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keferon · 5 months ago

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Odds of Survival Part 3

Unstoppable forces meets immovable objects.

Or Prowl finds new reasons to be concerned.

———————————————————————

While Prowl had destroyed the bombers attacking their end of the bridge, the other side had no such saving grace.

The opposite end of the sky bridge had broken off from the Commerce Tower and was now swinging downwards, creating a miles long ramp to obliteration.

There was a 4% chance Prowl could technically survive the impact. However he’d almost certainly be reduced to a sputtering spark trapped in a compacted pile of scrap that had once been his frame. Without instantaneous medical intervention, he would most certainly perish even in the event of the 4% survival chance occurring.

4% halved to 2% when Tacnet registered Jazz magnetizing his hands to Prowls frame.

Tacnet spun wildly and without traction. Whatever actions Prowl could have taken to mitigate the incoming damage was removed by Jazz’s inescapable hold. Every possible strategy terminated instantly in a flurry of error messages as Tacnet tried to factor for the impossible.

Physically, Prowls servos moved on their own, driven by some core deep coding for self preservation that had him frantically clawing at Jazz’s back for either a hand hold or escape as Tacnet spat out a single coherent plan:

(Brace For Impact)

The Praxian briefly wondered if he’d crash before they crashed.

The mechs jolted as Jazz made contact with the bridge turned ramp. A fountain of sparks spraying from his pedes as Jazz hit the bridge upright and began skating down the buckling surface.

Jazz wasn’t just passively sliding along either. Prowl felt powerful legs tense and thrusters make quick adjustments to narrowly avoid lethal splinters of braking pipes and metal sheets.

Odds of Survival 5%

Odds of Survival 6%

Prowl watched the impossible as Tacnet slowly ticked upwards. Through some stroke of insanity, Jazz was controlling their descent. Analyzing the white mechs motions, Prowl concluded they were practiced. Unbelievably, Jazz somehow had previous experience with similar circumstances.

On what Fragging planet does somebody regularly go careening down incredibly steep slopes at high speeds with only their own athleticism to keep them alive?!

Skill alone wasn’t enough however, because Jazz was slowly loosing control. As the sky bridge swung inexorably downwards, their ramp was steadily becoming steeper. Prowl could feel one of Jazz’s legs beginning to involuntarily shudder under the continued strain. The obstacles kept coming faster and faster, the visored mech barely keeping pace.

If he dropped me, Jazz has a 23% chance at saving himself.

Prowl caught sight of a chunk of bridge breaking outwards that spanned the total width of it. No getting around it. The jagged edge lifted just high enough to bisect him just below the wings. Prowl turned away.

Jazz leapt.

The deafening vibrations of metal on metal grinding suddenly stopped. An instrumental segment filled the gap.

Gravity ended their short reprieve.

This time when they collided with bridge, Prowl felt Jazz land wrong and then suddenly the sky was whipping past his optics.

Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge.

Tacnet greedily took in their current velocity, rate of rotation, and angle of the sky bridges decent to inform Prowl that Jazz and his combined weight would land on his helm.

Thank you Tacnet, I hate you.

Jazz shifted and Prowls vision went white.

Despite Tacnets certainty to the contrary, Prowl was not unconscious or dead.

ERROR, moon, ERROR. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, ERROR, bridge, rubble. Stars, moon, bridge, rubble.

They were flipping through the air again.

Jazz landed on his feet this time but couldn’t stop their rolling. Prowl felt fast painful scrapes against his servos and peds.

Stars, bridge, rubble. Stars, bridge, rubble.

Tacnet took in their velocity and rotation again. Calculating their distance to the wreckage at the end of their fall.

Impact Survival 74%

Impact location Doorwings 87%

At least his doorwings were already offlined.

By then, the two mechs were no longer bouncing, but rolling fully across the remains of the bridge. Prowl locked himself around Jazz and braced for impact.

Collision was instant and deafening.

Prowls sense of balance was rubber banding. The instant stop after what felt like vorns of spinning out of control was just as disorientating as the fall itself.

In a lapse of memory, he onlined his doorwings.

Prowl remembered why he left them offline a click too late and sucked in a vent.

Except. They were functioning. The edges stung and the tip’s were badly chipped but both sensors were fully operational.

Blunt helm trauma. He must be having a severe processor malfunction. Prowl unlocked protesting joints and looked over his shoulders at his doorwings.

They were only lightly damaged, fully functional, and only a servos width from the pile of rubble he was being held above.

A black and white arm extended past his wings, buried wrist deep in the wreckage.

Jazz still had a death grip around his waist, visor pressed into Prowls shoulder.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried. If he put his vocalizer against his audial, the sound should carry. The music played out its final notes, leaving the silence of the moon in its wake.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried a little harder, pulling at the servo still magnetized to his back, unhooking his peds to kneel on the rubble. They had fallen into the 90 degree crook of the second cylindrical extension. The bridge had come to rest at last, kicking up enough moon dust to obscure their survival from any searching quintessons. For now.

Jazz slurred something in his native language, before repeating in common, “Gimme a click. I’m gonna throw up real quick.”

Prowl flared his wings, scanning the area. It was a relatively short drop to the moons surface. Once there, Prowl could transform and carry the both of them at speed to the outpost. Clearly, Jazz had no trouble holding onto him.

Speaking of, Jazz finally, slowly began to uncurl from Prowls frame.

He looked terrible. His visor had splintered crack’s across one side, the isolated fragments independently flickering. One horn was stuck pinned against his helm, sparking where shrapnel was jammed into the gap. He was visibly wobbling, and even with an em field Prowl could tell he was badly disoriented.

Jazz stared at Prowl for a while, before looking to his hand still buried in rubble. He tried pulling it free gently and when that didn’t work, got a completely ruined and mostly toe-less ped braced next to it and yanked

Jazz’s hand came free. At the same time something important looking snapped and fell out of his shoulder. The limb going limp.

Prowl didn’t have the bandwidth to process that at the moment.

Instead, he plucked up the chunk of shoulder into sub space. Tacking that onto the growing list of injuries they’d both needed tending to.

Cautiously, Prowl reached up to gingerly touch the back of his helm, fully expecting to feel exposed and crushed circuitry. Instead, he felt several dents, aligned in parallel. Very tender, but most certainly not as damaged as it should have been.

How?

Tacnet answered by mapping the contours of the dents, drawing Prowls optics to the back of Jazz’s obliterated servo.

The remains of the sky bridge shuttered.

Odds of Survival 45%

Prowl got Jazz’s attention and began pulling him towards the ledge they’d need to descend. Effectively deaf, probably blind, down an arm and forced to walk on two severely injured peds, Prowl only felt some relief when he finally wrangled Jazz to rest on top of his alt form.

Watching him struggle down the ledge was utterly disturbing to watch. Jazz limped along as if he was completely desensitized to pain, behaving as if he was more annoyed by his injuries than agonized.

Package secured, Prowl gunned it for the outpost. Even injured, he trusted Jazz to stay magnetized to his frame with whatever he had left to hold on with.

Out of the dust cloud, Prowl was intimately aware of how exposed they’d be. Confident he wouldn’t loose Jazz, Prowl focused entirely on plotting the most efficient route to the outpost.

The moment it came into view, Prowl pushed his engine past the redline as he registered sniper shots firing just past and above them.

Pursuing quintesson wreckers 78%.

Sure enough, a dead wrecker crashed into the moon dirt a short distance to their left.

Prowl managed a drifting slide past the out post gates, losing exactly enough momentum to match the speed of a running mech, then transformed back to root mode in the same maneuver. An exceedingly useful technique when chasing criminals and a damn effective way to shoulder someone on your roof through a door in the most efficient manner possible.

[Bluestreak, I’ve made it inside the outpost. I have an injured mech with me.]

[Heya Prowl! I saw you tearing it up out there with your backpack buddy! I’ve got a few more stragglers to take care of but you’re welcome to use the medic case I’ve got with me in here. I’ll ping the door for you.]

The primary medkit should be in the outpost storage closet. That is unless Bluestreak pulled it into his snipers nest to tend to his own injuries (22%). Or because Bluestreak pulled it there to force Prowl to bring his “backpack buddy” within conversational distance (92%).

He felt a tap at his shoulder, “Are we safe here?” Jazz yelled in the thin atmosphere. Visor flickering worse than before and visibly making an effort to stay balanced upright on eviscerated peds.

Priorities.

Prowl ignored his annoyance. He hit the trigger to pressurize the airlock and pulled Jazz’s good arm over his shoulders to stabilize the other mech. He had easily a dozen lines of questioning queued up in the backlog of his processor, every single one tagged with Jazz as the subject line. As much as Prowl itched to piece together the puzzle of why he was “Like that.” It’d have to wait until they were both in more stable condition. At least now his vents could actually do something to start cooling his overstressed processor.

“For now. We are somewhat safe.”

Prowl muttered quietly in addition, “Against all odds.”

———————————————————————

Bluestreak, seeing Prowl with some very obvious hand prints and very specific paint scratches: “What in the pit did he do to you?”

Bluestreak, seeing Jazz walk in after him with a broken arm, busted horn and an utterly torn up paint job across his back: “What in the pit did YOU do to him?!”

Either one or two parts left, next up Jazz pov.

-SSTP

OH HELL SSTP LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND REALQUICK THIS IS A FIVE STAR MEAL FOR MY SOUL FKKDJFG I JUST. I NEVER FUCKING GET TIRED OF THE WAY YOU WRITE I know I'm probably repeating myself at this point BUT IT'S JUST WHAT MY TRUTH LOOKS LIKE OKAY. EVERY TIME I SEE AN ASK FROM YOU AND START READING IT I GO "Oh M A N the author cooked so hard they should've made Ratatouille 2 about this way of placing words."

#mecha pilot jazz au #mecha writing #mecha jp writing #NOW THIS IS WHAT A REAL TREAT LOOKS LIKE #CAN YOU HOOK THIS FIC UP STRAIGHT TO MY BRAIN PLEASE #the...the way the contrast is shown #Prowl who can feel pain. just straight up suffering bc he's alive robot #and Jazz who is a fucking war machine but also hooo boy I'm fucking scared to imagine what was happening inside the mech #maccadam #jazz #prowl #jazzprowl

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cup1drul3z · 28 days ago

Text

★ — All That's Left Between Us

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ꜰᴀʀᴍʜᴀɴᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.7ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Southern sevika, childhood bestfriends, Ex's to lovers, homophobia mentioned, internal hatred, cowboy sevika, farm owners daughter reader, size difference, breeding kink

A/N : this fanfic has been sitting in my docs for a good month now so i thought i should post it and see what you guys think

Summary : You return home after years away and are met with a warm welcome from your dad—and a cold, cutting one from Sevika. Old wounds resurface fast, especially after a tense argument in the stables. A thunderstorm triggers a panic attack, and Sevika helps calm you like she used to, but you walk away before she can finish apologizing. The feelings between you are still there, raw and unresolved, hanging heavy in the silence.

The plane lands with a soft jolt, and your stomach flips—not from the descent, but from what’s waiting on the other side of those sliding glass doors.

It’s been three years since you last set foot in this town. Four since you left it behind.

You tug your carry-on down the narrow aisle, heart thudding as you step into the terminal. The airport is small—just one gate, barely two baggage claims—and still, your eyes scan the crowd with a nervous flutter in your chest.

And then you see him.

“Daddy!”

Your voice comes out higher than you meant it to, but you don’t care. He’s already pushing off the wall, arms open wide, face split in that familiar, sun-worn smile. You break into a run, barreling into his chest with a squeal that makes a few travelers turn their heads.

He laughs, warm and rough, hugging you so tight your feet lift off the ground. “Well I’ll be damned. My baby girl’s all grown up.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His beard’s grayer, his hat’s more beat-up than the last one, and his eyes—those haven’t changed at all. Still kind. Still home.

“You look the same,” you say.

“I’m flattered,” he chuckles. “You, though—got that city look now. California treatin’ you right?”

You shrug, the smile faltering just a touch. “It’s been... fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes with a grunt as he grabs your duffel. “Coulda gone to State like a normal person, but no, you had to run off to one of those fancy schools with your fancy classes and fancy avocado toast.”

You laugh, falling into step beside him as you walk through the terminal. “You don’t even know what avocado toast is.”

“I know it costs fifteen dollars and looks like it came outta the backyard, that’s what I know.”

You roll your eyes but it’s fond, the way you always did. The way you used to, back when home still felt like home.

As the automatic doors slide open and the thick Southern heat hits your skin, you inhale the scent of sun, grass, and something distant—maybe hay. Maybe memory.

“So,” you ask, glancing up at him, “how’s the farm?”

He scratches his beard, gaze fixed on the truck parked at the curb. “Still standin’. Fields are good this year. Your uncle helped for a while after your aunt’s surgery. And Sevika’s been running things steady.”

You stumble a little on the last step.

He doesn’t notice—or pretends not to. “Reckon you’ll see her soon.”

Your fingers grip the strap of your bag a little tighter. “Yeah. I guess I will.”

The truck rumbles to life with a familiar cough of protest, and you can’t help but grin as your dad slaps the dashboard like it’s an old friend.

“She still alive,” he says proudly, shifting gears with one hand while adjusting the A/C with the other. “Barely.”

