just come over and bite me : ashveil x puppy!reader
cw: nsfw, pet play-ish, extensive use of "puppy", mean-ish!ashevil, implied to be reader's boss, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), clit play, nipple play, biting (its ashveil duh.), overstimulation
Ashveil's prosthetic hand is cold against your bare skin. The freezer he sleeps in usually manages to seep its icy air into his skin. You hate the feeling, drawing goosebumps up your skin. You rouse from your sleep, whining. You turn onto your side, curling into yourself as you try to evade the cold. Ashveil leans in, nosing your ear.
"You whine like a puppy." He jokes, slipping under the covers beside you. You weakly push at his form, but he circles your wrist, keeping you close. His lips find your temple, peppering kisses along the skin.
"Too early…" You respond, eyes screwed shut. Ashveil chuckles, kissing your knuckles. It's nearly eleven o'clock, the day has far since begun, yet you're still tangled in the sheets. Your hand splays against his form-fitted shirt, dragging it down his torso.
Ashveil lets you touch him, laying on his back as you partially lay on him. You find a warm spot in his neck, nuzzling into his body. His hands are so cold, you remark under your breath. Despite that, he places them on the backs of your thighs.
He drags your legs around his hips, allowing you properly rest on his body. He tucks his frigid fingers into the crease behind your knees.
"It's nice and warm here." Ashveil hums, kissing your cheeks. You fight against him, trying to slip away. Ashveil holds you onto him, rolling you under his body. You've flipped positions now, stuck under his oppressive weight.
Finally, you let your eyes flutter open. After blinking a few times, you can see somewhat clearly. Ashveil smiles at you, kissing down your exposed torso. You whine at his touch, drawing your knees up. However, that only lets him slip into a more provocative position.
His lips linger near your navel, gently rolling down the waistband of your shorts. From one hip to another, Ashveil presses kisses and soft bites into your skin.
"Maybe you are a puppy." He chuckles, watching your hips raise into his touch. You shake your head, fingers tangling through his inky, indigo strands. You don't have the energy to defend yourself, not when you're so exhausted and his touch feels nice.
Your brain grows fuzzy, body warming with his touch. Ashveil hears your soft pants and moans, drawing his attention to the plush of your thighs.
"You should wake up, puppy." He mumbles, canines brushing your skin. Ashveil debates letting them sink into your flesh, but that would be too cruel. Especially when you're spaced out and your brain is blurred. He settles for suckling on the skin, leaving a small mark.
You shake your head, complaining as you try to shift onto your side. Ashveil keeps your hips pinned, kissing your skin.
"Don't wanna… It's warm here." You rasp, cheek pressed into the pillows. Your hairs a mess, splayed around the sheets. You keep shaking your head until Ashveil slides up your body, holding the back of your neck.
"You'll pull a muscle like that, calm down. I won't drag you out of bed." He presses a kiss to your lips. You moan in reply, arms lazily coiling around his neck. You pull him closer, wanting to be encased by him. His nose finds your ears again, gently nipping the lobe.
"All you do is bite." You scoff, but there's no bite to your voice. Ashveil smiles, kissing down your neck. You find his hand that's massaging your waist, dragging it lower. Ashveil hums in understanding, letting his fingers slip past your waistband.
"Here?" He says, pressing at your navel. You shake your head, guiding him under your panties. "Ah. Someone's needy." He chuckles under his breath, guiding your lips to his mouth. You don't deny it, drawing your knees up again.
"Want you," You sigh into his mouth, letting his tongue glide against your own.
"I know, puppy." Ashveil's hand finds the plush of your sex, fingers gliding against your wet slit. You melt into his touch, hips pushing into him. Ashveil teases you, fingers lightly exploring the area, but never dipping in.
"Please?" You breath against his ear, fingering tangling into his strands. Ashveil hums in return, greedily demanding a kiss. You gleefully give into his whims, slotting your lips against his. Your hips rut into his hand, feeling his fingers gently slide between your folds once more.
Finally you're given reprieve, Ashveil pushing a single digit into your entrance. Your moans muffles against his tongue, saliva dripping out the edges. The older man enjoys watching you like this— Your brain so muffled with need you take anything he gives you.
It's slightly cruel, but he rewards you in the end. That's what matters anyway. Ashveil coos, using his free hand to squish your cheeks together. His thumb catches the drool, pushing it back into your mouth.
"Cute puppy. So needy for me, hm?" His voice looms in your head, barely making it through the buzz. You nod, feeling his finger work inside you. He curls the digit, prodding into your upper walls before pressing yet another beside it.
You moan into his neck, engulfed in his scent and touch. It's overwhelming, hips jutting into his palm. Ashveil finds it amusing, his hand coming behind to grasp the back of your neck. If you were truly his puppy, perhaps he would spoil you with toys and the best treats. Constantly petting your head, scratching behind your ears, and coo at your faux bites.
Your knees press around his forearm, whining at the sensation. Your arms come up to fluff up the bottom of his hair, scratching at his neck. He clicks his tongue, moving your hands.
"Play nice, puppy. And I might just reward you." Your face perks up hearing your favorite word. Ashveil holds back an endearing scoff. He presses another kiss to your lips, rolling onto his back. He pats his thighs, watching you tremble with need as you climb on top of him.
This time, he fully removes your bottoms and underwear. You make quick work for your shirt, grinding yourself on his thigh. Ashveil watches from below, enjoying the sight of your head falling down as your lips whistle whines.
