of Aviation in the following situations:

1. Arrival reports must be filed for starskiffs arriving at any dock, berth, anchorage grounds, or loading stations with the purpose of: loading or offloading goods, personnel embarking or disembarking, re-stocking supplies, or receiving contaminants;

2. Departure reports must be filed for starskiffs leaving any dock, berth, anchorage grounds, or loading stations after: loading or offloading goods, personnel embarking or disembarking, re-stocking supplies, or receiving contaminants.

Six

Starskiffs do not need to file a traffic report for the following situations:

1. The starskiff is entering (or exiting) Xiānzhōu space from (or to) interstellar space, and has already filed interstellar travel starskiff custom reports in accordance with relevant regulations;

2. The starskiff is a support vessel owned by Stargazer Navalia and is conducting scheduled work in the area;

3. The starskiff is a Sky-Faring Commission vessel currently on patrol or engaged in other official business.

Seven

Starskiffs only need to file a brief traffic report for the following situations:

1. A vessel is conducting official business (such as maintenance) for the wharf area;

2. A vessel is sailing or operating in the space operation platform area.

Eight

Starskiffs towed into dock by another vessel may either file a standard traffic report or file under "Dock Operations — Tugboat." If additional starskiffs must be added or removed from the towing vessel during interstellar rescue, transportation, or towing operations, a traffic report should be filed as soon as possible. When emergencies such as search and rescue operations prevent arrival or departure reporting as required by regulations, traffic reports should be filed as soon as possible after the operation has concluded.

(et cetera.)

[townpostin]

Surinder Pal Appointed as Senior Deputy General Manager of South Eastern Railway

Surinder Pal takes charge as the new Senior Deputy General Manager of South Eastern Railway, Kolkata. Surinder Pal has been appointed as the new Senior Deputy General Manager of South Eastern Railway, bringing extensive experience and qualifications to his new role in Kolkata. JAMSHEDPUR – Surinder Pal has taken over the role of Senior Deputy General Manager of South Eastern Railway, Garden…

[batboyblog]

Things Biden and the Democrats did, this week #26

July 5-12 2024

The IRS announced it had managed to collect $1 billion in back taxes from high-wealth tax cheats. The program focused on persons with more than $1 million in yearly income who owned more than $250,000 in unpaid taxes. Thanks to money in Biden's 2022 Inflation Reduction Act the IRS is able to undertake more enforcement against rich tax cheats after years of Republicans cutting the agency's budget, which they hope to do again if they win power again.

The Biden administration announced a $244 million dollar investment in the federal government’s registered apprenticeship program. This marks the largest investment in the program's history with grants going out to 52 programs in 32 states. The President is focused on getting well paying blue collar opportunities to people and more people are taking part in the apprenticeship program than ever before. Republican pledge to cut it, even as employers struggle to find qualified workers.

The Department of Transportation announced the largest single project in the department's history, $11 billion dollars in grants for the The Hudson River Tunnel. Part of the $66 billion the Biden Administration has invested in our rail system the tunnel, the most complex Infrastructure project in the nation would link New York and New Jersey by rail under the Hudson. Once finished it's believed it'll impact 20% of the American economy by improving and speeding connection throughout the Northeast.

The Department of Energy announced $1.7 billion to save auto worker's jobs and convert factories to electronic vehicles. The Biden administration will used the money to save or reopen factories in Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Maryland, and Virginia and retool them to make electric cars. The project will save 15,000 skilled union worker jobs, and created 2,900 new high-quality jobs.

The Department of Housing and Urban Development reached a settlement with The Appraisal Foundation over racial discrimination. TAF is the organization responsible for setting standards and qualifications for real estate appraisers. The Bureau of Labor Statistics last year found that TAF was 94.7% White and 0.6% Black, making it the least racially diverse of the 800 occupations surveyed. Black and Latino home owners are far more likely to have their houses under valued than whites. Under the settlement with HUD TAF will have to take serious steps to increase diversity and remove structural barriers to diversity.

The Department of Justice disrupted an effort by the Russian government to influence public opinion through AI bots. The DoJ shut down nearly 1,000 twitter accounts that were linked to a Russian Bot farm. The bots used AI technology to not only generate tweets but also AI image faces for profile pictures. The effort seemed focused on boosting support for Russia's war against Ukraine and spread negative stories/impressions about Ukraine.

The Department of Transportation announces $1.5 billion to help local authorities buy made in America buses. 80% of the funding will go toward zero or low-emission technology, a part of the President's goal of reaching zero emissions by 2050. This is part of the $5 billion the DOT has spent over the last 3 years replacing aging buses with new cleaner technology.

President Biden with Canadian Prime Minster Justin Trudeau and Finnish President Alexander Stubb signed a new agreement on the arctic. The new trilateral agreement between the 3 NATO partners, known as the ICE Pact, will boost production of ice breaking ships, the 3 plan to build as many as 90 between them in the coming years. The alliance hopes to be a counter weight to China's current dominance in the ice breaker market and help western allies respond to Russia's aggressive push into the arctic waters.

The Department of Transportation announced $1.1 billion for greater rail safety. The program seeks to, where ever possible, eliminate rail crossings, thus removing the dangers and inconvenience to communities divided by rail lines. It will also help update and improve safety measures at rail crossings.

The Department of the Interior announced $120 million to help tribal communities prepare for climate disasters. This funding is part of half a billion dollars the Biden administration has spent to help tribes build climate resilience, which itself is part of a $50 billion dollar effort to build climate resilience across the nation. This funding will help support drought measures, wildland fire mitigation, community-driven relocation, managed retreat, protect-in-place efforts, and ocean and coastal management.

The USDA announced $100 million in additional funds to help feed low income kids over the summer. Known as "SUN Bucks" or "Summer EBT" the new Biden program grants the families of kids who qualify for free meals at school $120 dollars pre-child for groceries. This comes on top of the traditional SUN Meals program which offers school meals to qualifying children over the summer, as well as the new under President Biden SUN Meals To-Go program which is now offering delivery of meals to low-income children in rural areas. This grant is meant to help local governments build up the Infrastructure to support and distribute SUN Bucks. If fully implemented SUN Bucks could help 30 million kids, but many Republican governors have refused the funding.

USAID announced its giving $100 million to the UN World Food Program to deliver urgently needed food assistance in Gaza. This will bring the total humanitarian aid given by the US to the Palestinian people since the war started in October 2023 to $774 million, the single largest donor nation. President Biden at his press conference last night said that Israel and Hamas have agreed in principle to a ceasefire deal that will end the war and release the hostages. US negotiators are working to close the final gaps between the two sides and end the war.

The Senate confirmed Nancy Maldonado to serve as a Judge on the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Judge Maldonado is the 202nd federal Judge appointed by President Biden to be confirmed. She will the first Latino judge to ever serve on the 7th Circuit which covers Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin.

Bonus: At the NATO summit in Washington DC President Biden joined 32 allies in the Ukraine compact. Allies from Japan to Iceland confirmed their support for Ukraine and deepening their commitments to building Ukraine's forces and keeping a free and Democratic Ukraine in the face of Russian aggression. World leaders such as British Prime Minster Keir Starmer, German Chancellor Olaf Scholz, French President Emmanuel Macron, and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, praised President Biden's experience and leadership during the NATO summit

[sadagios]

Icarus, and the Sunflower

A Desert Duo/Scarian AU about an avid player meeting his favorite, comfort character in a death loop video game.