You buckle in and glance around the cab—same cracked leather seats, same faint scent of motor oil and coffee. The road home looks just like you remember it, too. Dusty. Endless. The kind of quiet that hums in your bones.

“You miss it?” he asks, eyes on the two-lane stretch ahead.

You hesitate. “Some parts.”

He nods, like that’s enough.

The truck jolts as it hits a dip in the road and your head bumps the window lightly. You laugh under your breath, rubbing your forehead. “Jesus, did y’all ever fix the suspension?”

“What would be the fun in that?” he smirks. “Puts hair on your chest.”

You snort, turning to look out at the fields stretching wide on either side of the road—tall grass swaying in the breeze, cows scattered under the shade of an old tree, the red barn just starting to peek through the hill in the distance.

Your chest tightens a little.

You know she’s out there.

By the time you roll up the gravel drive, your throat’s gone dry.

Your dad parks crooked near the house, dust clouding in the rearview. “Go on and stretch your legs. I’ll get your bags.”

You swing open the door and hop down, the heat wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. Your boots crunch the gravel, and you squint toward the barn.

That’s when you see her.

Sevika.

She’s dragging a bale of hay off the back of a flatbed like it weighs nothing, sweat slick on her temple, dark hair tied back in a low, messy bun. She pauses when she hears the truck. Turns.

And there it is.

That face.

Sharper. Older. Somehow more beautiful and more dangerous all at once. Her eyes catch yours—and your breath snags.

For a second, neither of you move. The world’s too loud and too quiet all at once.

Then she breaks the moment, hitching the hay onto her shoulder like she hasn’t seen you in four goddamn years.

“Figured the prodigal daughter’d show up sooner or later,” she says, not even raising her voice.

You swallow hard. “Hey, Sev.”

She turns toward the barn without another word.

Your dad walks up behind you with your suitcase, oblivious to the way your hands are shaking. “She’s been real helpful, Sevika. Keeps this place running smooth. Y’all used to be thick as thieves, huh?”

You nod slowly, eyes still locked on the spot where she disappeared into shadow.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We were.”

You don’t follow her.

Not yet.

Instead, you step up onto the creaking front porch, fingers brushing the chipped white paint of the railing as you go. The screen door still sticks a little at the top, and you have to shove it open with your hip like you used to.

Inside, the farmhouse smells like old pine cleaner, worn leather, and something baking—maybe cornbread. Maybe cinnamon. Maybe memory.

You stop just inside the doorway, toes curling against the faded welcome mat. The house is exactly the same and nothing like you remember. Your mom’s curtains still hang in the kitchen window, floral and sun-bleached, dancing in the breeze of an old box fan. The hallway photos haven’t moved, either—school portraits, fishing trips, a crooked shot of you and your dad holding a newborn calf in the dead of winter.

And there, tucked off to the right, is the living room couch where you kissed Sevika for the first time—awkward and quiet and heart-pounding—while your dad snored two rooms over.

You drop your bag by the stairs and press your palm to the banister, grounding yourself.

“Your room’s just how you left it,” your dad calls from the kitchen, opening the fridge. “Well—your stepmom moved your books into the hallway shelf, but she didn’t toss nothin’. Even left the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.”

You let out a breath, half a laugh. “God, I forgot about those.”

“You hungry?”

“A little. I just... wanna settle first.”

He nods and waves you off, already pouring himself a glass of sweet tea. “Take your time. Dinner’s in a couple hours. Don’t forget to wash up before you come in here—I saw airport all over your face.”

You smile faintly and head upstairs, your footsteps muffled by the same threadbare carpet you grew up on. Your bedroom door squeaks when you push it open.

The room smells like dust and laundry sheets. Your old posters are still up—faded bands and indie movie covers—and the string of dead fairy lights still dangles across your headboard like the ghost of who you were at sixteen.

You sink onto the bed slowly, curling your fingers into the edge of the comforter. Your chest aches.

Because it’s all here. The room. The photos. The memories.

But nothing feels the same.

Not you.

Not Sevika.

You drop your head into your hands and take a long, shaking breath.

She looked right through you.

And somehow, that hurt more than if she’d screamed.

The sun’s lower now, turning the fields amber as you cut across the backyard, gravel crunching under your boots. You pass the edge of the barn and make your way to the smaller building behind it—the horse stables.

The door groans when you slide it open, the scent of hay and cedar hitting you like a memory you’d forgotten you missed. It’s cooler inside, darker, the air humming with flies and the slow, sleepy shuffling of hooves on packed dirt.

You spot her immediately.

Star.

Your old mare.

She lifts her head as you approach, ears flicking, tail swishing once like she recognizes you—and god, maybe she does. Her coat’s still glossy, dark as night, a little grayer around the muzzle.

“Hey, girl,” you whisper, stepping up to her stall.

She lets out a low nicker and nudges her nose toward you, and your heart cracks a little at the familiarity of it. You stroke between her eyes gently, fingers brushing the soft patch above her nose.

“I missed you,” you murmur, throat tightening. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you again.”

You stay like that for a moment—just you and her, just the quiet, just the ache in your chest softening for the first time since you got off the plane.

And then—

“You’re in my way.”

You jump at the voice behind you, spinning halfway around with your hand still on Star’s mane.

Sevika.

She steps out of the shadows at the end of the aisle, dragging a bale of hay behind her like it’s nothing. There’s a streak of dirt down her arm, and her expression is carved from stone.

“I—I didn’t know you were in here,” you say quickly, stepping aside. “I just wanted to see Star.”

“Sure you did.” She hoists the hay up onto a hook and dusts her hands off like she’s brushing you off with them.

You hesitate, watching her work. “She looks good. You’ve been taking care of her?”

“No one else was gonna.”

You flinch, just slightly. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Weren’t trying to what?” she snaps, turning toward you fully now. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, jaw clenched. “Weren’t trying to disappear? Weren’t trying to break things off with a two-sentence voicemail and a five-hundred-mile plane ride?”

You open your mouth—and shut it again.

“I was sixteen, Sevika,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I was scared.”

“Yeah, well, scared people still answer their goddamn phones.”

The silence after that rings too loud.

You step back once, but she doesn’t move.

“I’m not the same person I was then,” you say, voice shaking a little. “I’m trying to make things right.”

“Right,” she laughs bitterly. “You think showing up in a cute little college hoodie and petting your old horse makes it right?”

“I didn’t come here to fight—”

“Well, you got one anyway.”

You stare at her. She’s breathing harder now, like yelling wasn’t part of the plan but she couldn’t stop it once it started. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, voice soft.

“Too late.”

She turns and walks out before you can answer, boots echoing on the dirt.

And you’re left standing in the half-dark of the stables, heart pounding, Star nudging at your arm like she can still feel the tension bleeding from your skin.

By the time you’re walking back up to the porch, the sky’s cracked open above you.

The rain starts slow at first—thick, warm droplets that hit your shoulders like little slaps, and then faster, heavier, until your hair’s clinging to your cheeks and your hoodie’s soaked straight through. You don’t run. You just walk. Eyes on the ground. Boots squelching with every step.

Your fingers are still shaking when you reach the door.

You slam it a little too hard behind you, water dripping down your back and onto the hardwood. You don’t even make it to the stairs before you hear someone clattering in the kitchen.

“Oh lord, is that you, sugar?” a voice calls out. “Get in here before you catch something!”

You wipe your face on your sleeve and peek around the corner.

Your stepmom’s at the stove, apron tied around her waist, hair pulled into a messy bun. The smell of garlic and something buttery hangs in the air. She glances over her shoulder and frowns.

“Look at you,” she says, wagging a wooden spoon. “You look like a drowned rat. Go grab a towel—there’s one on the dryer.”

You obey without arguing, the warmth of the house suddenly feeling too much, too close. As you towel off in the laundry room, you hear more clanging of pans, the hum of the oven, the creak of your dad settling into his usual chair.

You wander back into the kitchen, hair still damp, hoodie clinging to your arms.

“She’s not home ten minutes before she goes straight for the stables,” your stepmom says, voice full of amusement but not unkind. “That girl loves those horses more than her own mama.”

Your dad chuckles behind his newspaper. “They’re easier to argue with.”

You snort quietly, but it dies in your throat.

She glances up from the skillet. “Oh—by the way, Sevika’s joinin’ us for dinner. Just so you know.”

Your heart sinks a little, but you try not to let it show. “She is?”

“Mmhmm,” she says, flipping something in the pan. “We’ve been inviting her most nights. Ever since you left, this place’s been a little... quiet at supper. And she can’t cook for shit, bless her.”

“She really can’t,” your dad adds, turning the page. “Nearly set the shed on fire trying to make eggs. You’d think she was wrestling the damn stove.”

“She’s sweet, though,” your stepmom goes on. “And she works hard. Lord knows she doesn’t have anyone else ‘round here looking after her. Girl’s practically family.”

You nod numbly and sit at the table, staring out the window. The rain’s coming down hard now, the kind of steady pour that turns the fields to rivers and floods the ditches.

Your dad folds the paper and leans back with a satisfied grunt. “At least we don’t gotta worry about watering. This much rain, the corn’s gonna shoot up like a rocket.”

“Mm,” you mumble.

But you’re not thinking about the crops.

You’re thinking about the barn.

About the way Sevika looked at you like you were still sixteen and full of excuses. About the way her voice cracked just a little—just enough for you to notice.

You’re still staring at the storm when the sound of boots on the porch makes your stomach twist.

You drift out of the kitchen with the weight of dinner hanging over your shoulders like the wet hoodie still clinging to your arms.

The living room hasn’t changed much. Same plaid couch. Same threadbare rug. Same deer head mounted above the fireplace that you always thought was a little too smug. But the TV—that’s new. Or... new-ish. A big flat-screen sitting on the entertainment stand, completely untouched, dust clinging to the edges like it’s been waiting for someone to remember it exists.

You flop onto the couch and grab the remote.

The screen flickers to life—bright blue, no input, a little bouncing logo in the corner.

You scroll through the menu.

Nothing’s connected.

“Dad,” you call, voice half-laughing, half-annoyed. “This TV isn’t set up.”

You glance over your shoulder into the kitchen.

He’s at the counter, chopping vegetables with a small paring knife like it’s a weapon of war. He doesn’t even look up.

“Is it?” he mutters. “Then what’ve I been watchin’ every night?”

You blink. “I... don’t know.”

He pauses, squints at the cutting board like it might hold the answer, then shrugs. “Guess I just enjoy the silence.”

“Or the reflection,” your stepmom chimes in, not even looking up from her pot.

You smile awkwardly and sink deeper into the couch, fiddling with the remote again. Static. No apps. No cable. Not even a clock set.

Of course it isn’t set up.

The silence fills the room again, broken only by the soft hiss of the stove and the tap-tap of your dad’s knife.

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket, shrill and insistent.

You glance down at the screen.

JARED CALLING

Your breath catches.

Shit.

You feel your stepmom shift in the kitchen. Your dad stops chopping.

The ringtone blares once more.

You swipe the screen and hit decline.

Too late.

“Who’s Jared?” your dad asks casually, not looking up.

You fumble with your phone, shoving it face-down into the couch cushion. “No one.”

“Didn’t sound like no one.”

You force a tight-lipped smile. “Just someone from school.”

He grunts but says nothing else.

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at the kitchen.

You just stare at the blank blue screen, suddenly very aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in this quiet little house.

The rain’s still coming down when Sevika walks in.

She doesn’t knock—she never does—and the screen door rattles behind her like it’s warning you. She’s wearing the same tank from earlier, a flannel tossed over it, damp from the rain. Her hair’s loose now, brushing over her shoulders, and her eyes land on you the second she steps into the dining room.

Your stomach turns.

You’re already seated at the table, fingers tight around your fork. The food smells good—roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes—but you can barely taste a thing. Your appetite curled up and died the moment her boots hit the porch.

“Evenin’, Sev,” your dad greets, cheerful as ever. “Hope you brought your stomach.”

Sevika grunts a noncommittal “Yeah” and sits across from you.

Directly across.

Of course.

The table’s not big, and the room’s not loud enough to hide how quiet she is. Your dad keeps up a steady stream of conversation—farm talk, the rain, some neighbor’s busted fence. Your stepmom chimes in with gossip about the Sunday market. Sevika replies when spoken to, but her answers are short. Dry.

And every time you glance up, her eyes are already on you.

Not soft.

Not kind.

Like you’re something stuck to the bottom of her boot.

You try to ignore it. You cut your food into tiny, perfect bites. You pretend you don’t feel the weight of her gaze like a brand on your skin.

“So, you thinkin’ about stayin’ a while?” your stepmom asks you with a smile, passing the rolls.

You look up quickly. “Um... maybe. I was thinking I could help around the—”

A low snort cuts you off.

You freeze.

Sevika’s not looking at you now, just stabbing into her green beans like they did her personal wrong.

“What?” you ask, voice sharp.

She shrugs. “Nothin’.”

Your dad keeps eating like he didn’t hear it. Your stepmom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

You take a breath. Then another. And then—

“Do you have a problem with me?”

Your voice rings louder than you mean for it to. The air in the room stills.

Sevika lifts her head slowly, finally meeting your eyes.

The corner of her mouth twitches, but there’s no humor there.

“Only problem I got is you sittin’ here like you didn’t burn every damn bridge on your way out.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, voice low and even. “You waltz back in like it’s nothin’. Like we’re all supposed to forget you ghosted the whole goddamn farm—and me—without lookin’ back.”