His hand rests on your hip, gently aiding in your endeavor. He runs his right hand up the center of your torso, the sheer iciness of his prosthetic makes your skin crawl. You let out a whimper, feeling him wrap his hand around the base of your head.
He sits up, pulling you close as your hands claw at his shoulders. All the while, your hips continue to gyrate on his thigh, desperate for release. Your bottom lip juts into a soft pout, whining and pawing at his chest.
"M-Mister Ashveil…" You cry out, tucking your face into his neck. His hand runs over your chest, pinching your nipple between the sides of his fingers. Your clit runs over the material of his pants, jerking and shaking.
"Easy, puppy. Your impatience will get you nowhere." Ashveil's hands rest back at your hips, slowly drawing your hips back and forth up his thighs. "Like this. Nice and slow so you can feel it properly."
Ashveil feels you trembling, clutching onto him like a life line. He's lived many millennia, seen first hand how every generation that passes becomes ever more impatient. You are no exception— Impatient and demanding.
However, Ashveil is far more impatient than you. He desires to sink his teeth into your flesh, bite and gnaw at you until you're thrashing under his teeth. Yet, he has self control. Compared to beasts like himself, you're skin is more fragile, soft. It would hurt you deeply, so Ashveil contains himself.
Instead, he's sufficed with small nibbles and playful bites. You seek to enjoy them anyway, growing tighter around him when he bites you. Specifically the junction where your neck and shoulders meet. He can feel your heart racing, thrumming against your chest the harder he bites.
You like the uncertainty, the cotton that fills your mind when the pain is coupled with pleasure. Especially when it's Ashveil pleasuring you. His teeth in your bottom lip mixed with his thumb at your clit, or his mouth torturing your nipples while you lay, pressed below him.
You enjoy the pain, the realization makes Ashveil's mind hazy.
Ashveil digs his nails into your hips, squeezing the flesh under him. Your clit rolls against his thighs, your calves straining to keep yourself up. Your hips stammer, body processing the pain. It shocks your system, undetermined if you dislike it or not. But Ashveil can tell. Your sex clenches around nothing, desperate to feel something inside of you.
"Mister Ashveil!" You cry out, peeking out from his neck. He hums quietly, eyes blooming with lust. Your knees dig into the sheets as you curl into him, desperate for warmth and touch. Ashveil raises you slightly, just enough for his palm to rest between your legs.
You're soaked, dripping down your inner thighs. His knuckles run over your swollen slit, confident your clit is poking out. You cry out again, your hips following his movement up your slit.
"What do you need, puppy?" Ashveil coos, drawing you out of your hiding space. His hand squishes your cheeks together, enamored by your desperate expression. Hazy eyes and flushed cheeks, he almost feels bad for you.
Almost.
"Want you…" You mumble vaguely, shying away from his gaze.
"Me? Just me?" He prods, guiding your gaze back to his. His detective skills come in handy during moments like this. "Or perhaps my mouth?" You turn away from his gaze once more, jolting out of his clutches. Yet, his hand against your sex moves once more, pulling you back in.
"My fingers then? Tell me, puppy. I can't read your mind." He whispers in your ear, feeling you hide away into his neck. You nod, pressing his hand more firmly against your slit.
"Whisper it to me then. I won't tease you." He absolutely will, there's no doubt. However, his faux words are enough to guide you out of his neck, lips pressed near the shell of his ear.
"Your fingers…" You hesitate once more, but your desire is nearly overshadowing your bashfulness. Ashveil prompts you with a soft hum and a kiss to your temple. "Inside, please?" He can practically feel your vibration with desperation on his lap, carnally desiring some stimulation.
Ashveil decides to have mercy, guiding you back onto the mattress with ease. He slots himself on top of you once more, drawing your thighs to his shoulders. He kisses along your legs, nipping your soft skin.
"So needy." He drawls, lapping at your irritated skin. Slowly, he kisses up your thighs, reaching the innermost part of your legs. Ashveil's tongue laps at your drenched skin, the taste of your arousal on his tongue. He hums softly, pulling your onto his mouth.
His tongue laps at your sex, swirling your clit. Your fingers tangle into his hair, hips raising into his mouth. Ashveil lets you rut into him, letting his fingers do the heavy lifting.
His fingers curl upwards, drawing back and forth against your sensitive walls. You shudder above, drawing your knees up. You peek down at him, shying away from his knowing gaze.
"Is this what you needed, puppy?" Ashveil speaks against your sex, watching you nod. Your hide your face in the pillow, pulling the askew sheets to cover your face and moans.
You make it so easy for him to pleasure you deeper, drawing your knees up high. Ashveil presses down on your calves that fold against the back of your thighs. The angle allows his fingers to find a deeper angle, sectioned behind your clit.
Your body jolts, thrashing and whining at the intense stimulation.
"You can handle it, puppy, I know you can. Be good for me, alright? Be good and still. I'll give you a reward." Ashveil wishes you had a little tail or ears so he could tug or nibble on them— just to tease you further.
You mewl into the crumpled sheets, rolling your hips into his touch. Your mind feels as though it's filled with cotton, unable go focus on a singular sensation. You can feel Ashveil speaking but none of his words manage to make it to your ears.
You can't take the pressure any longer, whining as drool spills down the edges of your mouth. Your head falls back, back arching into the mattress. Your hand shake, fingers flexing outwards then clenching into your palms. It's overwhelming, being strung so high, then so pointedly being taken down.