I can’t write a fic, nor have time to draw comics like i used to, so we are doing bullet points on a tumblr post

PART ONE: BEFORE THE ALPHA TEST

PROLOGUE: PART TWO

2.1k words below the cut

SOME BEGINNING NOTES: - This AU is only character shipping, and references a lot outside the life series events (evo, hermitcraft, empires, etc). This is not meant to ship the CC’s themselves and if anything alludes to it, it is purely unintentional. - This is not canon-compliant ermmmm i do what i want and i will put every idea i have into this - Tags for this part? Game dev AU, Grian is whipped for Scar, some characters are real and some are fictional, this is only the prologue, absolutely not beta'd i only have one impulsive braincell

A. Gria

Gria is a single man in his late 20s; he works at a game company called E.V.O. Games (Entertainment Virtual for Everyone). He was an architecture graduate who dabbled in game dev in his spare time during his undergraduate studies. Although he didn’t pursue that path, he utilized his skills in level design. He used to work in several indie game companies, one of which was a company founded with friends, before he was hired by E.V.O. Games. He was excellent at his job, and his ideas and inputs always improved whatever project he worked on. Because of this, after a few years, he was promoted to creative director.

His latest project was “The Evolutionists’ Portal,” a 3D pixel-style puzzle game in which the player has to navigate the world to find portals hidden in each level, and these portals progress the game. With each portal traveled into, the world becomes bigger and more complicated, making each portal harder to find. However, with multiplayer, this task is easier through working together (and doing fun shenanigans together).

It had a buggy release, especially for multiplayer, but it built a decent player fanbase; the story itself was short and simple, but it was replayable thanks to its multiplayer mode.

For visualization, it’s 3D with a top-down perspective like “Pokemon Diamond/Pear/Platinum” but has gameplay similar to “Stardew Valley”

Gria and his team get along well, and he is quite close to some of them:

Martyn: an audio engineer. This is the first game he’s worked on since he was first hired in the company.

“Big B”: a VFX artist. He and Gria joined the company around the same time and bonded over stressful deadlines and annoying seniors when they started out.

Jimmy: the project manager. Although Gria takes a lot of joy in teasing him, he is hardworking and great at keeping everyone in check with the calendar. Out of everyone, he is the one Gria is closest with. He also works on another game by the company called “Empires.” 

Pearl: an environment artist. She joined the company a bit later in the development. It is her first time dealing with pixel graphics but she did it incredibly well. She also works on “Empires” with Jimmy.

“Empires” is a free-to-play fantasy open-world action gacha RPG. It is the biggest game of the company and their title game. 

For visualization, it’s just “Genshin Impact” and “Honkai: Star Rail”.

Recently, there was a buzz around that their game, “Empires”, will have a collaboration event with another big name. Gria was too busy and overworked to take notice of this, though. 

The fruits of his labor later came as game nominations for “Best Multiplayer” and “Best Audio Design.” Gria was happy their work was acknowledged by players worldwide, even if they didn’t win.

B. Hermitopia

After so long, Gria finally took a week off. It was foreign to have no obligations for even a day. He doesn’t use this time to travel; instead, he sits at home and lurks on the internet to keep up with gaming news and updates. He uses the username “Xelqua” with a red macaw as his profile picture.

He stumbled upon a “Redstone tutorial” post by the user ”Potatonutshell”. Curious and intrigued by how such a complicated contraption is possible in a game (and bored out of his mind), he asked this user what game it was for. Potatonutshell briefly, and over-excitedly, DM’d Gria with a huge wall of text about this game called “Hermitopia 6.”

In the beginning days of his break, Gria spent time messaging this Potatonutshell fella, named “Mumbo.” Mumbo named himself after a character named “Mumbo Jumbo”, who is one of the most skilled “redstoners” in the game. He related heavily with the character and took a lot of interest in the redstone circuitry game feature as he is a programmer in real life. Gria thought the game was interesting, but not enough to install a 36 GB game for $39.99. He changed his mind when Mumbo told him more about the game, especially its base-building mechanic.

“Hermitopia 6: Hermit Civil War” is an open-world fantasy action RPG known for its base-building core mechanic. It is the sixth game in the franchise, and each game starts in a brand-new world. The player and the lovable NPCs are called hermits, a band of humans, fae, hybrids, and other species who live together on an island and work together to live a sustainable life amidst the hostile creatures that roam the world. 

For visualization, it’s like “Skyrim” with “Baldur’s Gate 3” graphics and dialogue UI.

Gria planned to try it for a few hours, only humoring his new internet friend, until he met this beautiful NPC named “Scar Goodtimes” — a human-vex hybrid with scars all over his “handsome face and carved body”, as Gria would personally describe him. He was also a builder who lived near Gria’s very odd underwater base. Throughout the remaining days of his break, and his weekends after that, Gria played Hermitopia 6 religiously.

Scar calls him “GRIAN”, which was a typo error — Gria pressed enter early in the name selection screen and he didn’t realize it until Scar first mentioned his name 3 hours into the game. He can’t be bothered to fix it, though (and he's grown fond of it.)

Gria continued to play the game in his free time, slowly falling in love with the game as he kept on playing. He also kept talking to Mumbo, who he fanboyed about the game with. He found out that Mumbo lived close by too, so they hung out frequently and bonded over the game.

Gria: I genuinely thought you had a big mustache, y’know, like Mumbo Jumbo. Mumbo: I do too! It’s... it's there! [he shows his very faint mustache] It's there! Gria: sure.

Xelqua started off as a lurker, to an active Hermitopia fan account. He was interested in the base-building aspect of the game and shared his designs online.

Hermitopia is not a dating simulator. There is no romance mechanic in the game. Anyway, Gria installed (and tweaked) a romance mod because no one can stop him from flirting with his fictional vex boyfriend.

Mumbo: Grian, if I hadn't met you personally, I would've pictured you as a crazy Scar fanatic. Gria: Wha— How— I’m not crazy. Mumbo: You downloaded a romance mod just to flirt with Scar and commissioned an artist to draw a scene from it, and now you have it framed on your bedroom wall. So, Grian, I think that’s crazy behavior. Gria: … I do what I want, Mumbo!

Gria's love for the game and Scar grew more as another hermitopia game was released (Hermitopia 7). Then, he, as Xelqua, became a notorious name because of a supposedly harmless poll about the sexiest character in the game. He was known as the insane Scar fan.

He's got every Scar merch, though there isn't much Hermitopia merch released in general. However, if someone posts about a new Scar fan merch, a certain username might appear in their notifications, like a hound trailing a scent. Haters and trolls are also dragged to hell and back because, if they aren't regretful after being berated by this insane man, they will not be able to surf through the web in peace as long as Xelqua holds a grudge. 

As insane as this Xelqua person is, Scar had become a popular character within the fandom, compared to his old status as an underrated sweetheart without much attention or fanfare thanks to Xelqua constantly (for years without missing a day) talking about him. Xelqua also organized or helped some Scar fan events and constantly supported merch creators with hermitopia merch (especially if it involved Scar.)

User Xelqua, about Scar: He is my little sunshine, my precious sunflower. He might’ve killed some men, but he was hot while doing it.

C. The Collaboration Event

Back to Game dev stuff, Gria isn’t open about his current obsession with his coworkers. When the collaboration event with the “Empires” games was finally announced, two representatives from the other company came to visit. “Skizzleman” has been a writer for Hermitopia since the 3rd game. A character from Empires, Gemini, will become a new character in the next Hermitopia game, and there will be a DLC that will add a new small map with many biomes and new materials. In Empires, Hermitopia characters will be featured in a limited-run gacha banner and a limited-time story event. 

Now a Hermitopia fan, Gria tried to interview Skizzleman about the game (while making it not obvious how obsessed he is with it). Skizzleman was the one who wrote the lore for “Impulse” as well as most of his dialogue throughout the games.

Another representative for Hermitopia, the lead designer Joel, came to visit for the collab event. He is a fanatic of Empires and a diehard “Shadow Lady” fan, which is why he is so excited to work with E.V.O. Games for the collab.