“I didn’t ghost—”

“You didn’t call. You didn’t write. Not a single word in four years.”

Your chair scrapes against the floor as you push back from the table. “You don’t know what I went through.”

“And you don’t know what I went through,” she snaps, standing too now, towering over the table. “But you didn’t care about that, did you?”

“Sevika,” your dad warns, voice low.

You ignore him. “I left because I had to. I got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“And I wasn’t worth staying for.”

That shuts you up.

Because it’s not fair.

And it’s not wrong.

And it hurts in a way you’re not ready for.

You grab your plate—barely touched—and head for the sink, your throat burning.

“I’m done.”

“Figures,” Sevika mutters.

You don’t answer.

You just set the plate down, wipe your hands on your jeans, and walk straight out the back door into the storm, letting the rain soak through your hair again.

Anything’s better than choking on that silence.

The rain has softened into a hush against the porch roof, a steady rhythm that does nothing to calm your pulse.

You step out onto the porch barefoot, the wooden planks cool under your feet. The scent of wet earth and hay fills your lungs as you lean against the post, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

You scroll to Jared’s name.

You hesitate.

Then tap.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hey, babe,” he answers, voice warm, casual, familiar in a way that feels suddenly foreign. “Was starting to think you forgot about me.”

You force a smile, even though no one can see it. “Sorry. It’s... been a long day.”

“How’s it feel to be back in farmville? You surviving?”

You glance over your shoulder through the screen door—dim light spilling from the kitchen, clinking dishes, voices muffled. You step further into the shadows.

“It’s weird,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Everything looks the same, but it’s not. I’m not.”

He hums like he doesn’t really hear you. “Your dad still cool? Did you show them that dress I liked on you? The green one?”

You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t feel right.”

There’s a pause on his end. “You okay?”

You swallow hard.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You sound like... off.”

“I’m just tired.”

Another pause. Softer, this time.

“I love you, babe.”

The words hit like gravel in your throat.

You’ve said them before. Dozens of times. Over and over, like it might one day make them true.

But tonight, they feel heavier. Wrong.

You close your eyes.

“Jared...”

“What’s up?”

You open your mouth—then stop.

You glance to the side.

Through the window, barely shielded by the thin lace curtain beside the screen door, a figure stands.

Sevika.

Her shoulders fill the frame. Her hair is damp. Her face unreadable. But her eyes are locked on you.

Watching.

Listening.

Your blood goes cold.

“—I just wanted to check in,” you say quickly. “I should go. Dinner and all.”

“Wait, hey, you didn’t say it back.”

You hesitate.

Then, softly—too softly—“I love you.”

And god, it tastes like lying.

“Babe, what’s really going on? You sound—”

“I have to go.”

“Just tell me if I—”

You hang up.

The screen fades to black in your hand, your reflection barely visible in the glass. For a long second, all you hear is the rain. The door doesn’t open. She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there in that window, staring at you like you’re something breaking apart in slow motion.

You clutch your phone tighter.

Because what she doesn’t know—what no one knows—is that you moved across the country to reinvent yourself. You laughed at the right jokes. You flirted with boys. You wore dresses and curled your hair and pretended. You told yourself it was easier to be straight in a world where even California openness couldn’t erase your fear of being seen.

But the second you saw Sevika again—the second you laid eyes on that scarred, beautiful face and the storm behind her eyes—you were ready to throw it all away.

Just for a chance to make her smile at you again.

Just for a kiss that felt like you.

You blink, and the window is empty.

She’s gone.

But you know she heard.

You know she saw.

And now, you don’t know what the hell you’re going to do.

The rain deepens into a steady downpour again, rolling off the edge of the porch roof like silver threads. You haven’t moved from your spot by the post, phone still clutched in your hand, screen dark and damp from your fingers.

You try to breathe.

Try to forget the way Sevika’s eyes pinned you in place through that window.

But then the screen door creaks.

You freeze.

She steps out slowly, boots heavy against the wood, shoulders tense beneath that flannel. Her presence fills the space beside you like thunder—loud without a single word.

You don’t look at her right away.

But you feel her.

The heat of her anger. The weight of her silence. And then finally, your gaze flicks over.

She’s staring at you.

No smirk.

No sharp words.

Just that unreadable expression she wears like armor, jaw clenched, eyes dark and wet—not from tears, but the rain that’s already begun to soak her face.

You open your mouth—maybe to explain. Maybe to apologize.

But Sevika just steps down from the porch.

Right into the rain.

No hesitation.

She walks out across the gravel, slow and deliberate, the water slicking her hair back against her head, soaking through her clothes in seconds. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back. Just disappears into the night like the storm called her home.

And you—

You’re left shaking.

Still barefoot.

Still clutching your phone.

Still too full of shame to follow.

The screen door creaks again behind you, the smell of dinner still warm inside, the lights golden and soft and safe.

But nothing feels safe.

You step back into the house with your heart in your throat and your hands cold with more than rain.

And this time, no one says a word.

You wake to the sound of roosters screaming like the world’s on fire.

God. You forgot how early everything starts out here.

The sun’s already blaring through the thin curtains, casting warm gold across the room, cutting through the dust you never noticed floating in the air. It’s hot already—humid and thick, and it clings to your skin like a second blanket.

You groan, shifting under the sheet, one cheek pressed against your pillow, hair a tangled mess around your face.

Through the haze of sleep, you hear voices outside.

Low. Familiar.

You blink one eye open and squint toward the window. Push yourself up on your elbows and lean just enough to peer through the dusty glass.

There.

Out by the pasture fence.

Your dad. And Sevika.

She’s in a tank again, shoulders gleaming in the sun, hair tied back tight. She’s holding a coil of rope in one hand and gesturing toward something near the far pen, like she’s been up for hours, like she didn’t storm off into the rain just last night.

Your stomach turns.

You drop back onto the pillow with a sigh, hand brushing across the sheets.

You could stay here.

You could roll over and pretend the past twenty-four hours didn’t happen.

But you don’t.

You throw the covers off, pad barefoot to your suitcase, and pull out something light—your white short-sleeved blazer, tailored and soft, and a pair of cut-off jean shorts that hug your thighs. You pause in front of the mirror.

Preppy meets farm girl.

You roll the sleeves a little.

Fine.

It’ll do.

You braid your hair quickly, swipe your face with a warm towel, and slip down the creaky stairs.

The smell of bacon and something sweet hits you before your feet even hit the kitchen tile.

Your stepmom’s at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand and stirring something in a saucepan with the other. She’s already dressed, hair pinned up and humming to herself like she didn’t hear you come down.

“Morning, sugar,” she says without looking. “Hope the bed didn’t swallow you whole. You sleep okay?”

You nod, throat dry. “Yeah. Kind of.”

She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “Your daddy and Sevika’ve been up since sunrise. You planning on joining them, or you want to eat first?”

You look down at your blazer.

Then toward the window where the sun glints off Sevika’s shoulders like she’s made of brass and fire.

“I’ll eat,” you say softly.

But you’re not hungry.

Not really.

You step out into the sunlight, the screen door clapping shut behind you as you shield your eyes with one hand. The heat hits you immediately—thick and bright and sticky on your skin. Somewhere off to the left, a sprinkler clicks to life. A few chickens scatter across the dirt path ahead of you, squawking dramatically like you personally offended them.

Your dad spots you from across the pasture fence and waves you over, his arm raised above his head like he’s directing traffic. You take a breath and walk across the yard, boots kicking up little clouds of dust with each step.

Sevika’s a few yards away, tying a line to a post, her back to you. You don’t look too long.

Your dad’s grinning by the time you reach him, hands on his hips as he nods toward the wide stretch of land ahead.

You follow his gaze—and blink.

The field’s massive.

Where there used to be maybe a dozen heads of cattle, there’s now double that, maybe more. Cows graze lazily under the sun, some lounging near the water troughs, others shifting and snorting as they stomp flies off their legs.

You rest your hands on your hips instinctively. “Wow,” you breathe. “It’s... huge.”

“Doubled in just two seasons,” your dad says proudly, eyes gleaming as he looks out over the herd. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

You glance at him, then back at the field. “They’re... cows.”

He lets out a belly laugh. “Cows that make us money.”

You smirk, watching one scratch its head against the fence. “Fair.”

“It’s perfect breeding season right now,” he continues, nodding sagely. “All the cows are in heat and—”

“Ew, Dad!” you groan, grimacing. “I really don’t want to hear about cows bumping uglies first thing in the morning.”

He laughs harder, slapping the fence post. “It’s nature, sweetheart!”

“It’s nasty,” you shoot back, shaking your head as you try not to picture it.

Behind you, there’s a sharp snort of amusement.

You stiffen.

Sevika.

You glance back just in time to see the barest hint of a smirk pulling at her mouth before she turns away again, dragging another bale toward the barn like the conversation didn’t affect her at all.

But it did.

You felt it.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything she could’ve said.

“Well,” your dad sighs, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, “since you’re up and lookin’ all ready for a photo shoot, how ‘bout you help Sevika with the mineral blocks?”

You blink. “The what?”

He gestures toward a beat-up wheelbarrow at the edge of the barn. Inside it are several massive brown blocks, each the size of a cinderblock and twice as dense.

“Salt and mineral licks,” he explains. “Keep the cattle healthy. You two can drop ‘em out by the western pasture.”

You glance at the wheelbarrow, then at Sevika, who pauses mid-step near the barn, her body still and unreadable.

“Sure,” you say slowly. “I can help.”

Your dad pats your shoulder, then turns back toward the main field. “Atta girl. Sevika’ll show you how it’s done.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Just walks toward the wheelbarrow, picks up the handles, and nods toward the trail that leads past the barn.

You follow her.

The silence stretches like a rubber band between you, taut and sharp and begging to snap. The wheelbarrow creaks and thuds against the uneven dirt path, the blocks inside shifting with every bump.

It’s hot.

Sweat’s already sticking your blazer to your back, and dust kicks up with every step. Sevika doesn’t seem to notice. She’s quiet, calm, her pace steady like she’s been doing this every day for years—and she has.

Finally, after a few long minutes, you reach the edge of the western pasture.

Sevika stops and sets the wheelbarrow down with a grunt. Her tank top clings to her back, darkened with sweat, and she wipes her brow with the inside of her arm before grabbing the first block.

“Grab the other end,” she says without looking at you.

You move quickly, fingers brushing against hers for half a second as you lift. It’s heavier than it looks, and awkward. The two of you stumble once, then correct.

She doesn’t look at you.

You don’t look at her.

You carry it in silence to the edge of the fence and drop it with a dull thud.

“Next one,” she mutters, already turning back.

The second one goes the same way—tense, silent, too close. Your shoulders bump once and she doesn’t apologize. You don’t either.

By the time you finish the last block, your arms are sore and your heart is pounding—but not from the weight.

You straighten up, brushing your hands off on your shorts. “You could say thank you, you know.”

Sevika shoots you a look—sharp and tired. “You wanna gold star for lifting four blocks?”

You glare. “I’m just trying.”

She stares at you for a long second, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with each breath. The air is hot between you. Too hot. Too much.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she mutters, grabbing the wheelbarrow and turning around.

You watch her walk off.

And god help you, all you want to do is follow.

You watch Sevika’s back retreat down the dirt path, the wheelbarrow rattling behind her, one of the mineral blocks still clinging to the edge with a soft scrape.

Your dad’s busy at the far fence, hunched over something with a pair of pliers, muttering to himself. He doesn’t even glance your way.

You sigh.

Deep, frustrated, exhausted.

Then start walking.

The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you pick up your pace, catching up just as Sevika rounds the corner of the barn and drops the wheelbarrow with a loud clank.

“Sevika—”

She doesn’t turn.

You keep going anyway, heart in your throat. “Can you just stop for a second? Please. I’m not trying to fight, I just want to explain—”

She whirls around so fast you almost crash into her.

“You want to explain?” she snaps, voice low and dangerous. “Explain what? That you left? That you lied? That you said you loved me and then disappeared like none of it mattered?”

You blink, words dying on your tongue.

Her face is flushed—not from the heat. From this.

From you.

“I gave a shit about you,” she goes on, her voice cracking just slightly. “More than I ever gave a shit about anything. And you left me. You fucking left. And then you just show up here—smiling, dressed like you walked out of some magazine shoot—and what? You think I’m just gonna forget?”

“I don’t—” you start, but she cuts you off again.

“No. You don’t get to play innocent now. You made a choice.”

She takes a step forward, and you feel the air shift between you—charged, heavy, like lightning hasn’t struck yet but it’s coming.

“You chose a life without me,” she says, quieter now, but it’s worse somehow. “And now you’re here acting like I’m the problem because I don’t roll over and pretend none of it hurt.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Because what can you say to that?

She shakes her head, scoffs bitterly, and turns away again, muttering something under her breath you can’t catch—but it sounds a hell of a lot like your name.

And this time, you don’t follow.

You just stand there, breath stuck in your chest, staring at the back of the only person you never really stopped loving.

Even when you tried.

You don’t say anything.

You just look at her—those soft, hurt eyes, your mouth a little open like you might try again. But you don’t. You turn around and walk away slowly, arms folded across your chest like maybe they can hold you together.

Sevika doesn’t follow.