Ashveil works you through the waves of your climax, lapping at your clit as his fingers continuously thrust into you. Your hand twitches, reaching out to try and make him stop, but Ashveil keeps working you through, guiding you over the edge.
It's all-consuming, a shift in gravity. You may have screamed— You cannot tell. All you know is that your legs push against Ashveil's shoulders, tears trekking down your cheeks. Despite his cooing and soothing words, Ashveil rudely keeps his fingers fucking into you.
You want to hit him, scrambling as you try to grasp at him. Ashveil lets your legs fall around his hips, palm pressed against your twitching clit.
"Easy, easy." His voice is gentle against your ears, licking away your tears and drool.
"N-No more!" You push at him, but Ashveil presses your body harder into the mattress.
ꫂ᭪݁ some nsfw enjin headcanons i have , (mdni) .ᐟ
enjin, who values intimacy and consent above all else inside of the bedroom with his fling or partner. ensuring that they're comfortable and able to feel safe with him in such a vulnerable manner is his top priority.
enjin, who adores eating his woman's pussy. he never rushes in this aspect, but rather takes his sweet time to savor everything that your glistening sex gives him. the taste of your arousal coating his tastebuds, his tounge tracing your delicate folds, his lips gently suckling your clit—all an art form he's carefully curated for both his and your pleasure.
enjin, who always has his hands somewhere along the length of your body. whether they're threaded in your hair, lovingly caressing your scalp or kneading the globes of your ass, he physically cannot function if he isn't touching you during sex.
enjin, who praises and degrades you in the same breath. the weeping head of his cock hitting your cervix, eliciting strings of lewd, incoherent ecstatic cries to fall from your lips and land against his inked neck? "your cunt is practically weeping for me, baby. such a pretty, cock-drunk slut."
enjin, who thoroughly envisions how he'd fuck you in the most mundane situations. if you're driving back from a mission, and it's just the two of you, he'd pull over on an abandoned road and drag you out of the car before bending you over the hood of the car and fucking you within an inch of your life. pulling you into a vacant closet at headquarters, fingering you in his room's bathtub, you name it.
enjin, who does have his fair share of kinks up his sleeve, but none of which involve bringing you pain of any kind. the notion of potentially hurting one of the few good things in his life is something he'd never dare to consider.
enjin, who adores every inch of you, but favors your thighs and legs above all else. especially when you hook them around his hips, or when they hang over his unfairly broad shoulders.
enjin, who isn't ever overly loud in bed, yet never fails to let you know how good he feels. his breath hitches just a fraction each and everytime he first bottoms out, the warm ridges along your walls massaging his length. on occasion, when he's lost in the sensation, the tiniest whimper will slip from his mouth.
𖦹 ⤷ a/n : these were so much fun to write! ofc, most were likely out of character and divert from the canon universe, but i hoped you enjoyed these nonetheless. (..◜ᴗ◝..)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ a very special thank you to the lovely @jiyuspassion for giving me the incentive to write this. much love, angel. <3
years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mydei are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mydei slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t. 16.7k words.
★ pairing lead guitarist!mydei x lead singer!fem!reader
★ tags romance, angst, smut (angry sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, wall sex), exes to lovers, rockstar!au, alcohol consumption, profanity, smoking, mildly toxic relationship, fellow band members castorice/phainon/hyacine, everyone is emotionally constipated, etc. section titles are all from olivia rodrigo’s song, get him back! not beta read.
★ a/n slowly reposting all my old fics as i work to regain my love for writing (for myself, and my enjoyment) :) i hope you’ll stick around! ♡
i). wait, is this the song with the drums?
Your first instinct, when Anaxa drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.
“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Anaxa simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.
“It’s not a request,” he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. “It’s happening whether you’re on board or not. Your contract’s airtight.”
“That’s impossible,” you scoff, folding your arms defensively. “I specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”
“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”
Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”
You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.
But the label wants it. The fans want it.
“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.
Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”
You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.
“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.
Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”
You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.
Mydei.
You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.
With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions.
The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.
It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.
Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.
“Kiss me once and call me baby,Lie to me and say I’m crazy—Can’t believe I let you take me—”
The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.
Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.
He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good.
He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.
The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.
You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.
The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.
“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”
You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”
Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.
You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.
Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.
“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”
Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.
CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I knew it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]
HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]
PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]
MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]
YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]
CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]
HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]
PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?
[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]
MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.
[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.
ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.
The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.
To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.
You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.
You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.
“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”
The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.
The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.
“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds,
Hide the bruises on your knees,
Say you never cared—
I know you’re lying through your teeth.”
Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.
“Bittersweet vendetta,
Carved your name into my skin,
Kiss me like a secret.
Make me wish I’d never let you in.”
You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.
He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.
“She lies like she means it,
Fake love on her lips—”
You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.
The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.
You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.
“Cut me down with your clever words,
Always knew how to make it hurt,
Fake your way to heaven,
But I’d follow you through hell first.”
You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.
The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.
“Swore I’d never write about you,
Guess I lied again somehow,
Made my bed on broken promises,
Tell me—are you happy now?”
The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.
When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.
You force a smile and wave to the crowd.
The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.
You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.
“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.
Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”
“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”
You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”
“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.
Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”
Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.
“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”
His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”
“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”
“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”
“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”
“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”
You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.