Accompaniment art for this here: link

Gria was never into gacha games, but with a mix of Pearl and Jimmy convincing him to try the game they worked on (not to mention the fact that it is free-to-play), and showing him an initial sketch of what some hermitopia characters will look like in the game (this isn’t allowed, but Jimmy and Pearl found the thought of their serious coworker playing a gacha game amusing), he finally caved. Little did they know, showing a topless concept art of Scar is more than enough to reel him in.

When the collab update was finally released, Gria grinded Empires just to get Scar. He practically paid his own salary back to his company just to get Scar to max level and his additional skins. (He loved his new “HotGuy” skin the most)

With the release of “Hermitopia 8: Moon Collision” and the introduction of co-op multiplayer mode, Gria invited Pearl to play with him with the excuse that they're only going to see how Gemini looks in the game. Gria successfully got Pearl hooked on the game.

D. The Watchers Studio

Before Gria properly applied to a game company, he developed small-scale games with his high school friends. They called themselves “The Watchers.” He met them in a small art club and they bonded over their favorite games. Gria’s favorite game growing up was an old zombie game with a title he can no longer remember.

One of their unfinished games was “The Life Game.” It was a battle-royal death game where the players had to gather resources and have limited lives.

Two of their old friend group recently reached out to Gria to catch up. They said they wanted to work on “The Life Game” again and wanted to ask Gria if he wanted to join again. Of course, Gria already had a job himself, so he declined. However, he hung out with the two and checked in with their progress, nostalgia hitting him as they relived their old game ideas.

The two invited Gria to do an alpha test and asked him to invite any friends who might find it fun. Gria invited Jimmy, Pearl, Martyn, and Big B, as well as Skizzleman and Joel who he’s been acquainted with. He also sent an invite to Mumbo, who was unfortunately busy with his job at the moment. 

To Gria’s surprise, the two had turned their game into a VR game. All seven of them played in a medium-sized studio, and although the game was fun, it was nausea-inducing, especially for Joel. They all lost to the Computer-AI characters, which concluded their Alpha Test.

After the meetup, the two lent them their CD copy of the game with the VR Headset they used (which was suspiciously generous of them).

Skizzleman liked the game a lot and asked if they could do it again sometime, which Gria relayed to his two old friends. Pearl shared the same sentiment but is too caught up with work which makes her unable to join their next session.

The gang kept discussing the game they played and its potential to become a hit with a little more polish. This made Gria feel proud of his old team and his past self, reminding him of the time he was passionate about making games despite his lack of experience. 

With limited coding knowledge and a little help from Mumbo, he made a server to host “The Life Game” online instead of LAN. He sent copies to Mumbo and Pearl in case they’d join later. According to the two, the game had more improvements to it since the last time they played it, which was months ago.

Gria had a small voice in his head telling him this was a bad idea— well, he did get a bit sick in the last session, but everyone had fun. So, he ignored the warning bells and hit “Join World.”

This marks the End of Prologue Part One Next Chapter > PART TWO: UNFIXABLE ERROR

ENDING NOTES: I've been brainrotting and hyperfixating on the idea for a while now, and I don't know how to let it all out so I'm going to try out this format. Hopefully I could add more to this! Thank you if you've read this far into the post. :) Made a spotify playlist too in case anyone is interested (I'm still working on this though)

[reasonsforhope]

"Despite being arguably the most famous island chain in the world in terms of biodiversity, the Galápagos Islands are still surprising scientists today.

A bird seen and recorded by Charles Darwin on his visit to Floreana island in 1835 has been observed in the wild there for the first time in 190 years.

Darwin’s observations from the small, south-central island in the volcanic chain included the presence of a small, secretive bird called the Galápagos rail (Laterallus spilonota).

Just two years ago, several organizations began work on the large-scale Floreana Island Restoration Project. By removing invasive species that devastated native wildlife for generations, the local environment once again became a haven for species to recover and thrive.

The Galápagos rail, a land-bird endemic to the archipelago, has been severely impacted by these invasive species. It dwells on the ground, is extremely vulnerable to predators, and relies on dense, lush vegetation to hide in. But despite these dangers, the rail has proved to be a resilient and resourceful little bird.

The rails, locally known as Pachays, have been quick to return to restored islands. In 2018, six years after the conservation nonprofit Island Conservation successfully removed invasive species from nearby Pinzón Island, the Rails were among the first locally-extinct animals to reappear—along with other species such as the cactus finch.

It hasn’t been long since the Floreana Island Restoration Project began, but the rails have already repopulated it.

During their most recent annual landbird monitoring expedition on the island, teams from the Charles Darwin Foundation and Ecuador’s state agency for managing the archipelago recorded the bird’s presence at three distinct sites.

The birds were present and away from human habitation and agriculture, in a grassland shaded by guava trees. Confirmed findings include six acoustic records, two visual sightings, and one photograph. And it isn’t a coincidence that they’re back now—the site has been monitored for the Galápagos rail consistently since 2015, and this is the first year they’re back.

“The rediscovery of the Galápagos rail confirms what we’ve seen on islands worldwide—remove the invasive threats, and native species can recover in remarkable ways,” said Island Conservation’s Conservation Impact Program Manager Paula Castaño in a statement.

“This is an incredible win for Floreana, and fuels our excitement about what other native species might resurface as the island continues its journey toward ecological recovery.”

Next, scientists must use genetic sampling to determine whether these newly recorded birds are from a self-reintroduced lineage or whether there was a tiny population of rails that survived, undetected, for 190 years.

Island Conservation details how that’s not unheard of: on nearby Rábida, the organization’s restoration efforts led to the rediscovery of a species of gecko that was only known to science through subfossil records dated more than 5000 years old. They’d been living on the island in very low numbers for hundreds of years, but it was only once holistic restoration had taken place that they were able to increase their numbers to detectable levels.

MORE NEWS FROM THIS FAMOUS PLACE: 500 Giant Tortoises Reintroduced to Four Galapagos Islands in 2023

With a local population already establishing itself, chances are good for a successful reintroduction. Soon, it’s hoped, Floreana’s grasslands will be home to a large, thriving colony of rails.

“It gives us hope that there might be even more ‘extinct’ Galápagos species to find,” the statement read.""

-via Good News Network, March 3, 2025

[gojover]

get him back! | mydeimos.

summary ⇢ years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mydei are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mydei slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

pairing ⇢ lead guitarist!mydei x lead singer!fem!reader contains ⇢ romance, angst, smut (oral sex, hate sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, wall sex, overstimulation, slight dirty talk), exes to lovers!au, modern!au, band!au, profanity, alcohol consumption, smoking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 16.7k note ⇢ inspired by the honkai star rail official mydei art, olivia rodrigo’s get him back! & daisy jones and the six by taylor jenkins reid. reposted from @/dxnheng. read on ao3 here.

i). wait, is this the song with the drums?

Your first instinct, when Anaxa drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Anaxa simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.

“It’s not a request,” he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. “It’s happening whether you’re on board or not. Your contract’s airtight.” 

“That’s impossible,” you scoff, folding your arms defensively. “I specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it. 

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mydei.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions. 

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby, Lie to me and say I’m crazy— Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I know it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like��� dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]

HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]

YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “Kephale, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]

CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]

HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]

MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything. 

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that. 

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.

Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away. 

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]

CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]

CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]

PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]

HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold. 

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing. 

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: MYDEI]

MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mydei again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching. 

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]

CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t want them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

PHAINON (CONT’D):  …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once. 

Mydei starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved. 

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips. 