She just stands there, fists clenched and teeth grinding, eyes locked on the spot where you disappeared behind the barn.

Then she exhales sharp through her nose and pinches the bridge of it, head tilting back like the sky might offer her a goddamn break.

It doesn’t.

Her thoughts are everywhere. Tangled. Loud. Angry.

She can’t stop seeing your face. The way you looked in that stupid white blazer. The way those jean shorts hugged your hips like they were designed to ruin her. And that look in your eyes when you turned away—like she’d just kicked the wind out of you.

She didn’t mean to go off like that.

But fuck—what was she supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t matter? Pretend she didn’t spend the last four years trying to forget the shape of your laugh, the way you used to kiss her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense?

And then Jared.

That name had burned itself into her brain the second your dad dropped it this morning like it was no big deal.

“She’s got some guy now. Jared, I think. Seems decent.”

Decent. Sure.

But decent doesn’t know you like Sevika does.

Decent doesn’t know that you sleep with one hand curled under your pillow, or that you always get quiet after thunderstorms. Decent doesn’t know how hard you worked to be good enough for the world outside this place, or that it made you lie—to yourself, to everyone.

Even to her.

Sevika knows you’re not straight. She always did.

She also knows how hard you tried to pretend you were.

And the worst part?

No matter how many times she’s tried to move on—drinks, hookups, distractions—every time, it’s you.

In the beginning. In the middle. In the end.

Your name in her mouth, your memory in her hands, your ghost curled around her ribs.

And now she’s watching you walk around this place like you never left. Acting like you want to talk. Acting like you’re sorry.

And all she can think about is how jealous she is.

That someone else touched you.

That someone else gets to hear you whisper babe like you mean it.

That someone else might’ve gotten to trace their hands down your body, over those soft curves she used to worship.

Her stomach twists.

She drags a hand down her face, grounding herself in the sting of her own calloused fingers.

She can’t keep doing this.

But she already is.

And deep down, she knows—she never really stopped.

—

The storm rolls in just after sundown.

At first, it’s just heavy clouds and a little wind, the kind that kicks up dust and makes the shutters creak. But then the rain starts—fast and hard, slapping against the windows like it’s got a score to settle. Thunder rumbles low in the distance, crawling across the sky like a warning.

Sevika finishes her last round of chores just as the first flash of lightning cuts through the fields.

She shrugs on her flannel, pulls it tight around her shoulders, and steps up onto the porch, water already soaking the tips of her boots. Her truck’s parked just at the edge of the gravel drive. The headlights flash when she unlocks it with the fob in her back pocket.

She doesn’t even make it down the steps.

“Sevika,” your stepmom calls, appearing in the front doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

Sevika pauses, shoulders stiff.

“I’m serious,” she goes on, voice sweet but firm with that familiar southern twang. “You go out there in this mess, you’re askin’ to end up on your ass under a collapsed roof or wrapped ‘round a tree.”

“I’ve got it handled,” Sevika mutters, without turning back.

“No, baby, you don’t. That roof’s older than I am, and you’ve been sayin’ you were gonna fix it for three months.”

Sevika clenches her jaw, rain spitting into her face. “I’ll be fine.”

Your stepmom steps outside with her hands on her hips, letting the screen door flap shut behind her. “You ain’t gonna argue with me on this, honey. You’re stayin’ here tonight.”

Sevika turns, finally.

And it’s not a fight she wants. Not tonight. Not with the thunder shaking the porch and the air so thick it’s hard to breathe.

She runs a hand over her wet hair and sighs. “Couch?”

“Guest room,” she says firmly. “I already laid a towel out. You can throw those wet things in the wash and grab somethin’ dry from the linen closet. Make yourself at home.”

Sevika doesn’t move right away.

“Please,” your stepmom adds, softer this time. “It’s just one night.”

The rain is howling now, rattling down like it’s trying to rip the siding off the house. And even Sevika has to admit—her shitty little roof isn’t gonna survive this.

“…Fine.”

She follows her back in, heavy boots leaving prints on the floorboards. The warmth of the house hits her like a slap—soft light, the faint smell of lavender, and just beyond the hallway, the unmistakable creak of someone else moving around upstairs.

You.

She doesn’t say anything. Just wipes her boots, nods once, and disappears into the hallway toward the guest room.

One night.

She can handle one night.

Even if her heart is already screaming that this is a very, very bad idea.

You pace your room like it’s too small for your thoughts.

The storm’s getting worse—rattling the windows, howling through the cracks in the wood like it’s hunting something. You hate this. You’ve always hated this. Thunderstorms used to mean hiding under your blankets as a kid, covering your ears and counting seconds between lightning strikes like it meant something.

But tonight?

Tonight it feels like the house is shaking with you.

You wrap your arms around your waist, trying to keep your breath steady, trying to remind yourself you’re safe. That it’s just noise. Just weather.

But anxiety creeps up your arms like vines—tight and sticky. Your skin tingles. Your throat closes. You can’t stop wringing your hands, stepping back and forth across the floor, bare feet cold against the wood.

Another flash of lightning lights up your room like a camera flash.

And then—

Everything goes dark.

The hum of the fan cuts out. The glow of your lamp vanishes. The silence after the power dies is almost worse than the thunder. Like the house stopped breathing.

Your chest tightens. You stumble backward from the window, eyes wide, breath coming faster now.

“No, no, no—shit,” you whisper, voice barely there.

It’s too quiet.

Too loud.

Too dark.

You back up blindly—heart racing, hands trembling—and slam right into something solid.

Someone.

You spin around with a gasp—and stop cold.

It’s Sevika.

Her face is shadowed, barely visible in the flickering hallway light from a lightning strike. She’s in a loose shirt now, hair damp, chest rising and falling like she was just about to turn away.

You’re breathing too fast.

She sees it immediately.

“Hey,” she says, voice low but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I can’t—” You shake your head, fists curling at your sides. “I can’t—breathe—”

She steps in closer, hands out but not touching you yet. “You’re alright. It’s just a storm.”

You’re already sinking—eyes glassy, body curling in on itself like a wire snapping. “I hate the dark—I hate it—I can’t see—I can’t—”

And then her hands are on your arms.

Warm. Grounding.

Like they used to be.

“Listen to me,” she says firmly, drawing you just a little closer. “You’re safe. You’re not alone. Breathe with me. C’mon—just like before.”

You lock eyes with her, breath stuttering.

“In,” she says softly, pulling her own in. “Now out. Do it with me.”

You mimic her—shaky, uneven.

But it starts to work.

You focus on her voice. Her scent—clean soap and rain. Her fingers pressing gently into your forearms, not tight, not forcing—anchoring.

And for a second, it’s just you and her and the sound of your breathing starting to sync again.

Then the beam of a flashlight cuts through the hallway.

“Sweetheart?”

Your dad’s voice.

He rounds the corner fast, light catching your pale face and Sevika’s frame still close in front of you. His brows furrow with concern, flashlight trembling slightly in his hand.

“Is she okay?”

Sevika doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

“She’s alright,” she says, voice calm. “Just panicked. Power cut out. I got her.”

Your dad lowers the flashlight a little, but the worry doesn’t leave his face.

“You okay, baby?” he asks gently.

You nod—barely. Still shaking. Still clutching the hem of Sevika’s shirt like it’s the only thing holding you up.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… scared.”

“Alright,” he says. “Let me go check the breaker. Yell if you need anything.”

And just like that, he’s gone again.

But Sevika stays.

And you don’t let go.

Sevika doesn’t move when your dad leaves.

She’s still standing there in the dark, barely lit by the occasional flicker of lightning through the window. Her hands are still near your arms, hovering like maybe she wants to pull you back in, but doesn’t dare.

You’re quieter now. Breathing steadier. But not okay.

Not really.

And she knows it.

She watches your eyes, your lips—like she’s searching for the right moment. Like she’s finally going to say something that’s been choking her for years.

“I’m sor—”

But you step back.

Too soon.

You don’t hear it. Or maybe you do, and it’s just easier to pretend you didn’t.

You pull away before her voice can settle the weight behind it.

“I need to find betty,” you mumble, not looking at her. “She’s probably lighting candles or something.”

You don’t give her time to respond.

You walk away.

And Sevika stands in the dark hallway, fingers curled into fists, the rest of the apology burning in her throat like smoke.

She turns toward the wall and lets her head rest against it, eyes shut tight.

You find your stepmom in the kitchen, just where you figured she’d be—lighting an old hurricane lantern on the counter, a candle already glowing beside it.

“There you are,” she says, surprised but smiling gently. “Thought you were upstairs hiding.”

You shake your head, voice small. “Just needed a second.”

She hums, sliding the lantern closer to the middle of the table. “Storm like this, we might be out ‘til morning. You okay, sugar?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You’re lying.

comment to be added to the taglist (if this fic goes well) next part

#arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #lesbian #sevika x reader #wlw #sissormetimbers #wuh luh wuh

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pastryfication · 11 months ago

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sleepy airports | loscar

pairing: oscar piastri x reader x logan sargeant

note: i’m trying to get better at poly fics, so please bear with me xx

in the airport, the bustling terminal is filled with the hum of travelers and the distant announcements of flight statuses. the excitement of your vacation is buzzing in the air, a bright spot in the midst of the usual airport chaos. it’s been a while since the three of you took a break together, just you, and the anticipation makes you giddy.

the three of you arrived early, giving yourselves plenty of time to navigate the security lines and grab a bite to eat. now, with hours to spare before your flight, you’ve settled into a quiet corner near your gate. oscar has claimed one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and is lounging back with a book, while logan and you settle on either side of him.

you notice logan’s head nodding slightly as he tries to stay awake. he’s always been an early riser, and the wait is starting to take its toll. you feel the same way, your eyes growing heavy as you finally sit down in a quiet place. it doesn’t take long before you find yourself snuggling closer to your australian boyfriend, resting your head against his shoulder. his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing are comforting, and you feel yourself relaxing. as you close your eyes, you sense a gentle shift in the seating arrangement.

oscar glances up from his book and smiles. without saying a word, he moves to sit a bit more comfortably and gently wraps his arm around both you and logan. logan sighs contentedly and his head falls to rest on oscar’s shoulder as well. oscar’s eyes soften as he looks at the two of you, his free hand reaching up to lightly stroke your hair.

time seems to slow as you drift in and out of light sleep, lulled by the soft murmur of the airport and the comforting presence of your partners. it’s these small, quiet moments of togetherness that you cherish. the three of you are wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and love, a small, happy island in the middle of the bustling terminal.

when your flight is finally announced, oscar gently nudges you awake. you stretch and blink, feeling both refreshed and reluctant to leave the cozy nest you’ve created. logan stirs as well, his eyes slowly opening, and he smiles groggily at you. oscar gives a soft chuckle and stands up, offering you his hand.

“come on, sleepyheads,” he says. “time to board.”

as you all walk toward the gate, the excitement of the journey ahead replaces the initial grogginess. the flight is smooth, and the three of you settle into your seats. oscar sits by the window, giving you and logan the middle and aisle seats. you end up leaning against oscar’s shoulder again, while logan stretches out beside you.

you chat about your plans for the trip, the places you want to visit, and the food you’re excited to try. logan is the enthusiastic storyteller, recounting amusing anecdotes and trivia about your destination. oscar occasionally chuckles, his fingers lightly brushing yours as you share in the conversation.

the flight attendants come by with snacks and drinks, and you all take turns sharing bites and sips. it’s a small pleasure, but it feels special when done together. you look around at your partners—logan’s eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, oscar’s face relaxed and content—and feel a profound sense of gratitude fill you.

at some point during the flight, you drift off again. the gentle hum of the plane and the soft light filtering through the window provide a soothing backdrop. when you wake, the sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting a warm glow through the aeroplane. logan has shifted slightly, his arm now draped protectively around you, and oscar is still sitting patiently, letting you use him as a pillow. the two boys had been sharing a quiet moment, their heads close together above you in a comfortable silence.

as the plane begins its descent, you all share a look of excitement and anticipation. the vacation is just beginning, and you can’t wait to explore, laugh, and make memories together. the trip has already been filled with little moments of affection and togetherness, and you know that these moments will only continue to grow.

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undersugarnights · 6 months ago

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Something for the Pain

✦ MDNI — 18+ Only ✦

✧ pairing: luke hemmings x reader

✧ summary: a splitting headache has you looking for something, anything, to stop the pain. luckily for you, luke is always willing to help.

✧ warnings: oral (f receiving), dirty talk, subby luke, mommy kink, desperate and needy luke, happy ending massage (?)

✧ word count: 5.4k

✧ title: starting line — by Luke Hemmings

✧ author’s note: happy new year pookies! i honestly can’t begin to describe how thankful i am for all of the support my writing has received since i started posting on here. hopefully i can get more blurbs out— and soon, that calum fic. anyway, this was a request, but i took some liberties since i wasn’t super excited to write period sex (don’t think i ever will ngl) but i still hope u enjoy!! as always, thank u for reading and to my two friends who helped me come up w the plot for this. you know who you are

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Every breath you took, every blink, sent a fresh wave of pain ricocheting through your skull. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started. Maybe it was during the final descent, the plane’s cabin pressure clawing at your temples. Or maybe it was the hours leading up to it—the sleepless night, the lack of water, or the mounting exhaustion of the journey.