“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”
You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”
“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”
You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.
“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”
You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.
His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”
You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.
Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “God, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”
“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”
Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”
Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]
CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]
HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]
PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]
MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.
[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]
YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]
CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]
HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]
PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]
MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.
[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]
YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.
iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]
INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?
YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.
INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?
YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.
INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?
YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.
INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?
YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.
INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?
YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.
INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?
YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.
INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?
YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.
INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?
YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.
INTERVIEWER: What changed?
YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]
INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?
MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.
INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?
MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.
INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?
MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.
INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?
MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.
INTERVIEWER: And _____?
MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.
INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?
MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything.
INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?
MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.
INTERVIEWER: What about _____?
MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?
MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that.
INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?
MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.
The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.
Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.
Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.
“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”
You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.
Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.
Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”
Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.
“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”
You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.
Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.
His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.
“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”
You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.
When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”
You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”
His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.
He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”
You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”
“You think I wanted to leave?”
“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”
“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”
The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”
His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”
You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”
Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.
“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”
He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.
You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.
When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”
The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]
PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]
CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]
HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]
PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.
iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.
You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.
You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”
“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”
“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”
“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”
Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”
“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”
Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”
You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”
“You want me to handle anything?”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”
He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.
A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.
You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.
“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.
He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”
“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”
“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.
“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”
“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”
That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.
“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”
He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”
“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”
He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.
It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.
Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.
“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.
He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.
You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.
He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away.
You hate him. You love him. You need him.
His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.
“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.
You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”
He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.
You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.
“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.
“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.
He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”
He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.
Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.
When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”
You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”
His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.
He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”
Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.
He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.
His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.
You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.
He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.
“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”
“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.
Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.
“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.
He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.
He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.
You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”
You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.
“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.
Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.
“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”
You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.
“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.
Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.
His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.
“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”
“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”
His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.
Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.
You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.
His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.
For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.
“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.
Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]
CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]
HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]
PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]
MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]
YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]
CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.
[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]
HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.
[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]
PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]
MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.
[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]
YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]
CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]
PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]
HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.
v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.
When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold.
It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.
You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.
It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing.
The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.
It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.
Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.
You look at me like I’m your only song,
And I play the part even when it feels wrong.
We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye,
But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.
You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.
We’re tangled and twisted and never the same,
We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain.
You’re poison and honey and everything wrong,
And I hate that you’re still the one I want.
The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.
You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.
Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.
You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing,
Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing
Would come true when the lights fade away—
But you never stay.
You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.
You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.
You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.
The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.
Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]
YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.
INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?
YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.
[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]
MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.
INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?
MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.
[CUT TO: YOU]
YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.
INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?
YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.
[CUT TO: MYDEI]
MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.
[CUT TO: YOU]
YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.
vi). i want to get him back (and then?)
The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.
The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.
That’s when you notice him.
At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.
You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.
But you don’t.
Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.
“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.
He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.
You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”
He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.
“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“You think not being there was better?”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.
He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”
The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.
You look at Mydei again.
He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.
He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.
You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.
So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”
He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.
You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.
He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.
Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.
He reads it once. Twice.
Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.
The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.
But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.
He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.
It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?
The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.
Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.
The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.
“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time,
Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye.
But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”
Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.
Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.
“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast,
But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last.
You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try…
But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”
His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.
Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching.
The chorus crashes over both of you.
“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love,
Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough.
We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start,
But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”
Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.
You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.
“Maybe we’ll break like we always do,
Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too.
But for now—God, for now—
You still feel like a home I never knew.”
The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.
You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.
The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.
“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”
You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.
He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.
You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.
The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.
[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”
[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]
[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]
CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.
(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)
CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.
[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]
HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.
(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)
HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t watch them and not feel it.
[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]
PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.
(Shakes his head and scoffs.)
PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.
(His smirk fades just slightly.)
PHAINON (CONT’D): …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.
vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.
The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.
You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.
You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.
But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.
Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.
Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.
“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”
Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once.
Mydei starts to sing.
“You look at me like I’m your only song,
And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”
It hits you like a punch to the ribs.
That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.
Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.
“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same,
We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain.
You’re poison and honey and everything wrong,
And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”
It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.
He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.
You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.
This is his moment, and your words.
“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing,
Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing
Would come true when the lights fade away—
But you never stay.”
You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.
No. Singing them.
Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved.
He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.
And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.
He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.
Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.
You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.
The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.
His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.
Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.
You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.
“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.
You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”
Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”
“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”
“You look mad.”
“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”
“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”
You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.
“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”
Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”
You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”
He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.
“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”
You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.
But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.
You take one shaky step forward. Then another.
When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.
You part, breathless.
Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips.
Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”
Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”
It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.
You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”
You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.
He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.
He reads the first line. Smiles.
He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.
[CUT TO BLACK]
Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”
jiyu's letter ᝰ.ᐟ i've started reading the manga for gachiakuta and... whew. tamsy is an interesting character. and he's SO DAMN PRETTY. i hate him. i love him. so here's this lil drabble. P.S. i feel as though tamsy would totally be into mind breaking, so... that next? ;)
໒꒱ིྀ༝⁺ᵎᵎ smut. riding. bondage (improper use of tokushin). masochism. sadism. subby tamsy. overstim. fem!reader. MDNI.
art creds: wasn't able to find them :( if anyone knows, do inform me!!
divider creds: @angeliicide
tokushin tightens its grasp around its captive. skin strains against the strict bindings. the bed creaks with each ravenous bounce of your body, taking what you want with little consideration for how sensitive the man beneath you must be after countless rounds.