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

[snailpebbles]

your fic about Chishiya was so good I feel like you captured his character perfectly 😩 will you write more about him? I can barely find any good writings about him and yours is truly so perfect 😔💓

Patchwork Love

pairing: Chishiya Shuntaro x gn!reader

summary: after being injured in a game, Chishiya drags you off and is somehow more silent than usual. What's his problem?

tags: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, they're both so stupid

warnings: descriptions of injuries including blood, non-sexual unwanted touch, emotional constipation, Chishiya cries lmao

a/n: hope you enjoy :) my writing is rusty lol but I love this trope

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Everything was going fine at first; you were on your own in a level three spades game, lightwork! It was a construction zone with many metal rails and walkways, and multiple wide pipes at the very top. The objective was simple - get to the top before the time runs out. At first it was that simple, that is until the freezing cold water began to pour in randomized sections. A game of strength and luck it seems. There were others from the Beach with you, so of course you figured you'd just team up and make sure no one slips. Wrong! To save their own asses just as the four of you were getting towards the top, they used your body as an easier to grip ladder. Not only did you feel violated, you also felt icy cold fear mixing with white hot rage. What the fuck? You pulled those three up so many times at the risk of drowning and for what?

The water pours down on you as they cheer from the top with just two minutes left, freezing and blinding you as you struggle to actually breathe. Two hands on one thin bar that's already trembling under your suspended weight. Fuck. Everything felt like a blur as you hauled your leg over another bar, using all your strength to not drown from the water rushing across you and to pull yourself onto the walkway. For a moment it seems like something had snapped, your leg overstretched and arms overexerted. You aren't built for this! Your life before consisted of studying and absolutely destroying kids on x-box! As you lay on the metal grating, water having ceased with a heaving chest, Chishiyas face flashes in your mind. Well fuck - you're realizing you like him at the worst possible time. With that motivation in mind alongside the need to deck those three in the balls, you force your aching body up the rest of those rails with ten seconds left on the clock.

The three boys are obviously shocked to see you alive and rush off, once again leaving you behind with no transportation back. Lovely.

You aren't quite sure how you managed to get back to Beach but by the time you do, the sun is beginning to rise. Damn, what if they vacated your room? The morning air is chilly and you know you have some sort of hypothermia if your chilled fingertips are anything to go by, not to mention the way your head is beginning to swim - pun intended.

As your torn up, shaking form stumbles through the gates past a few surprised militants and even more surprised party-goers, Kuina barrels towards you. She looks both put together and a mess, her eyes red rimmed and seeming to water - pun intended - as her warm hands cup your ice cold cheeks. She chokes up at this realization and ushers you inside, muttering something about Ann being a little busy with some project as she leads you two to a familiar door.

Chishiyas face, as calm as ever, cracks when Kuina barges in. He's up in an instant and wasting no time as apparently one look at you is enough to know what you need - or maybe he just knows you. A blanket is around your shoulders before you can blink and now you're on his bed, unfortunately not in the context you'd wish for now. Kuina runs off after Chishiya instructs her to get a whole load of things, but you honestly have no idea what because you're too busy staring at him. Chishiyas face is contorted in a way you've never seen before or at least haven't been the recipient of. His eyes are focused in solely on you, his brows furrowed and typical smirk gone in favor of a grimace. Most notable are his hands resting heavy on your shoulders as if you'd shrug the warm blanket off. Those hands you now realize match those in your dreams are surprisingly warm and unsurprisingly steady - Chishiya was a little less smart than you thought if he didn't know by now that you knew of his profession. The idea of him in a doctors coat distracts you as he gets up from where he was crouched in front of you, reappearing with bandages and disinfectant.

"So..how'd your game go?" You break the awkward silence and feel your cheeks warm at how scratchy your voice is. Must've been the borderline constant drowning. His sharp gaze makes you almost flinch with the weight in it, your own eyes dropping back to your lap. Of course he doesn't respond, only making some vaguely disapproving noises as those eyes scan your wounds. His silence begins to piss you off, that rage from earlier being misdirected at him. Seriously, you almost died in a frankly horrific way and this is all he has to give?

"I can patch myself up. I'm not helpless." The tension rises, twisting uncomfortably in your gut as Chishiya stays in place while you glare at him. With a huff as he refuses to speak, you get up on weak legs. This seems to snap him out of it as he grabs your hips - and just at the right time. Your legs give way as the exhaustion hits all at once to only fuel that anger, a frustrated sound coming from you as Chishiya tuts disapprovingly again.

"Stay still. You're hurt and too tired to move." His voice is rough and annoyingly calm. Is he allergic to worrying? You obey though as he unravels the bandages and uncaps the disinfectant, steeling yourself for the following pain.

The blond has the grace to look at least a little apologetic at every wince and soft cry your battered form gives, even letting you hold onto either his shoulders or jacket. The cuts, scraps, bruises, and blood staining your body worry him even if he doesn't show it. Images begin flashing in his mind of internal bleeding, broken ribs, torn muscles-

"Are you..crying?" Your soft voice breaks the less tense silence, your own tears having dried up some time ago. Chishiya pales as he becomes aware of the liquid dripping down his cheeks and hastily wipes them away, refusing to meet your gaze or lift his head.

"No." He replies shortly, heart picking up its pace as he realizes he has to patch your torn hands. You follow his gaze and readily hold both hands out, skin raw and bleeding still. He winces internally at the sight of your beautiful hands so heavily marred.

Warmth spreads through you as he takes your hand in his non-dominant one to carefully disinfect it, whispering apologies as you hold back cries of pain. Somehow you aren't too shocked by this display of care, an inner part of you having sensed something was different by the lingering looks and the way he is always there. Chishiya wraps your hand with a gentleness you weren't sure he possessed, repeating the process with your other hand until every wound is patched up. Not a word was properly shared, your eyes rarely met, and you didn't comment again on the occasional slip of tears you caught.

"Go change in the bathroom." He mutters after passing you actual clothes, aka his own sweatpants and a t shirt. Once you step back out of the bathroom - definitely not after taking a moment to admire yourself in his clothes - Chishiya does just what you definitely didn't. The admiration is well hidden yet you catch it in the way he turns his head slightly to the left and steps back, as if you're a danger.

"These are really comfy, thanks." An appreciative smile brightens your face and threatens to blind him, so he sits down where you were moments earlier. You take a seat beside him and try to hide your steadily growing flustered state when that damn white jacket is placed around your shoulders. He says nothing so neither do you, the silence now companionable even as sparks burn its edges.

"What happened." It's not a question and you know that, just as you know what happened isn't your fault. The tears, anger and irrational shame, prick your eyes anyways. He doesn't comment, he only takes your pinkie with his.

After a deep inhale and calming exhale, you speak. "It was an easy spades game and I teamed up with three guys from here, but towards the end they just.." You choke up momentarily, but with the way his hand moves to rub your forearm, you know you'll get it out.

"They knocked me down so I was hanging and used me like a fucked up bridge- their hands were everywhere and I know it was for survival only but it was so..so dehumanizing." The words come out softer and softer until you aren't even sure Chishiya can hear, but he does. He only ever listens for you. His face is as calm as ever as you cry, arm light as it wraps around your shoulder to bring you into the only safe haven you have in this fucked up place.

Time passes, you aren't sure how much but you are sure you've dozed off, yet Chishiya hasn't moved once. He holds you close and his fingers still rub circles on your shoulder, mindful of a bruise there as he's memorized your injuries. There's some snacks and another blanket on the small dresser, presumably brought by Kuina.

Chishiya knows you've slipped into that numb state, so he doesn't mind helping you eat some crackers and drink that tea you're so obsessed with. He doesn't mind keeping you right there, right where he can protect you and you can rest; where you can heal yourself. What he does mind is you deciding to break out of this numbness by pestering him.

"You cried." You whisper, poking his chest lightly as his arms tenses around you. For a moment you fear you may have misjudged the air and his actions, envy flooding - pun unintended - through you at the idea that maybe all his patients get such treatment. His answer calms your thoughts.