By the time you stepped off the plane with your friends, the faint pulse of a headache had already begun to bloom behind your eyes. But what started as a dull ache soon unraveled into an all-encompassing, throbbing migraine.

Now, you sat slumped in the bed of your hotel room, blinds drawn tight against the snowy glare outside. Your eyes remained shut as you wrestled with the unrelenting pain, trying to block out the world beyond the pounding in your head.

It was Calum’s birthday trip. This whole escapade had been meticulously planned by an overly eager Ashton and Luke, who’d insisted on the novelty of a winter getaway. You and Michael had been swept along in their enthusiasm, though neither of you had much interest in winter sports.

“Ashton thinks Calum needs a change,” Luke had reasoned during the endless group chat debates. “He’s always had summer birthdays. Let’s give him a proper winter wonderland for once.”

It wasn’t exactly a bad idea—on paper, at least. But the journey to the hotel had been its own kind of trial. Fans swarmed the boys at the terminal, their excitement only amplified by the festive mood. Luke and Ashton handled the crowd with ease, chatting and signing autographs, while Michael managed a few tired smiles. You, however, could barely keep your grimace at bay as each flash of a camera sent fresh jolts of pain behind your eyes.

You worried that your mood might be misinterpreted. The last thing you needed was people twisting your obvious discomfort into something malicious, another rumor or misstep in the public eye. But for now, none of that mattered. All you wanted was a moment of quiet to try and claw your way back to some ounce of normalcy.

You fell back on your bed, forcing your mind to think of ways to ease the pain. You had already tried some ibuprofen, but your mind failed to come up with more alternatives.

Luke had noticed something was wrong, he always noticed when something was wrong. His eyes would get all worried, glazed over with anxiety as he tried to figure out why you were in such a foul mood. He was always so attentive when it came to you, so sweet.

You met the band when they signed your shoegaze group to their record label. Although the deal didn’t last, the friendship that came out of it certainly did. You played bass—a fact that, for some reason, seemed to strike a chord with Luke from the start.

What followed was an unusual friendship. Luke gravitated toward you in a way that was hard to ignore, and you were more than sure he had a crush on you. Subtlety was never his strong suit, after all.

It started small—just little frowns tugging at his pink lips whenever someone mentioned another guy’s name or the lingering glances he’d send your way. But slowly, it escalated. The frowns turned into sharp quips about their character, jokes veiled as casual observations about how no one seemed good enough for you.

Then came the parade of girls—each one with the same eye color, the same hair, the same biting wit. They never stayed long, thankfully. Still, it felt ridiculous to think Luke Hemmings, of all people, might actually want you—a shy bassist in a band still struggling to take off. And yet, the thought burrowed into your mind like an itch you couldn’t scratch, always there, always nagging.

When it was just the two of you, it was different. Luke seemed mesmerized by you, his eyes tracing the movements of your fingers over your bass strings, hanging onto your words like they were rare treasures. It was flattering. It was terrifying.

He’d tried to follow you to your room earlier offering to keep you company. But the thought of him seeing you so raw, so vulnerable, was unbearable. You forced a fake smile, brushed aside the dull ache in your chest, and politely declined.

It wasn’t ideal, not by any stretch. You craved company—craved him—but the weight of your misery felt too heavy to share.

So, you decided to lie down, all the blinds drawn shut, and hope—pray—for the ibuprofen to finally kick in. Sooner or later, you were certain, the pain would ease. In the meantime, you busied yourself by mentally planning your outfit for the birthday dinner you still hoped to attend.

You weren’t exactly sure how much time had passed since you first collapsed onto the hotel bed, but the knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet. Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed yourself to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would go away.

But the knock came again, louder this time, insistent.

Your eyes snapped open, staring at the darkened ceiling as another knock echoed through the room. “Y/N?” Luke’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and clear, sending a fresh wave of pain ricocheting through your skull. Wincing, you pushed yourself upright in bed.

“What do you want?” you called out, not bothering to mask the irritation in your tone. Luke was a puppy—probably the kindest, most caring person you’d ever met. Even if your annoyance slipped through now, he’d likely shrug it off, understanding the circumstances later.

But instead of his usual easy response, silence followed. A beat passed, long enough for a twinge of guilt to creep in. Regret began clouding your thoughts as you replayed what you’d said, wondering if you’d gone too far.

“Are you okay?” Luke’s voice finally broke the stillness, softer now, almost cautious. You could picture him perfectly: standing just outside the door, biting the corner of his lip where a lip ring once sat, waiting in tentative silence.

With a defeated sigh, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded softly to the door. Cracking it open with caution, you winced as the bright hallway light pierced through the darkness of the room, intensifying the ache in your head.

Luke’s eyebrows shot up the moment he saw your expression, concern etched into his features. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes darting across your face, searching for any clues that might explain your obvious discomfort.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the doorframe. “I have a headache from hell,” you muttered, rubbing at one eye with your knuckle.

“Damn,” Luke murmured, his voice low with sympathy. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

Pushing off the doorframe, you shuffled back to the bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sudden movement made the throbbing in your skull even worse. You heard Luke’s footsteps draw closer, then felt the bed dip as he laid down beside you.

Slowly, you turned your head to look at him. His wide blue eyes were full of concern, his blonde curls falling messily against the bedspread. Up close, you could see the faint stubble dusting his jaw and cheeks, and your fingers itched with the impulse to reach out feel it beneath your fingertips.

“Since we got to the airport,” you admitted. “It’s been getting worse all day. By the time we got here, I was barely able to stand.”

Luke let out a quiet huff through his nose, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the mattress. “What about tonight?” he asked gently. “Do you think you’ll be able to make it?”

You let out a bitter laugh, immediately regretting it as another sharp ripple of pain shot through your skull. “Thank God Calum’s birthday isn’t today, because at this point, I don’t even know if I’d make it.”

Luke’s lips twisted into a concerned frown. “Have you tried anything to make it go away?”

“Luke, do you really think I’m choosing to suffer like this?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “I took some ibuprofen earlier, but it didn’t help much. I’ve been wracking my brain for home remedies, but nothing’s working.”

Luke hummed thoughtfully. “I heard drinking water can help,” he suggested, a hint of optimism in his tone. “Or maybe a massage? I think I even read somewhere that eating almonds helps.”

You let out an irritated breath and shifted onto your side, pillowing your head on your arm. For a brief moment, you thought you caught Luke’s eyes flick down to your chest, slightly more on display from your position, but the glance was so quick you couldn’t be certain.

“I’ve been drinking water,” you mumbled dejectedly. “Hate almonds. But a massage sounds… nice. Don’t really feel like hunting down spa services, though.”

Luke was quiet for a moment, staring down at the mattress. He shifted slightly before mumbling something, his voice too low for you to catch.

You raised an eyebrow. “Lu, I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

He let out a loud huff and repeated himself, this time louder but still hesitant. “I said… I could give you the massage.” His voice wavered slightly, and he avoided meeting your gaze.

His offer caught you off guard. For a few beats, you just stared at him, unsure if he was serious. But with your head pounding relentlessly, you couldn’t see any reason to refuse. “Alright,” you finally said, clearing your throat. “There’s lotion in my carry-on bag. Go grab it.”

Luke’s eyes widened a fraction, but he nodded quickly and scrambled off the bed in a flurry of gangly limbs. He switched on the lamp by the bedside table—thankfully not too bright—and rummaged through your bag with fumbling hands. After a few failed attempts, he finally pulled out the bottle of lotion. “Got it!” he announced, a triumphant grin tugging at his lips.

“Good.” You sat up in the bed and shot him a pointed look. “Now turn around.”

Luke blinked, his grin faltering. “Why?”

You motioned toward the lotion in his hand. “Because I’m taking my shirt off?”

His cheeks flushed a vivid pink, and his mouth fell open slightly in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you caught the sudden flustered state Luke had taken on. “Did you really think a massage would work if I kept my shirt on?”

Luke swallowed hard, shaking his head. “N-no,” he stammered. “I guess not.” His hand shot up to scratch the back of his neck, the flush spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“Good,” you replied with a small, teasing smile, rolling your eyes. “Unless that’s an issue for you?”

His eyes widened as if you’d accused him of something. “No!” he blurted, then winced at how loud he sounded. “I mean… no, it’s not a problem.”

You bit back a laugh, too entertained by how flustered he was, and motioned for him to turn around. With a sheepish nod, Luke spun on his heel, facing the wall. Once he was out of sight, you pulled the hem of your shirt up and over your head before lying back down on your stomach.

“Alright,” you called softly, glancing over your shoulder. “Come on.”

Luke turned back around hesitantly, his gaze flickering between your face and the bed as he stepped closer. His cheeks were still rosy, but he managed to set the lotion bottle down on the nightstand without fumbling.

“Where should I start?” he asked, his voice quieter now. His eyes lingered for a moment on the strap of your bra before darting away, and you appreciated the fact that he seemed to be making an effort to remain respectful.

You shrugged slightly, resting your head on your arms. “You’re the one who suggested this, remember? Maybe my shoulders? Anywhere that might distract me from the headache.”

Luke nodded, though you could see the tension in his jaw as he picked up the lotion and squirted some into his hands. You closed your eyes, feeling the shift of the bed as he knelt beside you.

When his fingers finally touched your skin, they were tentative, almost featherlight. You suppressed a shiver at the warmth of his hands but couldn’t help the small hum of appreciation that escaped your lips.

“You can press harder,” you murmured, opening one eye to glance back at him.

Luke met your gaze, and the sight of him made your breath hitch. His cheeks were still flushed, his mouth slightly parted, and his baby-blue eyes had taken on a darker, more intense hue. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice nearly a whisper, as his fingers pressed more firmly into the muscles of your back.

You sighed blissfully, letting your eyes drift closed. He worked with surprising skill, easing the tension in your shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. But then his fingers brushed against the strap of your bra, and you heard him suck in a sharp breath.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice shaky. “I— I’m sorry, but—”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his uncertain gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Luke bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes flickering between your back and the mattress. “Your bra,” he mumbled, barely audible. “It’s kinda… in the way.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smirk at his hesitation. “So take it off,” you said simply, your voice soft yet firm.

Luke let out a small, choked sound, his ears turning crimson. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Luke,” you assured him, turning your head away again to give him permission.

You felt his hands tremble slightly as he reached for the clasp, carefully undoing it with a soft click. There was a strange, charged silence as he worked, as if both of you were hyperaware of the situation.

Awkwardly, you shimmied the straps off and tugged the bra free without exposing yourself, tossing it aside. The cool air against your skin made you shiver slightly, but Luke’s hands returned quickly, steady and warm.

“Better?” you asked quietly, your voice softer than before.

“Yea—yeah,” Luke murmured, pressing harder on your back.

The ache in your head was still there, but it had faded enough to be manageable. Luke's breathing had grown heavier, and his hands lingered a little longer as they moved over your skin. You could feel the press of his knee against your hip, and though you couldn't see him, you could picture the concentrated look on his face—the flush still painting his cheeks, the way his lips parted as he breathed.

A warmth began to build inside you, unexpected and entirely uninvited. It was startling to feel this way with a headache still dulling your senses, but given the circumstances—being half-naked with Luke's hands roaming your back—it wasn't entirely shocking.

That's when you remembered a little fun fact about orgasms relieving pain. A ridiculous idea briefly bloomed in your mind before you immediately shot it down. You focused instead on clinging to your composure, determined to let Luke finish the massage without letting your thoughts spiral any further.

But then he pressed on a particularly tense spot near your shoulder blade, and a soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Luke's hands stilled on your back instantly, his breathing audibly heavier. The air in the room seemed to shift, tension crackling in the silence.

Neither of you spoke, and just as you started to second-guess your reaction, Luke's hands began to move again. His touch was slower now, more deliberate, and the curiosity bubbling inside you became harder to ignore.

Deciding to test the waters, “Luke,” you let out a soft sigh with his name. “That feels good.”

His hands froze again, and you heard him exhale shakily. “Yeah?” he asked, his tone raw and breathless.

His fingers resumed their movements, but this time they dipped lower, brushing just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Mhm,” you hummed, letting your eyes flutter shut, fully aware of the effect you were having on him.

His hands hovered over the small of your back, and his touch grew more needy by the second. He seemed almost desperate, pressing down on the spots that had made you let out soft contented sighs as if he were searching for more.

Every time you gave in, let out little moans accompanied by his name, you could feel him begin to work harder— desperately doing anything to hear you sigh his name. It was undeniable now, the heat that pooled in your lower stomach as he continued.

“Lu,” you said softly. “I was thinking.”

Luke’s hands didn’t falter, nimble fingers working out the knots in your muscles. “About what?” his voice was strained with what you hoped was desire, tinged by the heavy breathing.

“Orgasms are known to be a pain reliever,” you turned back to face him, not missing the way his eyes widened. He was still blushing, and when your eyes took in the rest of him, you didn’t fail to notice the way he strained against his pants.

He didn’t reply, but you didn’t need him to. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” You asked breathlessly, biting your lip as you let your eyes linger on the tent in his own sweatpants.

Luke’s eyes followed your gaze, and he yanked his hands back to cover himself. “Y/N, oh my God, I am so sorry—“

Your throat went dry, watching as Luke scrambled to get away from you. You slid up from your position on your stomach, sitting on your knees as you reached for Luke’s hand. His eyes immediately flickered down to your exposed chest, and you gripped his wrist.