"shouldn't have... been gone for so long, hm?" your voice punches through the skin slapping, punishingly cold yet thrilled. soft gasps fill the air as tamsy's cock fills you deeper, deeper until he grazes that sweet velvet spot inside of you.
you were mad at him. rightfully so. he said he'd only be gone for a few hours... which turned into the entire day. now, in the late hours of the night, you were riding out your frustrations right atop his pretty self with reckless abandon. meanwhile? tokushin wrapped around his body, tightening with each little squirm to grasp onto your body.
tamsy's eyes glowed in the dark of the room, blond lashes fluttering with painful pleasure. his moans had become hiccuped whimpers, nerves so overstimulated he couldn't help but wriggle around. to his dismay, it only made the ropes strengthen their hold, making irritated red marks upon his pale skin. it drew out a sharp intake of breath from his lungs, lips parted pathetically.
"hurts, doesn't it?" you murmur tauntingly, slowing your hips to a mean grind. it sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your legs shaking with an impending orgasm. the inner parts of your thighs are a mess of your own and tamsy's arousal, dripping onto the sheets like filth.
"darling, please— i didn't mean to be out so late. fuck, slow down," he pleads, voice hoarse. he makes a move to grab at you again, only to be pulled down by tokushin. he lets out a pained groan, though his thighs quiver beneath you.
this sick man. you know he doesn't mean for you to actually slow down. it feels good, too good to let you stop now. the pain of being used so thoroughly by his lover while being pinned to the sheets as punishment makes his cock throb inside of you, your warmth all-consuming of his thoughts. the binding is tight enough to draw blood, yet all tamsy can think about is how damn beautiful you look when you're mad.
"slow down, you say? i think you're lying to me." planting your hands atop his chest, you snap your hips ruthlessly along his length, his tip kissing your cervix with your rigor. a wanton moan leaves your lips, unadulterated. your pussy flutters around him, every rub against your walls sending sparks of need up your body.
tamsy lets out a ruined whine. tears doll his lashes, like little droplets on a leaf. a trail of drool leaves his plump, bitten lips, which you lick up before drawing him into a sloppy kiss. he wants to touch you so bad. to caress and worship your perfectly sculpted body. yet tokushin keeps his hands above his head, leaving him vulnerable and to your sadistic devices.
the thought makes him cum with a pathetic hiccup into your mouth, unable to focus his mind on controlling his jinki any longer. the bindings around him drop weakly, making his arms fly around your waist, anchoring him down to the ground from his mind-breaking orgasm.
your own climax follows, satisfying and certainly fucking out any lingering frustration. you plop down into tamsy's embrace, a shuddering sigh leaving your lips.
the both of you lie in a gratified silence, coming down from your highs. it doesn't save tamsy from a tired reprimand, however.
"i didn't tell you to stop using tokushin," you mutter.
"... sorry. i'm afraid you felt too good."
"you need to manage your time better, also."
"of course, my darling."
i had a lot of fun writing this i hope i did his character justice
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @hangenism : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ ENJIN HAS A SOFT SPOT FOR YOU ♡⃘ ₊ ur acc has the cutest themes ive ever seen like we literally the same person fr
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @kireampie : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ AS IF YOU WERE MAKING LOVE ♡⃘ ₊ ki is my MAIN chick that has fire themes and shes gorg btw♡
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @serpenttine : — 𑣲 ｡ strictly mdni 𖦹 visit ✶ OFF LIMITS ♡⃘ ₊ DREA'S THEME IS SO UNIQUE AND PRETTYYY AND SHES AN AMAZING WRITER 2!!!
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @6x-x9 : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ STUDY SESSION ♡⃘ ₊ and they said shakespeare was dead?? LIKE WHAT her writing is immaculate
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @illumoria : — 𑣲 ｡ multifandom 𖦹 visit ✶ PATHETIC! CHOSO ♡⃘ ₊ oh my god i love the way illi writes?? especially choso♥
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @jiyuspassion : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ VAMPIRE! CHOSO ♡⃘ ₊ oh my god jiyu i love you DEARLY and ur theme is beautiful
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @yoonsucks : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ I KNOW. ♡⃘ ₊ yoon(chae) and me goon tg #goonbuddiesforlife
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @yorikae : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk, one piece, and haikyuu centric 𖦹 visit ✶ COME BACK TO ME ♡⃘ ₊ RIRI PLEASE HIT MY LINEEE ILYSMMM
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @lemonswirlss : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk and kny centric 𖦹 visit ✶ FANGS & VEINS ♡⃘ ₊ lemon is soo nice and sweet and her monster high theme rn is adorbs
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @getorade : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ THE NERD AND THE SHY GIRL
♡⃘ ₊ chel is my wife bro shes so amazing and so cute!!!!! so cute!!!!
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @splurtz : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT ♡⃘ ₊ future mentioned like do i need to say anything else??