"Yes, you could say I was..worried. Don't do that again." His warm breath brushes across the top of your head and a faint smile tugs at your lips from the slight roughness to his typically smooth voice. Your head props up on his chest so you can see him and he can't resist looking down at you. His eyebrow raises in a silent question that has you grin, that familiar smirk returning.

"If it gets me this treatment.."

"No."

"Worth a shot."

"..You don't need to be hurt to get my attention." The one-sided banters comes to a halt as your eyes widen, staring at his ever calm face like he hand painted the stars for you. If he could, he would.

With a slight grunt you manage to sit up a little better, worry flickering over Chishiyas face at your show of pain. Damn you could get used to this. Words aren't his thing so what better communication than action? Even with bandages, your hands ever so carefully cup his jaw, moving slowly incase he doesn't want this.

Chishiya really fucking wants this. With the way you're being so gentle, so considerate, when others in his life haven't almost keels him over. But you're injured, mentally and physically, so slow and steady will win this race. The kiss is soft and unhurried, as if there isn't an invisible timer looming over your heads. Time is irrelevant when he whispers your name oh so quietly and his hand oh so carefully caresses your matching tear stained cheek. With every touch, every shared breath, the previous hands are washed away for now. They'll haunt you at night but Chishiya will be there to wipe them away, whether that be with affection or simply being there as you get a snack to soothe your brain.

You know why he cried, why he looked so worried, why it's his clothes you're wearing, and why Kuina said Ann was busy when you actually passed by her lounging in the hall. He loves and he cares, the same as you. It only took almost losing you to realize it.

As you separate slowly and lay down, drawn together as if magnets, you drift off. Chishiya waits patiently as your breath evens out before slipping away.

It's the next morning when you wake up alone in the cold bed, insecure heartbreak seeping in until Chishiya quietly walks into the room, not hesitating with the gentle squeeze to your shoulder and kiss to your head. No words are exchanged when you settle in the chair next to him by his desk, watching him build who knows what as you munch away on those snacks. His ankle his hooked with yours and that is all that matters - you can ignore the split knuckles and prideful hint to his face because he's yours, and you're his.

[4vanaa]

—01 MEET THE CAMERONS.

MASTERLIST

Parenting Style:

You:

⌗ you’re the glue that holds everything together. you’re the calm in the storm, trying to create some order amidst the chaos rafe and the kids inevitably bring. you're fair but firm when it comes to rules and expectations, though you’re not afraid to bend the rules to make everyone happy sometimes.

⌗ you’re the one who handles the serious stuff, like school projects, making sure everyone gets to their activities on time, and having family meetings when things get too crazy.

⌗ your biggest challenge is managing the emotional rollercoaster that is rafe's unpredictable behavior while also balancing the needs of the kids.

⌗ you’re a very hands-on parent, emotionally available for your kids. giving them the space to grow but also have a warm side. you always know when to step in with advice or affection and when to let them figure things out on their own.

Rafe:

⌗ rafe tries to be the “cool dad” who doesn’t follow any rules, especially when it comes to his teens. he’s big on freedom, thinking his kids should have the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. but when it comes to his younger kids, he's surprisingly soft. when you’re not around, rafe’s the one sneaking treats to the kids or letting them stay up way past bedtime because “who needs sleep anyway?”

⌗ rafe’s biggest flaw is his impulsiveness, which often leads to trouble. he's not exactly a role model in terms of structure, but his kids love him for his authenticity, especially when they’re old enough to understand how flawed he is.

⌗ while he's overprotective in some ways (especially with his oldest daughter), rafe does everything with love. he’s not the parent who will sit down and have deep heart-to-heart talks, but he’ll show love in unconventional ways, like fixing a bike or defending them fiercely when someone dares to challenge them.

⌗ rafe can’t resist showing off to the kids—whether it’s bragging about something ridiculous or trying to impress them with his "skills." but he’s deeply emotional when it comes to his family and would do anything to protect them (even if his methods are questionable).

The Kids:

AVA CAMERON (15)

PERSONALITY ava is headstrong, sarcastic, and fearless. she takes after both you and rafe—she has your intelligence and sharp wit but rafe’s defiance and impulsiveness. she’s known for pushing boundaries, especially with rafe, whom she has a love-hate relationship with. she’ll challenge him on everything, but deep down, she knows he’d do anything for her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD ava and rafe constantly butt heads. she thinks his overprotectiveness is ridiculous, but she secretly craves his approval. she’ll act tough, but she’s incredibly sensitive, and rafe is the first person she goes to when she needs emotional support (though it’s rarely obvious to anyone else).

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you and ava have a special bond where you can communicate with just a glance. you know when she’s upset or hiding something, and she knows you’re the one she can go to when rafe is being... rafe. she trusts you even though she keeps a lot of her emotions locked away.

FUN FACT ava is known for sneaking out of the house with her friends or boyfriend, and while rafe might rage over it, you just give her a disappointed look, and she feels guilty enough to come clean.

MILO CAMERON (10)

PERSONALITY milo is a mischief-maker who often finds himself caught between his older sister’s drama and rafe’s wild ideas. he’s sarcastic but with a more dry sense of humor and often the mediator when things go off the rails in the family. milo is the kid who, when faced with chaos, will either laugh or attempt to solve it with a quirky solution.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS DAD milo is rafe’s favorite person to hang out with because milo can keep up with his energy and unpredictability. they do a lot of “guy stuff” together, like fixing things around the house, going on “secret” adventures, or talking about the things rafe pretends to be an expert at.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS MOM you and milo are like two peas in a pod. he’s very emotionally in tune with you and often tries to cheer you up when he knows you're dealing with rafe’s chaos. he knows how to make you laugh in the most stressful moments.

FUN FACT milo has a knack for getting out of trouble. if he gets in trouble at school, he’ll somehow find a way to talk his way out of it, often with rafe’s unintentional help.

POPPY CAMERON (3)

PERSONALITY poppy is the wild child, known for her tantrums and her adorably mischievous smile. she’s fearless, loves to run around the house, and has a particular love for barry (who, of course, enables her chaos). she’s the youngest, so she gets away with everything, and she knows it.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD rafe is a softie when it comes to poppy. he’s the one who’ll give her anything she asks for, even if it’s a sugar-loaded snack before dinner. he finds her tantrums funny rather than frustrating, which makes you roll your eyes—but secretly, you love how much he dotes on her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you’re the one who has to deal with poppy’s “I want this NOW” demands. poppy has you wrapped around her little finger, and she knows it. she’s also the first to notice when you're upset and will crawl into your lap to comfort you, even if it’s just by offering you a cookie.

FUN FACT she has rafe under her spell and often drags him into her mischief.

FAMILY DYNAMICS

DINNER TIME at your house is a mix of chaos and love. ava will be sulking about curfew, milo will be chatting about his day with such enthusiasm that you and rafe can’t help but laugh, and poppy will spill her drink all over the table, leading to more chaos.

RAFE WILL ALWAYS try to sneak in action-packed movies (and somehow convince you to let the kids watch them). you’ll try to suggest a family-friendly comedy, but it’s usually a battle. in the end, everyone ends up in the living room, snacks everywhere, with rafe on the couch like a proud, mischievous child.

RAFE GIVES THE WORST, but most well-meaning advice. he’ll tell ava to “not let anyone tell you what to do” when she’s dealing with bullies at school. when milo gets in trouble for a school prank, rafe will secretly high-five him while you give rafe a disapproving look.

EVERY TIME ONE of the kids gets in trouble, rafe somehow shows up with a spontaneous adventure—a trip to the beach, a surprise boat ride, or letting them stay up an extra hour to do something “fun.” it’s his way of showing love, but it doesn’t always help their behavior.