“Were you thinking about it, Luke?” You asked softly, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. “Were you thinking about touching me… making me come? Did all my little noises help your fantasies baby?”

Luke swallowed thickly, his gaze darting away before meeting yours again. “Fuck.”

You scooted closer to the edge of the bed, taking his hand. “When I took off my bra, I knew you got worked up. You wanted to see me, hmm?”

The way Luke’s eyes had glazed over was intoxicating, his eyebrows furrowing into an almost pained look as he nodded slowly. You took this as a sign to continue. “You wanted to touch me?”

Luke nodded.

“Say it baby,” you whispered.

Swallowing thickly, he nodded rapidly. “Fuck— yeah,” his breath hitched as you slowly moved his hand closer to your chest. Your heart beat rapidly as you met Luke’s gaze.

“Show me how you wanted to touch me,” you instructed, letting go of his wrist. His hand hovered over your breast, and Luke licked his lips before tentatively touching your skin. The second his fingers brushed against your soft flesh, he let out a strained moan, squeezing slightly, his fingers grazing over your nipple.

Your head fell back, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you guided Luke's other hand to your chest. His wide, blue eyes were heavy with desire as he gasped, “Fuck, Y/N, you're so hot.” His voice was laced with need. “Can I-?”

You nodded, and he didn't hesitate. Leaning down, he wrapped his lips around your hardened nipple, his groan muffled against your skin. The sensation sent a shiver through you, and you moaned his name as his tongue swirled expertly, teasing and soft.

Slowly, he lowered you onto the bed, his mouth switching to your other nipple while his fingers pinched and rolled the one he'd just left, making your back arch.

“You wanna help with my headache?” you teased, your voice breaking into soft moans.

Luke let out another muffled groan, his mouth never leaving your chest. “Make me come,” you added with a smirk, tugging gently at his curls.

That was all it took. A low, desperate sound left him as he pushed you back down onto the mattress, his large hands trembling as they roamed over your body with unrestrained hunger. “Please let me taste you,” he whimpered, his voice breaking into your collarbone as he kissed and sucked at the delicate skin, leaving marks with each pass of his mouth.

You gazed down at him, tugging harder on his curls and making him whimper against you. “Make this headache go away, baby boy,” you whispered, your words electrifying him. His reaction was instant—he slid your sweatpants down your legs with feverish urgency.

“I'm gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, almost incoherently, his breath hot against your skin. “Fuck, I'll make that headache go away, I swear.”

You watched, breathless, as he tugged your underwear down, leaving you completely exposed beneath him. His gaze was heavy with devotion and lust, and you let your head fall back against the pillow, commanding softly, “tease me a little.”

Luke whimpered at your words, his desperation palpable as he leaned down, dragging his tongue in a long, deliberate stripe along the inside of your thigh. The warmth of his mouth left goosebumps in its wake, your body trembling under his touch. When you looked down, his eyes were nearly black, pupils blown wide, glazed with arousal.

“Now kiss your way there,” you said, your voice a sultry encouragement that had him obeying immediately. His lips trailed reverent kisses across your folds and inner thighs, his breath fanning hotly against your skin. You could feel his restraint faltering, his need undeniable.

“Please,” he begged, looking up at you, his features twisted in desperation. “Please let me taste you. I-I need to.”

Your breath caught when you noticed one of his hands had drifted between his legs, palming himself through his sweats as he begged for permission. The sight made your stomach tighten with want. Without a word, you grabbed a fistful of his hair and guided his mouth to the aching heat between your legs.

Luke's lips wrapped around your clit, and the sensation was immediate and overwhelming. You let out a sharp moan, your back arching off the bed as his tongue worked against you with fervor. His muffled groans vibrated against your sensitive skin, and his eyes fluttered shut, as though he was savoring every second of having you like this.

You could hear Luke groaning against you, low and desperate as you writhed beneath him. His sounds were mainly muffled by your body, his tongue working on you eagerly and leaving you breathless. He gripped your tights, keeping them open for him as he worked.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” youcooed, your voice trembling as a moan escaped your lips. The praise spurred him on, his licks growing faster and more desperate. His shoulders shook with effort, and you could tell his hands weren't just idle —he was touching himself, his movements frantic, his muffled moans vibrating against you.

Luke's eyes fluttered open, locking with yours. His pupils were blown wide with lust, and the sight of his flushed face, lips slick and busy against you, made your breath hitch. He never broke contact, taking your clit into his mouth and sucking gently, the sensation so intense it sent tremors through your legs. His blush deepened, his hand moving even faster, completely lost in his desire to please you.

The sight of him like this—Luke, who always carried himself like he was larger than life, now utterly undone before you—sent a jolt of power and pleasure through you. His need, his complete surrender, was intoxicating. He whimpered against you, his hand wrapped around his cock as he devoured you, and it was a vision you never dared to let yourself dream of before.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to guide his movements. He let out a needy whine at the pull, his eyes fluttering closed as if your touch alone was enough to send him over the edge. His name fell from your lips in a breathless gasp as your back arched. ”That's it, baby,” you encouraged, your voice heavy with pleasure. “You're making me feel so good.”

Luke whimpered again, the sound shaky and desperate, his hips rocking against the bed as though he couldn't help himself. “You taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, muffled against you. “I can't—I need—�� His words dissolved into a whine as his tongue moved faster, his hand gripping your thighs as though he were afraid you might pull away.

You watched as Luke's other hand-—the one wrapped around himself-began moving faster, the desperation evident in every stroke. Your grip on his hair tightened, and you bit your lip as a low whine escaped your throat. Leaning back on one elbow, you adjusted to get a better view of him falling apart beneath you.

His free hand slid up to your chest, kneading the sensitive flesh feverishly as if he couldn't get enough of you. “Oh, fuck,” Luke moaned against you, his voice trembling with need.

“Y/N, fuck, l'm gonna—” His movements faltered momentarily, and then his entire body tensed. A long, muffled whine spilled from his lips as he buried his face between your legs, taking your clit into his mouth as though it were the only thing grounding him. You moaned, the sound mixing with his as you watched his eyes flutter shut, his body shivering under the intensity of his release.

Heat coiled deep in your belly at the sight of him—at the realization that he had been so consumed by pleasuring you that he couldn't even hold back. He had touched himself to the sheer thought of making you feel good, and that fact alone sent a thrill through you.

“Look at you,” you purred, your tone drenched in satisfaction. “Such a good boy for me, making a mess for mommy.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and electrifying. For a moment, Luke froze, his breath catching audibly in his throat. Then, with a deep, shuddering exhale, a broken whimper escaped his lips, his cheeks burning crimson as the flush spread down his neck. His body trembled, every muscle taut, as though the word had unraveled him entirely.

“Gonna make a mess out of you, mommy,” he whined, his lips latching on to your clit again. He worked tirelessly, licking and sucking at your skin. Your body vibrated with pleasure as you arched your back, letting out a crescendo of whimpers.

“You're doing so good, Lu,” you moaned, grinding your hips up against his mouth, desperate for more friction. Luke, catching on to your need, slid his hands up your thighs, steadying you before he slowly slipped a finger inside.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasped, the words spilling out before you could stop them. The stretch sent a shiver through your body, your legs trembling as your eyes fluttered shut. He curled his finger just right, hitting that perfect spot, the motion perfectly timed with the flicks of his tongue against your clit. The combination made your head spin, stars dancing behind your eyelids.

Luke seemed completely lost in you, his own eyes shut tight, savoring every sound and movement you made. His tongue worked you with precision, his devotion clear in every flick and stroke.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, and he let out a muffled groan against you. The vibration sent a new wave of pleasure through your body, making your back arch. “Just like that, baby,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Don't stop.”

“Never,” he groaned. “I wanna make you come, mommy.” His pace quickened, his finger curling in deeper as he added another one, making your entire body tense.

“Fuck, Luke,” you whimpered, tightening your grip in his hair as your hips continued to buck against him. Each time they did, he let out a small whimper. His tongue never faltered, though, swirling and flicking over your clit in ways that made your eyes shut tightly.

His free hand roamed your body, kneading at your hips and ass, exploring the length of your stomach and reaching up to your chest. When his fingers closed around your nipple, you couldn’t help but cry out.

Luke’s movements were desperate and needy, as if he were worshipping every inch of you. God— the sound she made. Each of his whimpers, the broken moans, the soft sound of his lips as they sucked at your clit or the flicks of his tongue, all drive you closer to the edge.

“Look at you,” you managed to get out, forcing your eyes open to meet Luke’s. “You’re such a good boy for me, such a good little toy for mommy.”

Luke’s eyelashes fluttered as he looked up at you, the look of his blissed out face almost sending you over the edge completely. He had beautiful lips, that was just a fact, but you didn’t know how much you’d enjoy the sight of them working on you— glistening with both you and his spit.

“You’re so good at this,” you praised, the tremor in your voice only proving your point. “Such a good boy, always making me feel so fucking good.”

His moan vibrated through you, and you felt him press harder against your core. His fingers picked up speed, creating a delicious friction that made the coil in your belly tighten, your breathing growing erratic.

“Oh baby, I’m so close,” you gasped, your own hand coming to play with your chest in an effort to facilitate your release. Your tights were trembling against his head, and he groaned in response. His tongue worked tirelessly, his fingers curling in just the right way. “Please don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You watched as Luke shook his head slightly, a muffled, “I won’t,” escaping his lips as he latched on to your clit yet again. This time, he sent you over the edge.

Your back arched with the force of your release, your legs shaking violently as a loud moan ripped from your throat. Your thighs clamped around Luke’s head, keeping him in place as you rode out your high. His hands held you firmly, savoring every bit of your release on his tongue.

As your breathing steadied and your body relaxed, Luke pressed a tender kiss to the inside of your thigh, his gaze shy as he looked up at you. “Did I do okay?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with vulnerability. “Is your headache gone?”

“Fuck,” you said, letting out a breathless laugh, tugging him up by his curls until his lips met yours. The kiss was messy and heated, and you could taste yourself on him as your fingers tightened in his hair. Luke let out a quiet groan, kissing you back feverishly, his hands sliding to your waist to pull you closer.

“Headache's gone,” you murmured against his lips, brushing a stray curl from his face. His cheeks were flushed, his gaze wide and filled with awe as he looked at you. “You did so well for me, baby. I'm proud of you.”

His lips curled into a bashful smile, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, peppering kisses along your skin. “I've had a crush on you for the longest time,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

A soft hum escaped you as your hands ran soothingly over his back. “I know,” you said simply, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows lifting in surprise. “You knew?”

You nodded, letting your palm rest against his cheek. “Of course, I did,” you replied gently. “How could I not? I can’t say I don’t feel the same way, especially when you're so eager to please and look the way you do. But it's more than that, Luke. It's you—just you.”

The blush that spread across his face was endearing, painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears a deep pink. He bit his lip and let out a soft, nervous giggle, his eyes briefly darting away before coming back to yours.

Your gaze shifted downward, and the sight of him still painfully hard stirred a pang of sympathy-and desire-in you. Leaning closer, you brushed your lips against his ear, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Tell you what,” you murmured, trailing your fingers lightly down his chest. “You were such a good boy for me, Luke. When we come back later, how about we take care of that little problem you've got between your legs? What do you say, baby?”

His breath hitched, and he let out a small, needy whimper, nodding eagerly. “Y—Yes, please,” he stammered, his voice trembling with anticipation.

You smiled, kissing him again. “Good.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

hope u enjoyed 😁🫶 might make a pt 2 to this using another request but idk

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neonshadows9000 · 8 months ago

Text

Two tropes I love are TimKon Clone Baby AUs and Tim being of Asian descent, so what if we combine them?

In his grief induced, sleep deprived spiral Tim manages to produce a viable embryo and conks out right after confirming that it has no detectable defects and will not terminate if he takes his eyes off it.

When he wakes up he realizes how fucked up this whole situation is but by then accelerated aging has already grown the child to be visible with the naked eye and Tim can't bring himself to abort it despite the moral concerns and ramifications of keeping it. It's not Kon, he knows that, but it's the closest he has to him so he decides to let incubation progress and deal with the consequences.

He stops the accelerated growing to give himself more time organising how he's going to mange this and so he can tell the relevant people beforehand instead of just turning up with a child. But then Bruce dies, or so everyone thinks, and Tim leaves to get him back himself when it becomes clear that he can't rely on anyone to help.

His search for Bruce works on a different time schedule driven by desparation and recklessness because he needs to get back to the child as fast as humanly possible. This causes him to take more risks and be less forgiving in his actions and he manages to gather enough evidence sooner. He sends the information to the JL and makes sure to prevent Ra's from continuing the fight in Gotham before getting the kid and dropping off the grid, letting everyone else make their own assumptions on what happened to him. Their actions when he confided in them about his theory had shown him that he can't trust them anymore, so he leaves.

He rushes to prepare his departure with the now born baby and leaves for his mother's childhood home in the Philippines. He'd visited it a few times with his mother and once with Kon but nobody else knows about it. (What Tim doesn't know is that in his haste to disappear he forgot to erase the simplest thing.)

Tim raises the child there, learning more about his own heritage and meeting estranged family members along the way.