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @sapph22 : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ YANDERE SATORU ♡⃘ ₊ i love her yandere drabbles and her stsg x reader is soooo mouth watering
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @satorusdollie : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ I WANNA BE YOURS ♡⃘ ₊ dollie is sooo sweet and hers sugary x reader are written SO WELL ily dollie
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @lovviemeow : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ RAISING YOUNG TSUMIKI AND MEGUMI ♡⃘ ₊ she gon call meee babyyyy booooo
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @lovviemeow : — 𑣲 ｡ jjk centric 𖦹 visit ✶ RAISING YOUNG TSUMIKI AND MEGUMI ♡⃘ ₊ she gon call meee babyyyy booooo
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @keistriction : — 𑣲 ｡ multifandom 𖦹 visit ✶ GIRLDAD! SUGURU ♡⃘ ₊ mars is lwk that girl
๋ ࣭ ⭑ @tojiscreampie : — 𑣲 ｡ multifandom 𖦹 visit ✶ CHOSO CRYING BALLS DEEP ♡⃘ ₊ the way sarah writes choso makes me BUST 🤤🤤
omgg the dividers you made are so pretty. feel free to ignore this since you already made me some but i wasn’t super specific, could you maybe make it with like lace/curtain ones too?? sorry, you can absolutely refuse and i love the ones you made!!
Okay so I didn't know exactly how to make dividers with lacy curtains, but I do have these two. Do these designs look good? If so, I can make it in colours you would prefer.
If you have a specific idea in mind, then maybe a few photos could help me understand what you want better! 🥹
ᯓ angel lace dividers ˎˊ˗
𑣲⋆
𑣲⋆
please like and reblog before using! feel free to recolour them as you like! If you'd like me to recolour anything as well, let me know!
Suguru always knew she loved the softness. The feel of women's skin against hers, the gentle brush of their hair and the loveliness of their eyes. Suguru always knew she would love to have a child. Just... not with her husband. But with his second wife.
.𖥔 ݁ ִֶָ࣪☾. ˖pairing: ꒰ Fem!Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader ꒱
.𖥔 ݁ ִֶָ࣪☾. ˖content/warnings: ꒰ inspired by the true story : set in Oman : Arabian settings : WLW : forced marriage : age gap (reader in early 20s, Suguru in late 20s) : secret relationship : polygamy : lesbian love : fluff : a bit of smut : gentle sex : mentions of pregnancy : forbidden love : tooth-rooting fluff : 2.8k words ꒱
.𖥔 ݁ ִֶָ࣪☾. ˖notes: Because of Pride Month, I wanted to write a story about women who, because of the cultural and religious environment in which they live, need to keep their sexuality secret. This story is inspired by a relationship between two Omani wives of the same man, which I read about in a non-fiction book about the lives of Omani women. I am not Muslim, nor do I live in a Muslim country, but (as you may've noticed) I am interested in Arab countries and have tried my best to keep this story as respectful as possible.
Noor (نور) - light, brightness
art by @/_rinren_ on X
dividers by @strangergraphics
Suguru always knew that she preferred softness.
From the moment her deep, young eyes saw the heavy beard needling the man’s face, the long, curly hair coating her uncle’s back, her father’s calloused palms gripping her wrist, and the muscles bulging under the hard skin of his cousins' shoulders. Everything seemed too rough, almost aggressive, spiking an unpleasant flavour that spilt on her tongue.
Suguru could name the feelings bubbling beneath her chest whenever the boys at her school tried to tug at her long braids. Complimented a purple abaya that matched the depth of her almond-shaped eyes, circled by a fan of thick lashes. When they waited for her after school, under the shadow of a date palm, kicking little stones along the gravelly road. She always passed them by with indifference, and their coffee-coloured eyes followed her with misery.
Feeling irritation, anger, sometimes even disgust.
With two brothers at home, she should be used to this boyish foolishness they also beamed with, yet whenever a classmate taller than she was tried to brush a strand of her hair, she would slap his hand without hesitation.
Suguru knew that treating boys that way was no good. Her mother, her father, and the cousins reminded her of this, yet she simply couldn't force herself to like it. The depth of their voices and the brutal strength that filled their bodies.
She somehow couldn't understand the lovely chirping of her female friends whenever they spotted a boy whose shoulders filled his dishdasha and hair, black as the night, brushed the handsome crease of his forehead. And whenever his eyes spotted her small group of friends, they somehow always, always, would land on her.
With a deep wrinkle on her usually smooth face and eyes alluring like wild lavender, tugging at the young boys' hearts.
"Suguru, I think he wants to talk," her friend would say, while trying to pull herself away from her embrace.
But in such moments, Suguru would usually clasp their fingers more tightly and brush the silky skin of their friend's palm.
Much like in middle school, when everyone's hormones buzzed like crickets on a hot night, Suguru quickly realised how much she cherished the company of women. Their gentle fingers braiding her hair, skin always scented with flowers, eyes filled with sugary sweetness that melted on her tongue, mingling like tiny stars.
She liked whenever they cuddled into her chest, wrapping delicate arms around her waist. She loved when they decorated her skin with soft henna brushes, marking it with bending and curling patterns. She blushed when they cherished deep kohl kissing her waterlines, looking deep, deep, into her lavender eyes.
Suguru was always one of the tallest girls in class, and thus she loved how all her friends treated her like a big sister. Cuddling, tugging, and gripping her body in an always-so-innocent way, unaware that her heart melted whenever their fingers brushed.
Suguru had a few crushes in middle and high school, but she never made a move. She simply couldn't, for she had heard of long sentences and punishments for the love she somehow couldn't weed out of her soul. She knew that each of her friends would need to get a husband, have children and live a blissful life.