YOU’RE ALWAYS THE ONE to solve the problems rafe causes—whether it’s calming down ava after an argument or cleaning up after poppy’s mess. but your kids know that, despite the chaos, you’re the rock of the family. your love for them is unshakable, even when things are a mess.

a/n: meet the maybanks coming tm <333

🏷️: @rafecameronswifeyy @papercranesandinkstains @akobx @delicatevamps @sereneera @ethanthequeefqueen @zuccheromorena @theanonymousloser @chalahyung01 @mystic-megumi @acidfeens @judesgfirl @rubiehart @callieyanderechan @amterasuu @smithieandy @theeternaloptimistt @marleymarleymarleymarley @lilygrxcem @fieryghxul @luvelola @aias-fxtns @starkeysbaby @brxght-world @drewsswifeyy

[coolshadowtwins]

Shen Yuan gets hit with a truth serum plot fic round up!

These are from the comments and reblogs of my previous post

Absolution by airplanelanding

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51587557#main

Summary: Luo Binghe stared back at him. There was something distant in his eyes, something Shen Qingqiu was too tired, too drained, to decipher. Then, Luo Binghe’s lips opened in a non-apology, a soft, murmured sentence—a quiet, “I need to know the truth.”

Shen Qingqiu frowned. He opened his mouth to question the damn-near imploring words, but he never got the chance.

He failed to notice something was in Luo Binghe’s hands until it was too late.

Or

Luo Binghe is determined to get answers this time, now that Shen Qingqiu can't run away. Even if he has to use a truth serum to do it.

aka A Water Prison Re-Write.

"open my lungs to let you in" by ghostybreads https://archiveofourown.org/works/37276570

Summary: Shen Qingqiu had a secret. So, naturally, it was only a matter of time before he was hit by a truth serum wife plot.

//

“How are you?”

“Horny. Kind of want Binghe to rail me, I guess. But it’s manageable.”

Liu Qingge’s hand on his forehead froze, and he was close enough that Shen Qingqiu could hear his breathing stop. He stared back expressionlessly, the mortification distantly crawling up the back of his neck. Honest One-Horned–

The frustrated scream that he usually vented in his head, came out straight from mouth.

“aaAAAAAHHHH GODDAMNIT AIRPLANE–”

no regret (i've been sorry all these years) by krmilia

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39006066

Summary: There is no actual way the System hated him so much, right? Right?

Recently a lot of shitty things happened to Shen Qingqiu. By that he meant sowers in Jinlan city, return of his wayward disciple – who, uhm, prepared him surprise by leaving the Abyss two years early – and now… Well, now he was poisoned with a truth serum.

(Or, Bingqiu finally talk.)

speak your mind (not that much!) by nyoomerr https://archiveofourown.org/works/38953875

Summary: Before the investigation in Jinlan City, Shen Qingqiu is hit by a curse that forces him to speak his mind. Unfortunately, this means that the first thing he does when he sees Luo Binghe for the first time in three years is to tell Luo Binghe that he's grown up to be really quite pretty.

Luo Binghe, not sure what's going on but absolutely enjoying the ride, abandons all his plans immediately. He has new priorities now, including but not limited to:

- get his Shizun to call him 'pretty' again

- steal his Shizun away from his (probably in existence) harem

- ???

funny how you just break down (waiting on some sign) https://archiveofourown.org/works/36742384/chapters/91657246

Summary: Luo Binghe’s hand is half-raised, and Shen Qingqiu is going to die and this is the hand that will—

“[Notice: In appreciation of your continued use of our services, System 2.0 is offering {Valued Customer} a complimentary Bonus Plotline! Do you accept?]”

aka, What if Luo Binghe could read Shen Qingqiu’s mind during the Jinlan City arc?

What is Seen by CavetteDracones

Summary: …is not [always] the real truth.

Truth-compelling artifacts in the hands of an enemy to one side, SYSTEM-mandated silence on the other, and Shen Qingqiu caught between the two. Is it too late to go back to the Water Prison?

BONAS:

Moshang

If It can be destroyed by Tossawary https://archiveofourown.org/works/53124079

I’ll probably add more as they are either found by me or suggested!

[sleepynoons]

In Dreams

Your heats have become vicious and unbearable, and you're told nothing can cure you unless you mate. The issue is: Dan Heng's a beta.

dan heng x reader, omegaverse, nsfw

word count: ~3,500

cw: descriptions of pain and cramps, allusions to sexual trauma, mentions of sex toys/masturbation/slick, internalized stigmatization of sex/masturbation/etc.

notes: find yourself a lover who wouldn't just die for you – find someone who will still love you when you're incredibly gross and ill and sick and vulnerable!!!!!! anyway, this is j an angsty take on omega heats, and i took some creative liberties/deviations with this au.

It seems your heat has decided to come at the worst possible time.

It’s never cooperated with you in the past few years, and you’ve come to despise it, along with several other reasons. At times, it’s regular, due every three months, with the one to two weeks leading up to the real thing a gradual build-up, a towering ocean wave that you can see from a distance, feel through the rumbling and trembling in your gut. Other times, this time, and most often, there’s no warning at all, and it arrives as a riptide, a tumultous, driving current that has the sole goal of pulling you under.

Heats, as you’ve come to learn, aren’t always romantic, passionate, or arousing, and they’ve never been any one of those things for you.

You stumble to the railing, hearing a screech from your sweaty palms smearing against the cold iron of the bar. Your vision’s blurred, everything hallucinating in double, and the lights glow too fiercely. It’s already a miracle that you’ve managed to make it to Dan Heng’s room, but just as everyone on the Express knows it, the archive’s filled with nothing but books, journals, projections, ballpoint pens, and the barest of his belongings.

As if your feet have detached from your legs and the joints of your legs have rolled out of the sockets in your hips, you manage to trip over the two steps that lead up to Dan Heng’s futon. Unceremoniously, you collapse onto the ground. There’s bound to be bruises on your shins, and you can already feel a dull sensation in your wrists and forearms. Through thick pants and a vision scattered with black dots, you crawl over to his bed and wrap yourself in Dan Heng’s blanket. (It smells like nothing.)

You wake a few hours later, and you know your heat has officially started because you can feel slick gluing your bottoms to your burning skin. Speaking of which, your whole body feels hot, and you bitterly think that’s the closest thing to passionate you’re ever going to get. You need something cold, icy, something that’ll break through this oppressing heat, so you roll over with a few pained groans so that you’re lying on the floor.

But now you feel empty because even if Dan Heng’s things smell like nothing to you, they still provide an unexplainable, irrational sense of safety and assurance. You twist and turn and writhe, until you finally settle your head on his pillow while keeping as much of the rest of your body against the floor.

The thing about having sudden heats is that you’re unable to prepare or regulate yourself. You can’t follow through with typical omega habits, like building a nest or scenting with a partner, all of which are vital preparations to ensure omegas are as comfortable as possible during their heats. But it’s not like you could do either of those things anyway, because you’ve never really learned how to nest and betas, like Dan Heng, and their scents aren’t potent enough to alleviate even pre-heat symptoms.

You’ve tried suppressants before, but they have no effect on you. After several consultations with doctors from all over the galaxies, the only sound hypothesis of a cure is for you to mate.

Another catch is that betas can’t mate. You’re also strictly monogamous, so even if mating would solve your problem, you refuse to.

The best thing you can do is to wait your heat out, and it doesn’t take long for the cramping in your abdomen to cause you to black out from its overwhelming pain.

But you wake again in less than an hour. You’ve soaked through Dan Heng’s bedding entirely from both your sweat and slick, and even through your muddled senses, you can smell your scent practically permeate the room, stubborn as it clings to the spines of aged books, settles in the corners of the shelves, mixes with the ink from an inkwell that you seem to have knocked over and spilled from your fall earlier. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recall it was a souvenir you had brought back for Dan Heng from one of the Express’ expeditions you had participated in.