He's using tech to disguise himself, appearance and biosignatures, from both the Justice League and the remains of Ra's empire, with Tam and Pru keeping him up to date on significant happenings respectively.

Meanwhile Dick has been worrying about Tim, which is only amplified when Bruce comes back and Tim doesn't, when Bruce asks about him and Dick doesn't have an answer, when Kon and Bart return with grandiose tales of the future to no best friend to tell them to.

Bruce starts searching for Tim during his recovery and Cassie catches Kon and Bart up to everything that happened between their deaths and Tim's disappearance.

They notice she's holding back on telling them something and she reluctantly shares how she caught him trying to clone Kon. Kon, overwhelmed and disturbed by the news, leaves them to process by himself. When he's calmed down and rationalised that he doesn't have the whole story, since Tim isn't here to tell it, he goes to the lab to look for... anything, really. A notebook, a diary, something that can tell him what Tim was thinking.

He finds the lab empty, all notes and cloning equipment destroyed. But on the computer he finds evidence that Tim was here after he disappeared, and that the cloning was successful.

So Kon is sure that Tim is out there, that he's with a child and that he went of his own accord. Where would Tim go, avoiding everyone that would search for him? That could be anywhere!

But does the child, his child, change his decision making? Kon can think of one place, far enough to not raise unwelcome memories of what he's leaving behind, sentimental enough to want to introduce his child to and secret enough that only one other living person knows about it. Or no other, considering that Tim was gone before he could find out that Kon's alive from anyone in the community and the news isn't public yet.

Kon flies to the home Tim had shown him once and finds it lived in. Toys and food and clothes and pictures all over the place. But no Tim and no baby. So Kon waits.

Tim comes back a few hours later, child in tow, from visiting his great aunt and uncle who he has started visiting regularly to learn about his family's history and share about his and his mother's lives in America. They're slowly starting to not need his cousins to translate anymore as Tim is learning enough Filipino to make up for their limited English.

The sight that greets Tim when he rounds corner is Kon tracing the pictures that Tim has taken and hung up since moving here.

Tim bursts into tears as he sees Kon, who himself startles, at Tim's entrance. They have a long, tearful reunion before Kon asks about the kid and Tim explains everything.

In the end Kon isn't happy about what happened but he sees the difference in how Clark and Luthor treat him to how Tim loves the child. He sees how Tim regrets hurting Kon with his actions and how what he did was not out of greed but out of grief.

Kon visits often after that, getting introduced to Tim's extended family and Tam and Pru. He eventually brings up letting other people know and Tim's apprehensive but lets Kon bring Bart the next time. Bart who is ecstatic at being an uncle and will definitely spoil the kid rotten. Together they manage to convince Tim to give telling other people a try, not necessarily about the kid or his location but at least that he's alive.

So Tim starts video calls with Bruce and Dick and Cassie, telling them that he's fine but that he won't come home, talking about what happened and how each of them hurt because of it. Eventually he'll let Kon take him for a visit in person. Eventually he'll tell them about his son, scared and hopeful, and they'll tell him that they'd love to meet him. Eventually he introduces them and watches everyone coo and baby talk to him.

Eventually Tim's anxiety about seeing them will turn into excitement and his son will grow up knowing his family in the Philippines and his family in America.

#tim drake #dcu #batfam #red robin #conner kent #kon el #timkon clone baby au #could be romantic or platonic #in my heart they're in love #bruce wayne #dick grayson #asian american tim drake #cloning #heritage #filipino tim drake #it would be really cool if somebody who knows about filipino culture wrote this and made the parts with Janet's side of the family authenti

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terminal-descent-station-2 · 2 months ago

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One of the ships I guided in today had a massive hydrogen booster and they fucking SENT IT past my station. If there was an atmosphere out here I'm fairly certain it would have shaken my porthole.

Oh yeah, big fire decals on the side too.

#writing #terminal descent station 2 #ask me anything #space #spacecraft

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2222bad · 1 month ago

Text

WHO’S AFRAID OF DIANA ROSS?

[a terrible dream reawakens a heartbreaking reality] | 1.9k words

WARNINGS: infidelity , mentions of sex , angst , :((((

[1986]

the jet lag hit you before the sun could. your private car back to your address was air conditioned and tinted. you could barely make out the images blurring by you outside as you rode back to encino, a ride much faster than you’d remembered it ever being. you weren’t complaining, though. you wanted to see michael as soon as you could.

“beats england any day, huh?” your driver jokes with a grand smile back at you.

you don’t question how he knows you flew in from gatwick. it was probably the terminal number that gave it away. maybe it was the raincoat slung over your briefcase. you were wearing it, but necessity caused for it to be stripped as soon as you landed. the weather forecast predicted a damningly hot day ahead, but, strangely, you didn’t feel it on account of your high spirits.

“that’s right,” you say with a smile that said ‘it’s good to be home.’

within a blink it seemed, your car left you on lindley stood in front of michael’s tucked away apartment. dangling keys in hand, your feet floated to the unit door. you were quiet, you knew you had to be to surprise him. you screwed the key aside at a snail’s pace, your nose inches away from the lock to keep an eye on it, being careful not to make any noise.

inside it was like your bags soared from your hands. there was no burden in your shoulders. and… nothing in the apartment. well, save for the basic things you remembered. but there were no throw pillows, no discarded mail, no empty glasses you’d have to clear from the coffee table. and it looked foggy inside. like a photograph. a grainy pause in time like there’d been no exposure or sunlight. his voicemail box was gone, too. there wasn’t a message of his coming or going.

maybe he left a note?

then, someone giggled his name. that someone wasn’t you. a jagged lump caught your eye in the hall as your eyes flickered past the front room. again, your feet floated to the spot before you could blink. a pair of dark heels: kicked off. your ears tuned to a low, underwater sound: a moan.

you crept closer to the sound despite the feel of your heartbeat pressing in your backside. your body and mind went separate. you weren’t sure where the severe had began, but it was stark. a better you would have thrown yourself out of there and ran until your legs burned out, but this wasn’t that you.

a convenient sliver of light cast itself in the hallway. you stood there, peering into the crease. the door was one you knew well. on the other side of it was the man you thought you knew well. you caught a glimpse of movement. a rotation of legs like two king cobras yet to be defanged.

you blink.

suddenly, the door was open. and there she was.

diana.

diana in a way you never wished to see.

michael reacts. his eyes were wider than ever.

diana scrambles to robe herself, rubs the smudges of lipstick from her face.

if you could see your heart then, you’d know it was burned. the ashes caught up in your throat when you breathed. infected every bit of you like a wildfire’s descent. but, strangely, you didn’t cry. you didn’t sputter. or shout. you just watched michael, covered by a sheet on his footboard. cowardly with his head down.

“how long?” your voice speaks. calm, precise. as if nothing was wrong at all.

your ring finger feels like a swelling. you’d never been more aware of that rock tied around it. besides, of course, the beautiful day on which he gave it to you. all of those beautiful moments…tarnished in one fell swoop.

when he doesn’t answer, you push closer. your feet dont float this time, they storm.

“how many fucking months, michael?!” you scream, the tears in your eyes daring to quiver over the ducts. to break the dam like you wished to break everything around you. “huh?! the whole time?!”

diana is stunned and remarkably muted. as is michael, whose lip quivers something awful. his hands quake in the face of the wrath.

“eight months…” he says, his eyes dodging you like the fists of street fighters in a brawl. he looks to diana, holds her eyes like he did yours once. the way he could just…

it was all you needed. you nearly ripped your finger off removing that ring.

“couldn’t wait until i was gone, huh,” you mumble to yourself like a madman. “couldn’t wait.”

your heart took over your body. the heat was unbearable now.

when the ring left your hand, it ricocheted off michael’s flinching arm with a pointed thud. he was curled up, covering his head and heaving.

you were gone before he could say anything else. you weren’t sure if he did. or if he would. in the moment you didn’t care. you had no bags, felt no sunshine, felt no love. just your pounding heart and the tears in your eyes that, somehow, wouldn’t fall.

you body jerks up. you find yourself in a mess of sheets. a dream. yes! clutching yourself, feeling your dampened skin, feeling how real it was, you sob. with your head in your hands the tears came viciously. you thought they’d never stop. not even to catch your breath of ash, so suffocating and horrible.

your quivering hand falls next to you and feels in the silence. he’s not there. michael’s not there.

sailing across the second floor, your feet are crisp on the ground. you rush to the stairs, your body aching. with a white knuckle to the banister, you hear sounds again. giggling—talking downstairs. your knees nearly give. he wouldn’t. he wouldn’t while you were upstairs in bed? he wouldn’t. but did you even know that for sure?

you had to. you had to know.

coming closer to the commotion, shadows cast themselves on the wall. two heads. the voices fizzle into background chatter, their words indiscernible. then michael’s voice soars over, his giggle ripe and excited. his shadow’s head goes back. but now you can only see the one. you start to ease a little.

curling into the room, you move like a worried child. you hold yourself tight, afraid of what you might see.

but it’s just him, laughing at pee wee’s playhouse.

“hi, sleepyhead!” he grins in the way that always made you want to run into his arms, nestle there and stay forever. “wanna watch with me? it’s just the reruns, i promise. i’m not watching without you.”

you paddle over through your fog, a frown placed where your sweetness usually laid. you curled up with him anyway, his body was warm and soft. like the most perfect teddy bear. hard to be deceiving.

“must’ve been real tired, huh?” he squeezes you close and kisses you affectionately on the head.

when you don’t even give a huff of a reply, he pauses and turns off the tv with the remote control by his leg on the couch.

“you alright?”

on the coffee table, your stoic stare glares back at you. a daunting pose on the cover of vogue italy that your agent dutifully mailed to him before it was published and pressed. the light reflects against the plastic that he didn’t even bother to take off.

“i had a dream…” you mumble into the embrace. he waits for you, his breath steady in his lungs. “about the condo…”

you feel him readjust his body, his hands finding new places to hold you that feel awkward and forced.

“in encino?” he wonders softly. you can tell the look on his face is one full of questioning. like the slow tread in a lion’s den.

you nod, but your head feels like it’s full of lead that your neck can’t hold.

“that’s funny,” he says. it’s all he says. you both know he hasn’t lived there in years. not since you two were married, and especially not since you left california for work. eight months ago…

you look up at him. he looks back at you, his composure remarkably kept. his hand cradles the back of your head, whispers of comfort pool from his fingers.

“do you love me?” you whisper, your felt eyes bright with the light of doubt.

he answers with a smile that took him no hesitation to find, “of course i love you. im crazy about you.”

“do you really?”

“yes.” he laughs, the sound full of breath.

“are you seeing her?” you ask, just to try. to poke this soft thing you knew to be your lawfully wedded. he didn’t answer, unsure how to. his body became fragile, like glass. but your eyes began to glare. you would break through it. “are…you seeing her?”

“n-no,” he says and evades your eyes. his heart now beat through his skin.

there was a crack in your walls, not the physical, but the wall inside you’d built this foundation of love on. it went from your stomach, sinking, to your chest, shocked, to your face that gathered heat from your throat and burned upward into a look of pure grief. denial, pain.

he feels you pull away from him, slowly backing off the couch like you just had the realization that somebody had placed a sleeping viper on the cushions.

“baby,” he tries, reaching out his arm to you, “baby, i—i love you.”

“don’t.” you shove your finger at him, shaking. inside of you pours out a bloodcurdling shout. covering your face with your hands, you tear away. bumping into the wall, into the staircase, into the bedroom as michael’s footsteps chase after you to no avail.

your clothes flew from the hangers in the closet, your important jewelry from their precious case, your photographs from the nightstand. you stuffed the empty luggage with all you could fit.

“baby, talk to me. please, talk to me. come on. stay with me!”

he wraps his arms around you, his hands begging. you feel his head on your spine, his fingers dig into your shirt.

“let me go, michael.”

“it was just one time.” his pleading came rapidly as you fling him off of you like a flea on a dog. “i—i was weak, i was foolish. we can work this out, can’t we? baby?”

burden weighed down your shoulders as you grip your bags with a stunning conviction. you looked as stern as an army man.

“where you goin’?” michael says, trying to make himself big as his frame blocked the bedroom door.

“move out of my goddamn way!”

all grace in you was gone. all the apologies or gold in the world couldn’t make up for the tear that sat in your heart.

he hesitates, seeing the burning in your eyes, he just about falls to his knees. his body full of sorrow, he throws himself away from the doorway. he doesn’t move for a while as you storm off, thinking he knew better to just let you be. but the tumbles of heavy bags down the stairs made him jump. his hands were on the banister before he could even think.

“it was a mistake, i’d take it all back if i could!” he cries. you were at the bottom of the staircase, bags recovered in your hands. “i-i love you.”

“how many times did i ask you?!” you rage, tear-stained cheeks glistening under the grand chandelier above. “how many times did you lie and say you didn’t want anything to do with her?”

he stands there, frozen in space.