What was worse, Suguru knew she would also need to fulfil this tradition, even though she tried to put it off as long as she could.
After high school came university, and after university, a well-paid job; she didn't plan to resign solely for the sake of marriage. Born into a wealthy and rather understanding family, she could drag her feet for a long, long time, although her parents' dissatisfaction was slowly rising.
She could spend her own money on her own wishes and travel far and long, trying to ignore the ache blooming in her heart whenever she thought of what awaited her back home. In the evenings, she met her friends at lavish restaurants and cafes, where they chittered like fair birdies about the joys of their lives. They would talk about the marriage – Suguru would tell them about the latest trips.
But life in a country where being a woman sometimes still felt like being a dog on a leash, at its owner's hand, didn't pay off.
After she returned from one of her trips, Suguru's father made it clear that unless she found herself a husband, he would no longer, as her guardian, allow her to frill. Although by law she could travel alone, permission from a guardian was sometimes, rarely, required to show officials so she could cross the border without trouble.
On that night, for the first time in a long, long while, Suguru cried herself to sleep. With heart swelling with pain and disgust rising in her throat. The sole thought of having a husband and fulfilling marital duties filled her with uncontrollable rage. The sole thought of feeling those rough, heavy hands on her silky skin, of smelling the rich, heavy oil coating their necks and of a harsh beard brushing the soft petals of her cheeks – made her sick.
Her father, fortunately, allowed her to choose her husband herself, and thus he searched far and wide for the man who would be pleasing to the eye and of a personality easy to tame.
So when the neighbouring merchant came into her sight, Suguru stated that she would only marry him. A man of influence and wealth who would easily afford all her wishes. One with strangely delicate hands and kind eyes, who looked at her as if she were one of the long-forgotten Arabian goddesses.
With skin shimmering gold in the crisp sun, and those deep, almond-shaped eyes looking down at him with a slight annoyance. But he didn't mind, for he truly believed there was no one more beautiful than the Suguru herself, and so he married her on the spot.
He… felt that she was different. Slightly cold and mean, she refused to share a bed with him and forced him to awkwardly explain why, after months of marriage, their child still wasn't on the way. She talked to him like a friend but avoided any closer contact, let alone the pleasure he wished to seek from her.
Looking with a furrowed brow at how she laughed and chittered with their maids, while treating her husband as nothing better than a dog. Sometimes, a nasty jealousy would bubble in his heart, for he truly prayed to see a child who would match Suguru's beauty.
He would watch her stroll through the garden of their home, with olive trees matching her silky skin and deep crimson abaya disappearing behind the corners of creamy columns. Sometimes, while Suguru enjoyed her time in the late nights, with the scorching sun long hidden behind the pale houses and stars mingling high over the city, slowly coming alive, he would invite himself to join.
And talk as if with a friend, while cherishing the softness of her voice and eyes that, after a few months, stopped looking at him like a pest.
On one such night, she offered something. Something he wasn't expecting to come directly from her, although he had thought about it for a while.
"Why won't we take the second wife?"
He froze, looking at her with a slight frown. "I thought you wouldn't like it."
"I know you wait for a child, and I cannot make your dream come true. Let's take a second wife, then. I will take care of her," she slipped in a promise, her sly gaze meeting his. "But I have one wish."
His spine straightened, as Suguru rarely had any of them. "Let me hear it, my wife."
Something bubbled beneath the soft skin of her forehead, and a few strands of crimson hair slipped from the loosely wrapped abaya, falling onto her cheeks. The deep plum of the material matched her dark lips as she curled them into a smile and narrowed her lavender eyes.
"Let me choose her."
A gentle wind suddenly stirred the still, burning air as he stared at her, his eyebrows almost brushing his hairline. Men of his wealth often took more than one wife, but stories of nasty jealousy between the women and secret fights behind the husband's back were often the subject of female gossip.
And thus a warmth spread all over his chest, knowing that Suguru was not only eager to allow another woman to enter their household, but also offered to seek her out himself.
So he could only nod and smile, letting his wife play a matchmaker.
He didn't, however, know the reason for it.
That Suguru already had someone in her mind.
A woman of beauty far surpassing hers, with eyes of utmost kindness and a sweet laughter that made her heart skip a beat. With silky hands that brushed Suguru's cheeks with gentleness and a cheeky cheerfulness dancing in the corners of her eyes.
Suguru met you two months ago, accidentally bumping into you at a cafe. It was a late evening, as you sat with your aunt and uncle in the centre of the city. The scorching, crimson sun was long gone, and a slight freshness was creeping between the murmuring alleys. Suguru knew your aunt and uncle, as one of the neighbours living not that far from her, and thus when her eyes fell on their niece… oh.
"Hello," you said, giving her a gentle nod.
Suguru forgot how to breathe and needed a moment to welcome you with the same gesture.
"Ah, Suguru, please join us," your aunt said, inviting her to your table. "And meet our niece. She has just finished university and, you know, is looking for a husband," she laughed, gently patting your arm.
A hidden awkwardness shone in your eyes. Fingers gripped the pinkish abaya a little tighter, and lips curled into a faint smile. "With no luck so far."
Your voice slipped into Suguru's ears like the sweetest melody, and she found herself leaning a little closer. As if trying to drink in, hear, and taste every detail of your lovely face and deep eyes fixed on… her.