With heaving breaths, it takes significant effort just to prop yourself up on your elbows. Your heat’s worse than normal, consuming your senses and thoughts and overall ability to function, an anchor dragging you down to the depths of an ocean, depths you didn’t know existed, and this overwhelming paralysis scares you.

There’s no other choice but to try to slow your heat down. 

It’s not like you dislike trying new things. It’s just that you’d prefer to go outside of your comfort zone when you’re able to think straight. Frantically, you search the room for anything that’s Dan Heng’s. You’ve never created a nest before for several reasons, but something in you tells you that that’s the right thing to do. (Though, in reality, that something’s likely your neediness and hyperactive omega instincts.)

Powered by sheer spite, you rely on the railing once again to stagger onto your shaky feet. You gulp, desperate to accumulate a last bout of energy, before beginning your search around the room.

There’s little of Dan Heng’s things. He’s out on a trip with Himeko at the moment, having left two days ago, and brought along the few pieces of clothing he owned. You do manage to spot one of his journals on his desk, a leather-bound notebook that’s glossy black from intentional care and binds hundreds of thick parchment paper together. You mutter a quick apology before chucking the journal in the direction of the bed, hoping that it landed anywhere near the latter.

You make sure not to trip on your way down, and you approach the archive’s bookshelves. You specifically scan the bottom two rows of the middle column, where Dan Heng stores the texts that he’s been frequenting the most as of late. With haphazard grabbing motions, you try to pile as many of the books on your arms as you can, before the weight of only five crushes you down to the floor. One lands beside your face, and you catch a whiff of woody vanilla and roasted almonds.

They thud and tumble around you. Tears well in your eyes, but you’re not sure if it’s solely because of your frustration.

You try again, gripping onto the walls to help you up, forgetting about the books on the floor. You manage to gather four others in your hold, and you stumble back to Dan Heng’s bed.

To your luck, despite your careless throw, Dan Heng’s journal managed to reach his pillow. After piling the books from the shelves in two groups of two, you fall back and curl into a ball.

The throbbing in your stomach and core is almost unmanageable. You’re sure this is the maddening arousal that omegas have described, but to you, there’s nothing pleasurable about it. You don’t want to be satiated, you want this pain to end. In fact, the only way to satiate this pain is to end it.

Getting filled up with a dildo or squirting from a vibrator are the least of your concerns. You’re actually more convinced they’d cause you more harm. Well, they do help, but only when Dan Heng’s there with you. You can’t bear to even think of touching yourself when you’re alone.

A sting pierces at your heart at the thought of Dan Heng. You whimper, a mournful, weak sound, before you roll onto your side and flip open his journal. On the two pages you randomly open to, there are several scribbles, arrows and Universal cursive and diagonal lines of Xianzhou Script covering the sheets. There’s also slight smudges, from where the side of Dan Heng’s hand accidentally brushed against still-drying ink. 

You can’t really make out what’s on the pages, not that you have the capacity to do that. Instead, you rub your nose and tear-stricken cheeks against the pages, crinkling the paper with your fervent movements. The journal smells the same as the books from the shelves, only slightly less musky from age. To your surprise, you also catch a faint trace of sea salt and white maple.

This journal must still in use, then, for Dan Heng’s scent to be lingering on it. For a split second, you worry about ruining his research, but then again, omegas can’t really control their urges or instincts, so you can only hope that that’ll be a sufficient excuse when Dan Heng sees the damage you’ve done. You press your face further into the book, splitting it wider apart until the thread stitching the reams of paper together is exposed.

You fall asleep, to the dissipating remnants of his scent.

–

After a brief explanation to Pom-Pom, Dan Heng speeds to his room with wide, spanning steps. He needs to grab his journal and leave immediately, even though he’d personally like to spare a second to greet you. Unfortunately, the research team Himeko and him are meeting up with have run into a problem with their experiments that needs to be resolved immediately, and Dan Heng’s only returning briefly to the Express to grab the right notebook so he can actually be of some help.

However, he stops in the middle of his tracks for two reasons: first, by March who stands a few feet away from the door to his room, looking ghastly and appalled, trembling hands clamped over her mouth, and second, by the nauseatingly sweet pheromones that fill the corridor. He knows they’re yours, and when Mr. Yang steps into view a moment later, with a shared nod, Dan Heng barges into the archives while Mr. Yang stifles his breath as he carries March away.

Even as a beta, your heat’s cruelly stimulating. Just by stepping into the same room as you Dan Heng feels as if he, too, is boiling over, with sweat and steam already forming and sticking to his clothes and skin. Thankfully, he thinks, he doesn’t have a physiological need to mate, so with enough effort and restraint, which he’s honed, albeit unintentionally, for lives and lives over, he can keep himself in check. With quiet steps, ignoring the scattered books with creased pages and the puddle of ink that will no doubt be difficult to remove, he treads closer to your form until he can tell that you’re fast asleep. It’s not a deep sleep, though, given that you’re thrashing about and groaning without pause.

He also notices the few books and his journal and a pen lying around you, and Dan Heng thinks his heart breaks a little at that. He’s always known that you struggle with your omega instincts and needs, but not to the extent that you don’t even know how to nest properly. Of course, it’s not entirely your fault either. He exhales, slightly shaking from anger and disbelief. Even if you knew how to nest in this situation, the fact that he had left nothing for you to nest with is unforgivable.

At the very least, Dan Heng’s good at compartmentalizing, so he redirects his anguish towards focusing on your needs. He adjusts the thermostat to a lower temperature, before rushing out of his room, despite not wanting to leave you alone. You need water, food, painkillers, clothes, and several other things. The corridor seems to have been aired out in the few minutes Dan Heng had been inside the archives, and when he reaches the kitchen, he runs into Mr. Yang.

Mr. Yang nods at him. “I’ve already told Himeko about the situation. You don’t need to go back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Yang,” Dan Heng replies. “Is March alright?”

“Yes, I believe she was just triggered by the pheromones. We had some suppressants on hand, so she has taken them already. She’ll be alright.”

“Thanks, again, Mr. Yang.”

With a nod from his end, Dan Heng grabs what he thinks you’ll need before taking off and heading to your room.

The gravity of your heat hits him harder when he’s inside your room. This entire time he’s been working off of pure conjecture, tidbits you’ve briefly mentioned in passing and advice he’s come across in textbooks and miscellaneous blog posts. But general omega care doesn’t really seem to apply to you, and he’s only spent one heat with you before. All the other times you locked yourself in your room, only receptive to help from March or Pom-Pom.

Dan Heng chides himself to not take it personally. You’ve made it a point to tell him that it’s not that you don’t trust him, but rather, a personal discomfort that you’ve yet to work through. Regardless, Dan Heng can’t help but feel slightly more frustrated and a significant bit more helpless than before.

He grabs a few of your hoodies and t-shirts from your drawer, and sitting on the ground, he begins to scent them, pressing and rubbing the fabric against his scent glands, furiously willing his body to produce more and more. But as he works through each article, the thoughts, the rational, realistic, unpleasant thoughts about your relationship, gradually begin to take precedent and eclipse all else.

Even if you were saturated with his scent, it would not be enough. Betas’ scents have calming, sometimes sedative effects, but they do not provide satisfaction to omegas when they’re in heat or alphas when they’re in rut. Betas also don’t need to mate, so he could never keep up with the physical demands of your heat either. More importantly, he could never give you a mark, something that would do much to ease the fire igniting and searing you from within.

He doesn’t stay for too long, as he needs to return to your side, but he does make one last stop at your closet, where he pulls out a small box that contains your vibrator. He’s also aware that you’re not the biggest fan of it, but it did make you feel a bit better last time, so it might be worth a try again.