“screw you!” you spit up at him, glaring and hard. “screw you for wasting five years of my life when all i did was love you!”

out the door, you tug the ring from your finger and figure he’ll find it glistening on the lawn tomorrow when the sun evaporates the dew.

until then, you’d walk until your legs burned out.

request by @melodyyybubbles <333333333

IM SORRY TO BREAK HEARTS

#NOOO shade to diana with this just wanna make that clear #the title is in reference to the edward albee play #which describes a state in which you have no other choice but to face the reality you fear #also the nursery rhyme ‘who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?’#thank you so so much as always :)#michael jackson x reader #applehead #moonwalker #michael jackson oneshot #era: thriller

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forsaken-headcanons · 4 days ago

Note

Not me coming up with ANOTHER Forsaken AU-

I’ll try not to make this too long (because the last ask I sent was wayyy too long lmao. Sorry again!) but I had ideas for a superhero-style AU called Heroes and Hackers. It’s kinda hard to call it a Forsaken AU since it doesn’t take place in the Spectre’s realm, but the characters are all from Forsaken, so I think we’re good.

TLDR: Some Robloxians spawn with the ability to use commands. You can learn them to an extent, but not to the extent of those born with them. Admins are essentially superheroes; using their powers to stop hackers whenever they arise to cause chaos. To keep themselves and their families safe, admins have costumes they wear when they’re doing hero stuff, and the same goes for the hackers.

And now, onto some important characters!

John Shedletsky; Builderman’s right hand man, and leader of the admins. When disguised, he goes by Telamon. He’s just a chill guy, only really taking his admin job seriously. Alongside his powers coming naturally, he also spawned with angelic features like feathers and multiple sets of wings. These only really come out when he’s Telamon, but hey. It improves the disguise.

David Builderman. CEO of Roblox, and a secret assistant to the admins. You know that one guy in a dark room watching a bunch of screens? That’s him. Codename: HQ. He might not assist the admins directly, but he helps them when he can.

Owen Biwone; a shy intern currently shadowing under Shedletsky at Roblox HQ. He quickly grew tired of the admins only focusing on hackers and not improving the city. Owen reasoned that if the admins only payed attention to hackers, then he’d pretend to be one. He stole an ‘unlisted’ domino crown, wearing it to become 1x1. At first, his ‘evil schemes’ were just ploys to get the admins to focus on shoddy infrastructure and whatnot, but the more he wore the crown, the more it corrupted his thoughts and actions. Like a weird mix of Adventure Time’s Ice King and the Green Goblin. No one really questioned Owen’s slow descent into bitterness and hatred. I’m sure that won’t come back to bite them…

Wilson Kidde; just your average overworked single father. ??? was born with the ability to use commands, but kept these talents concealed for most of his life. Sadly, the jig was up when his (biological in this AU) son, Colin, would be born with these powers too. Colin caused chaos, and thus ??? struggled to find employment. He was driven to take up a hacker persona as 007n7 just to put food on the table. Poor guy…

John and Jane Doe; both ex-employees of Roblox HQ. The higher ups (not Builderman) were harsh on John because he preferred to use outdated methods to update and write code, eventually ending in his termination. Jane quit as an act of defiance, and the two of them promised to move on from this and to look for greener pastures elsewhere. Jane was fine…but John wasn’t. He wanted revenge. But there wasn’t much he could do without powers. So, he tried to give himself powers. He broke into Roblox HQ to steal their old, unused code. It worked, but it turned him into a mindless monster…

Jane now assists the admins as a vigilante, hoping to find a cure for her husband’s condition in the progress.

….aaand this was still long. Oops….

THIS IS SO GOOD WHAT?? hey. d. drako.hey. puts our hand on your shoulder. hey. sighs. enough with the peak already. okay /j /j /j

the concept for 1x1x1x1 and 007n7.,,/., shjaking them around. oh how dare you. oh. ohw how. dar e yuo /silly. the idea of powers being admin commands is so sick tho... yoinking that huehue

#forsaken headcanons #forsaken #forsaken roblox #roblox forsaken #shedletsky forsaken #builderman forsaken #1x1x1x1 forsaken #007n7 forsaken #c00lkidd forsaken #john doe forsaken #jane doe forsaken #mod c00lkidd‼️‼️

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treatmelikeasmut · 2 months ago

Text

Redemption of the Herald

MASTER LIST

PAIRING: Viktor x GN!Reader|| Isekai/Modern!AU

CW: Light season 2 spoilers

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've had this floating around in my brain for a while. I finally starting writing it at 5:30 this morning. Reincarnation is an AU I go back to a lot, so it was only a matter of time before I wrote one.

LISTEN ALONG [YouTube]

~*~*~

There was silence as the final credits rolled on the last episode of Arcane. You both just stared at the screen. A digestion of information. A silent understanding. A reckoning and acceptance of reality.

“It is strange,” Viktor started, his voice startling you out of your stupor. “Watching your descent to madness from the outside like this. A truly humbling experience.”

“You said it was…different in the other universe,” you recalled.

Viktor leaned back against the wall. You both were sat on your bed, watching Arcane in a long marathon. He had finally got up the courage, and you were there to help him process the information. You’d already done a deep dive into the lore of League of Legends, trying to scrape together anything you could.

“Not as much as I thought.” He shook his head. “There are a few things, of course. And there are parts of my life you did not witness, for narrative sake. This is not the descent of the Herald, afterall. Then, of course, there is the fact that you graced my life. And this Viktor, he was not so fortunate.”

You met his eyes, which struck you everytime, a jolt straight through you like lightning. It was so strange to have him here, in your space. For him to be real. His long hair tied back, falling out of the bun. But his features were just as sharp. His stature long and lithe. Those unforgetable liquid eyes that just didn’t exist outside of stories. Yet were watching you now as the result of some twisted isekai.

“Here,” continued Viktor, “I do not have such terminal illness. Only the deformity of my leg, which I have long been accustomed to. - I am much the man I was in the first act of the first season. Before…”

Viktor turned his face from you, shoulders rigid. He’d been carrying a lot of guilt, that much he’d told you.

He drew in a deep breath. “I’m still not exactly all I would’ve liked to have been. But I am better than the fate that befell me - us. The one that brought you here to begin with.”

Viktor turned back to you then, reaching out his hand. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek. It was like he had to keep checking you were real just as often as you did with him. He’d hardly been able to stop touching you since the first moment you met.

Jayce had rearended you with Viktor in the car. The look in his eyes when he first saw you - there were no words for it. Viktor told you later he had to get back in the car because he started tearing up. He was so sure it was just coincedence that you looked the way you did. Until you exchanged information with Jayce, for insurance reasons (even if neither of them had any idea about how insurance worked at the time). When he saw your name, he knew without a doubt.

You had make a joke about how they looked like their Arcane counterparts. Neither of them had heard of it, which initally surprised you. Now it made perfect sense why they hadn’t. You never would’ve thought getting rearended would lead to the biggest plot twist of your life.

“Why do you think you remember but I don’t?” you asked. There had been a few inklings, tingles of memories - voices, smells, colors, sometimes faces. But a solid one had not yet come back. “Is there a way to bring the memories back?”

Viktor frowned. “I am not sure. - Do you truly wish them back? They are not all good, especially toward the end. I was not the same man you fell in love with, and very different then the one that sits before you now.”

“You and I - we had a life together. There must be a reason I look the same, why we were brought back, why you found me.”

You wanted so desperately to remember. Viktor carried the memories like a burden. Like a scarlet letter. You found it so unfair that nothing had wriggled out yet. Your memories were just far away dreams, forgotten on the edge of sleep. You wanted to remember everything - the good, the bad, and the ugly. To know who you used to be.

“Perhaps it is so we may have another chance. No magic aside from the scarce remnants I carry. No hextech.” Viktor paused, staring out the window. “This world is different than ours was. There is no Zaun, no Piltover. No shimmer, though there are a great many substances just as harmful. I have learned the lesson that road leads to. At the very least, it brought me back to you. Of which, I am grateful.”

You moved closer, scooching until your shoulders touched. The warm sense of comfort and familiarity startled you every time. “Will you tell me about it?”

“I -” Viktor searched your face, then sighed and sagged against you. “Very well, take us back to the first.”

Doing as he asked, you scrolled back to the first episode of season one. He insisted on watching every bit, even playing the opening and sitting through all the credits for each episode. Maybe he was digesting it. It couldn’t be easy, seeing an alternative version of your life that was so scary close to your own.

“Now I only know these things from the little I could find in Vander’s mind,” Viktor started, “but this is all very much true. The girls lost their parents, and were taken in by him. He lead the rebellion against Piltover and many paid the price for it. I believe much of the foundation was the same. Again, I cannot speak for this part of it. Only my own role.”

You watched as Powder and Vi escaped with their brothers from Jayce’s decimated apartment. Viktor nodded. The first episode’s credits ran, then the second started. You watched the first meeting of Jayce and Viktor.

“And this?” you asked.

“Our Heimerdinger had the same arguments and reservations. However, he was less cautious. We had banter, a thought experiment about what hextech would mean. How we would do it. In the end, the conclusion was the same - that all of Jayce's things were to be confiscated and he jailed. I stole the book. Things went very much the same, until…”

“Until?”

“You were there with Mel that night. You helped us in our efforts to prove what hextech could do. In fact, I very much doubt that we could’ve done it without you in our world.”

You shrugged. “I doubt I did that much.”

“You, darling, were instrumental to our success. Don’t ever doubt.”

You continued to watch. There were some parts that Viktor frowned deeply at. Other parts he scoffed and rolled his eyes. He’d already expressed that your relationship had started during the timeskip. In those five years that were there and gone in a single episode. The happiest years of his life, he said, because of you. Then came the episode you had dreaded rewatching. Viktor paused and rewatched the scene where he collapsed three times. A hand going to his chest.

“I will never be able to unhear the sounds of your sobs, no matter how many universes we end up in,” he whispered, “I was hardly conscious but I could hear you, wailing as if you could see the future. As if you were grieving for every possible instance of our life together. Jayce tried to help, to calm you. But you were positively inconsolable. I don’t think you knew I could hear you. You put on a brave face when I finally regained full awareness, and never took it off until the end.”

Viktor’s bottom lip quivered. He swallowed, breath shaking. You gently took his hand. It seemed to pull him out of that far away place.

“We aren’t there anymore,” you reminded him softly. He squeezed your hand and cleared his throat.

“We worked,” Viktor continued, voice rough now. “There is so much in this time gap that you do not see. So many things that were not even a possibility here. I cannot tell you them all.”

“Can you give me an overview?”

“How can I tell you a lifetime's worth of memories?” Viktor chuckled, “We laughed, we argued, we fucked on the work table until the sun came up, which Jayce walked in on more than once. We screamed and cried and loved, and worked ourselves to the bone. In the end, it wasn't enough. The rocket still came, I still died, and you and Jayce put me in the hexcore. I still became the Machine Herald. I was the villain, at the end, but worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man you see here is tame. He thought about what he was doing, how he could change things. But I came back angry. I ripped through Piltover and Zaun like a wildfire. That colony that you see in Arcane, that is but a sample of the havoc I wrought. I thought I could not be opposed. And that, were I to be, I would consume them. Make them part of the evolution, whether they wanted it or not.” Shame was etched into Viktor’s face. He covered it with his hands. “I know now how foolish it was. How power hungry I became. A vengeful god, and you paid the price. It was you who gotten taken into the hexcore. Who broke your leg, spent gods know how long alone and scared. Jayce got sent elsewhere, suffered another kind of torture, and he saw this…thing that I’d become. You worked together to end me. But you were the one absorbed into whatever was left of me after. I suppose Jayce must've been too, though I don’t remember.”

“Do you think that’s why the three of us are here? We got absorbed then slingshotted somewhere?”

Viktor uncovered his face. “Perhaps.”

“But why here?”

Viktor leaned into you. “In the end, as we were swept away into the cosmos, all I could think of was the things we had not been able to have. The people we weren’t able to be. How happy I was that you were there and how I wanted to stay with you always. How much I wanted to redeem myself in your eyes. - So perhaps this was the answer to my anguish. My redemption. A different life, another chance. Jayce woke up the sole heir to a tool company empire. He had no recollection of any of this new life. I was his roommate in college, apparently. I’m not sure if I truly lived that life and, when the awakening happened, I forgot about it. Or if we took the lives of other people. I am glad to see you, at least, got to live a full life.”

Silence stretched between you as you digested this information. You chewed it over, like fat off a steak. So things really were that different where you’d come from. Perhaps it was better that Arcane was just a show to you. But would it always be? It was all so big, so may possibilities.

“How long do you think we’ll have? Will this happen again?” you rushed, the existentialism of it all washing over you. “When we die will we be sent to a new world, forced to live new lives -”

Viktor wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. His familiar scent calmed you immediately. It was so strange that your body reacted like you were already in love. Like Viktor was the safest person in the world who brought you the most comfort. You could see yourself falling in love with him in this life too, in fact, you already were.

Just a month ago, you had been a different person. With a different life. Now a man you’d thought only to be fictional was real. And he was yours, right down to his core. How strange a concept was that? What sort of fate had been designed for you?

“We will have a lifetime or more,” Viktor said, “I’m not sure how this will work. If we get this life together, then we have to find each other again in the next one. Or if this will be a repeating cycle. Where it is I who has to find you as penanace. I’m fine with anything. I’ll find you, no matter what it takes or where we go. - Would you mind?”

You sat up just enough to look at him. “Would I mind what?”

“Would you mind if I chased you?” Viktor leaned his forehead to yours, and your heart gave a little flip. “What is it that the fandom says? - Every universe, every timeline?”

“Something along those lines,” you chuckled, “I think I’d like that.”

~*~*~

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