On Suguru herself.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Suguru murmured, in fact not sorry at all. "I know how difficult it is to find a good husband."
Your auntie scoffed, sipping her tea slowly. "Oh, but it isn't! You see, it's just that this little angel here spent too much time frolicking with her friends. She barely spends time with men!" Suguru's eyes glimmered, and her heart swelled with sudden pain as she remembered that she, too, used to cut herself off from any of the boys trying to win her hand. "She has so many suitors and rejects them one by one!"
Suguru glanced your way, seeing your eyes fixed on her soft hands. Golden bracelets hugged her wrists, and a crimson abaya wrapped around her arms. A silky headscarf fell loosely over her head and around shoulders, allowing raven locks to smooch the lean cheeks. Your throat bobbed as you watched her deep red lips curve into a rather cheeky smile. When your gazes met, you looked away, feeling a sudden warmth creep up your neck.
"I see," she hummed, following your delicate hands playing with a pinkish robe. "I'm sure she will find someone good one day. If you don't mind, I may have some suitors in mind."
Your aunt clasped her hands, then gave Suguru's elegant palm a gentle squeeze. "Could you? She'll be staying here till the end of the summer, so take as much of her time as you want," she chirped, before turning your way. "What do you say, sweetie? Do you want Suguru to help you?"
And with a warmth spilling into your heart and a deep flush rising on your cheeks, you nodded.
So Suguru… took great care of you. The best, maybe, was taking you out on "dates" and spending time in local cafés. Enjoying the strolls around the markets and stuffing you with figs, dates, and warm bread, until you couldn't walk without holding her arm.
Your aunt was over the moon whenever she picked you up early in the morning, promising that you would surely love the boy Suguru had carefully picked for you. But instead, she would take you for another stroll around the city, another "date", while learning every single detail about your life.
It's not that you didn't want a husband, for having a big family wasn't a dream you'd chased for a long, long time, but… well. You loved men. Or at least, you didn't mind them.
But nothing ever brought you more joy than the softness of a woman's body. Plush lips kissing yours, fingers brushing your wet thighs, and the sweet scent of skin wrapping around your senses.
Loving men felt natural, but loving women was something sacred.
Something always took place behind the closed doors. With Suguru's fingers gently unwrapping your scarf and palms slipping under the long robes. Her soft kisses traced down your neck, and lavender eyes drank in every grimace of pleasure twisting your face.
You soon learnt to love the softness of Suguru's body. The calming feeling of lying on her chest and nuzzling between her heavy breasts, as if nothing in this world mattered.
The slightly dominant air she exuded around herself, and a mature, gentle guidance whenever you were the one slipping under her robes. Peppering her spread thighs and hips and mould of her warmth, with kisses, before letting yourself get drunk on honeyed sweetness spilling on your tongue.
You loved the feeling of her body under yours, and yours beneath hers, with soft moans filling the rooms of one of Suguru's husband's many houses, you soon started to come to. With naked bodies tangled under the soft sheets, and always crossing gazes.
You both simply needed two months to fall madly and endlessly in love with each other, with your eyes always seeking out Suguru's lavender warmth and her fingers always finding yours.
So when she offered to enter her marriage – not for him, for us – you immediately agreed.
"I want us to have a child," she whispered one night, while brushing your cheeks softly.
The crimson sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, and an evening's ambient filled the warm corridors of the house. She would soon need to bring you back to the aunt, but for now, for this slippery second, she still wished to embrace you. Kiss your cheeks, and chin, and lips, while begging to marry him.
To marry her.
For you were…
"The noor of my eyes," she whispered, kissing your eyelids. "And Sultan of my heart."
And you nuzzled closer into her palm, kissing the soft, velvety skin and moving up, and up, along the forearm to the shoulder and neck, before pressing your lips to hers. She tasted of dates and coffee, leaving a lovely fragrance on your tongue.
Your fingers slipped down her chest, rolling the hard nipples, squeezing a fat of her breasts. A soft moan escaped her lips, and you drank it right away, before pulling her closer. With your legs hooked over her hip and fingers sliding down her belly, till the wetness of her pussy.
Rubbing swollen clit, you kissed the curve of her nose, and chin, and eyes, reciting quietly all the love letters hidden deep in your heart.
"I want to give you a child," you said, once again capturing her lips. "And I want to love you till the skin of your cheeks wrinkles like dates," she giggled, and you joined her, gently biting her lower lip. "I'll give you family, for your love makes my nights longer and days a bit sweeter."
And so, a month later, you were officially married.
And on the night your marriage was officially consummated, you slipped away from your husband's embrace and went to do it again.
But this time, fulfilling the union with the one your soul was bonded to. Lying beneath the soft body of your Suguru, with her lips tracing down your belly and hands already spreading your thighs.
"Beautiful," Suguru murmured, digging her fingers into your skin. With tongue giving you a wet, sweet lick, making your feet curl in pleasure. "My beautiful wife."
And she made sure your wedding night was as memorable as possible. With the gentle thrusts of her fingers and lips smooching your swelling clit with gentle sucking. Deep, kohl-lined eyes looking up from between your thighs and your fingers brushing through her hair. Your juices spilling sweetly on her tongue, and you sucking on her heavy breast, when the time to give pleasure back finally came.
And so you made love all night long, with a deepest love and most pristine devotion weighing your fluttering hearts.
As on a paper, you were married to your shared husband.
But in heart, from the beginning till the end to her.