When he’s back in the archives, it seems you’ve just woken up. Your face is buried into his pillow, sobbing and yelping into it, while your hips jerk side to side uncontrollably, like you’re being tasered relentlessly with electric shocks. Dan Heng rushes over and runs a hand over the back of your head.

You, on the other hand, don’t really notice his gentle touch. Delirious to the point that you can’t tell between reality and your restless dreams, your mind can only process the burning craving between your legs and the soreness throughout the rest of your body. It isn’t until you feel your body being lifted and a familiar face comes into view that you realize another person is in the room.

You chuckle, though it comes out as more of a choke. Even if you can’t make out the features of his face all that well or distinguish his clothes or even smell the sea salt and white maple that he’s desperately trying to emit, you know it’s Dan Heng, and now you’re more inclined to believe that you’re in a dream. Dan Heng’s not supposed to be here, but at least your subconscious has given you the opportunity to pretend that he is.

You croon and curl your body around him, relishing in the slight diminishing of pain from having your partner so close. His skin is cool to touch, and when you bury your nose into the pulse point on the underside of his wrist, his scent is helpful in calming your high-strung nerves. But, of course, not all of your pain subsides from his presence, and as another angry wave of your heat washes by, all you can do is dig your nails into his skin and bite down on your lips, barely able to mute your frustrated screams or restrain your quivering body.

Dan Heng seems to be saying something, though you can’t hear much beyond the roaring, thumping, and throbbing in your ears. You do get his point, though, when you feel his hands traveling slowly down the sides of your frame, intentionally so that you can process his actions and not be alerted. His hands trail across your ribs, your waist, your hips, before they settle on the bottom of your sleep shorts, peeling the damp fabric with gentle tugs. He does the same with your panties underneath, and discards both somewhere far beyond your care.

Dan Heng knows you’re out of your senses, and he hesitates. He wants to be of use, but not at the cost of your comfort. If he set you off in any way, it would only worsen your already poor state. He worries away at the inside of his cheek, mind coming up with everything and nothing, and in the end, he decides to speak to you again.

“Hey,” he says, leaning closer to your ear, “do you want some water? Or do you want me to take off your shirt?”

You barely make out the first half of his questions, but you nod when he offers to help you further undress. With some effort, mainly because your body convulses whenever you experience a random bout of pain, Dan Heng’s able to remove your soaked shirt. He begins to press a towel against your forehead to wipe your face, but you jerk away, the touch of it too rough and warm for your taste. Switching gears, he holds your head up and helps you take a few drinks of water, before you choke and ultimately don’t want anymore. He’s worried because you really need it, but again, he doesn’t want to push you.

The thought returns: If only he wasn’t a beta.

This time, he can’t shake it off. He stares at you, observing your clumped eyelashes and tear-stricken cheeks, the bruises scattered around your body, and the weakness in your muscles as they spasm over and over again.

Yet, somehow, in your delirium, you gaze up at him with dazed eyes and an equally dopey smile, as if your heat’s not as serious as it looks, as if you’re simply content that he’s beside you, even if he can’t do anything for you.

And that’s because you feel exactly that way. Despite what the doctors have said, you know your heats aren’t a peculiar product of your genetics or physical nature because they haven’t always been painful and disparaging. Your heats have simply become a manifestation of what you experienced before you joined the Express, events that, to this day, you can’t even bear to think back to, yet they continue to linger, haunt, and poison your state of mind. Besides, now that you have Dan Heng, it’s not like you want a mate, and in this regard, you can say with confidence that you’ve made great strides in overcoming your fear of betas.

On the other hand, had Dan Heng been an alpha, you don’t think you would’ve ever allowed yourself to get close to him. You wouldn’t have let him see you in heat like this, let alone help you through it. In fact, you don’t think you would’ve ever cared much about him at all. You’re sure that Dan Heng wouldn’t be all that different even if he was an alpha, but you never want to try your luck with one again.

The hours pass by slowly, with you clutching onto the remnants of your bearings as you continue to ride out your heat. Dan Heng assists whenever he can, feeding you snacks and fruit juice and painkillers when you feel up for it, otherwise scenting you as he holds you tightly in his embrace. He does his best to check in with you when it looks like you’re more lucid, and as the days progress, he can see your strength and conscience returning.

When your heat’s over eight days later, neither of you talk much about it. You apologize to him and the rest of the crew for your disturbance, to which everyone dismisses with understanding words of affirmation, and that’s really it.

But one thing’s for certain. You scent him more often now, even if both of you know it won’t stay for long, and you stay overnight at the archives more frequently. You spend more time with him in general, and more and more, you leave gentle touches and marks on him, while allowing him to do the same to you. While Dan Heng would prefer for the two of you to eventually acknowledge and discuss what had happened, he doesn’t particularly want to rush you into having the conversation either. After all, you seem to be doing better, and when your next heat comes…

The two of you will cross that bridge. Together.

[aratribow]

“One last thing.”

Jing Yuan manages to tug at the end of the ribbon tied in his ponytail before Yingxing raises his head—but the violet gaze lingers on the haphazard white mane all the same.

A selfish, selfish, selfish idea.

The fic's finally here yall!! Can't wait for yall to check out my wifey's amazing cooking ^^

[queuestarter]

vigil

(finnick odair x reader)

link to the request → finnick soothing insomniac reader

open to requests !!

The glow of the moon mesmerizes you from where you sit on the floor balcony of the hotel room you’re in. 

You’re not sure what time it is anymore, but you know it’s late. The mug of tea next to you has long since dried up, a brown stain that can hardly be seen in the dark all that remains.

A million thoughts pass through your mind, overlapping and never letting one fully form. You think of what you need to do in the morning- return home to District 3. You should also probably stop in and see Beetee to check and see if he needs help with his latest project. The mere thought of Beetee makes you think of when he was your mentor back in the day and how his guidance helped you to win.

Like always, your late night thoughts turn into horror filled flashbacks of the games you were made to play when you were only sixteen years old.

A breeze passes over you and you wrap the cardigan you’re wearing tighter over your shoulders.

“So that’s where that old thing went,” you hear over your shoulder, snapping you from your own mind.

You don’t turn back but you know a pair of familiar hands will work themselves over your tight shoulders in an attempt to soothe. It happens almost every night, but the feeling of fingers working out the knot at the base of your neck makes you smile and lean your cheek into the chest of the man that has settled in behind you.

“I’m pretty sure this is mine,” you whisper, though there is no need. There’s no one else awake right now besides you and your love.

“That’s what you say about everything,” Finnick chides, working his hands from your shoulders to your waist before wrapping you up altogether. “It’s been two years of it and I’m still not used to it.”

You sigh, more in amazement than anything. Any thought that was previously plaguing you leaves your mind entirely. “Two years, wow.”

You can feel Finnick nod against your neck. “Two years since I had to practically fight Beetee off with a stick to let me love you.”

You roll your eyes lovingly. “He’s just protective, Finn.”

Finnick snorts but doesn’t say anything. He repositions himself, foot tapping against your empty tea mug. You watch in slight amusement as it slips under the guard rail and careens to the pavement below.

“Wouldn’t it be messed up if that hit someone?” You ask with a slight laugh. 

“Maybe that’s what I was aiming for.”

You don’t respond, choosing to continue to look at the built-up landscape of the Capitol. It’s so different from home, but almost as familiar at this point. It’s held your attention for hours at this point, helping to keep your mind imprisoned by the implication of what those buildings mean for you.

“Are you ready for bed now, my love?” Finnick asks, pressing himself impossibly closer.

“A few more minutes,” you manage to get out. “I just want to look some more.”

“A few more minutes,” he promises back.

-