#And then one bad thing happens to her and she’s like “this will never work out did you see-” and complains about the same thing

[five-thirtyfive]

“not a lot, just forever”

plot summary: the pair break up six months into paige’s rookie year and azzi’s final year at uconn. this is the story of how everything falls apart before they find their way back home.

authors note: okay this may or may not turn into a series depending on if people like it + my motivation. let’s see. please let me know if you actually enjoy reading this or i may assume i am just speaking to the void which is kind of embarrassing anyways hahah

PART ONE - PAIGE.

they break up on an uncharacteristically humid and rainy afternoon in September, exactly six months after they started living one thousand seven hundred miles apart. paige feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest and it doesn’t matter that she had heard the warnings before, that long distance is hard and that its impossible to make it work when you’re young..she always figured they were the exception - Paige and Azzi- and their incredible love story. she can barely believe it, that they could make it work at sixteen, two naive girls who barely knew what love meant but wanted it enough to start their first ever relationship hundreds of miles apart, but failed so horrifically at twenty three.

it’s really bad honestly, an amalgamation of missed texts turning into missed facetimes and small arguments turning into big fights, until paige realises that azzi’s flown to dallas exactly three times since pre-season, and all three times, had ended in some kind of apology from either one of them. it comes to a standstill with azzi lingering on paige’s doorstep, carrying a bag of her own clothes she'd never even unpacked (despite her usually never bringing her own clothes when near paige’s wardrobe….paige thinks in hindsight that azzi bringing her own clothes was maybe a sign, azzi’s subconscious telling her that this time, she is done). there’s tears and yelling and it's almost unbelievable, because they never yell, at least never at each other. they hurl foreign grenades they don’t mean (at least, paige knows she doesn’t mean the awful things spewing from her mouth, but she can’t seem to stop it happening anyway) and it’s the bloodbath that never ends, going and going and going until finally, azzi’s slamming the door and storming out of paige’s shitty dallas apartment.

it feels final, the way it rattles and echoes, before the apartment is completely silent. azzi’s soft giggle, her feigned annoyance at paige’s antics, her uninhibited moans that once filled every inch of the space a ghost of the past. she’s gone and it’s over. they’ve had fights, of course. you can’t spend 8 years together and not have them. but every time, they’ve communicated, worked it out and come back stronger. looking back, paige knows that it wasn’t like this - those were the trial runs, and this is the real fucking deal.

paige just sort of collapses right there in her hallway, crumpling into a ball on the wooden floorboard as she cries and cries and cries, the tears streaming down her face echoing the relentless rain pouring outside. she thinks about speaking to God for solace, the way she always does, but she’s realises that she can’t. she realises that she’s angry at Him, so angry she can’t even feel Him. she looks for God, but the sky is empty. it almost breaks her. it sets her tears off all over again.

it’s embarrassing and pathetic and awful yet paige can’t find it in herself to care, not even when she hears the faint buzzing coming from her right pocket, her mum facetiming her. she’s unsure how much time has passed, seconds or minutes or hours or days, as she answers the call.

“paige, i’m just got a text from azzi asking me to tell you she’s at the airport, what’s going-” amy stops when she sees paige, tears streaming down her face that she can’t be bothered to wipe off. amy takes one look and blanches - she knows, of course she knowns. theres only one thing in the world it could be, one thing that could break paige so completely, and for not the first time she placates and placates and curses herself for being so far away from her daughter. her baby girl who looks as if in physical pain, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to keep her heart inside her chest.

“paige? tell me whats wrong sweetie?” she sounds like she is trying to stay calm but her voice has a frantic edge to it and paige knows she must be in a state for her mum to sound like that.

“its…i… we-” and that’s all she can get out because how does she explain that she and azzi are over? the love of her life, her other half for the better part of a decade has left and isn’t coming back.

“okay, it’s okay sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it, alright? let's get up and maybe go to bed, whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

that just sets paige off all over again, making her cry harder, because it is categorically not okay, it will never be okay, and there is nothing she can do or anything her mum can say to make it okay. amy watches over a feeble iphone screen as her eldest daughter makes it to her bed, curling into the corner and pulling the blanket (that she had bought specifically for azzi’s visits, knowing the girl is immune to the texan heat) over herself. it makes it hurt more, to smell her on the fabric that they were wrapped up in together not even twenty four hours ago, watching love island and judging the terrible relationships and even more terrible breakups. she does it anyway.

tears are still running down paige’s cheeks but they’re silent now, the sobs ebbing into hiccups and she thinks she must have been crying in the hall for a long time because she’s exhausted all of a sudden.

“you’re okay sweetheart” her mum says, and paige hears her voice full of relief. she feels bad in some corner of her mind that isn’t filled with azzi, azzi, azzi, for scaring her. 

paige gulps, knows she needs to rip the bandaid off, claw it off her skin, and it's with that that she clears her throat and then just spits the words out, fast and broken “me and azzi have split up.”

and there it is, the truth, out in the open. the thing paige swore would never happen, the thing she brushed off every time someone told her that teenage love doesn't last. it feels impossible, but it’s not and now her mum knows and she doesn’t even have an explanation to give her.

“paige… i can’t - are you sure?” amy asks, stunned, even though she knew, like it was the last thing she’d expected her to say.

“yes mum i’m pretty fucking sure” paige says, angry and hurt, furious with herself, with azzi, with god, with the whole fucking world. 

“it’s just��you two always sort these things out…”

she knows her mum means well, that she loves azzi like she’s her own daughter, but hearing this isn’t helping, because she was there, and it was different this time. the words ‘if im such an inconvenience, maybe we should just fucking end things!’ still ringing in her ears, azzi’s voice loud and resentful and then paige had lost it, devastated and furious that the words had even come out of azzi’s mouth like they cost her nothing, and she had replied with ‘you know what, maybe we fucking should’ and that had been that, the words that cost her everything, the catalyst for them to shout every single hurt that has been building for months at each other.

“it’s over mum and i don’t want to talk about it okay. i just want to go to bed and be rested for practise” and cry some more without upsetting you is what she doesn’t say.

“okay okay, i’m sorry. try to get some rest okay? i'll call you tomorrow, maybe things will look better in the morning.”

after reassuming and re-reassuring her mum that she’ll be okay, she hangs up the phone. paige only takes a second to stare at the find my app, her eyes boring into azzi’s location at dallas airport as if she willing to reach her, send her a telepathic message that she loves her and that she's so sorry and fuck, what were they even fighting about. but she too far away, untouchable in the encasings built by resentments of months past, and paige can do nothing but turn her phone off, knowing that in a moment, her teammates would be blowing up her phone, having received a frantic message from her mum to check on her.

she’s not in the mood to see anyone, can barely fathom leaving this bed and this blanket and azzi’s smell. she looks around and my god she's fucking everywhere, a hoodie of hers she’s forgotten (well really it was paige’s, but after multiple back and forth they’d lost track of who it actually belonged to) strewed on her chair, her empty coffee mug on the bedside table, beside a vibrator paige had only bought a few days ago, anticipating azzi’s visit. it feels insane that they had sex today, that in less than twenty four hours their entire eight year relationship has imploded before her eyes. a third of her life just gone.

she quickly opens her bedside drawer and pushes the mug with half drunk contents, along with the unwashed vibrator into it. its disgusting but she simply cannot look or do anything else, thinks ‘i’ll deal with that tomorrow’, before she burrows herself further into the duvet, and starts to cry again. she’ll wake up tomorrow, and clean her room, and go to training, and pretend to care about her last regular game for the season but for right now, she drowns herself completely in the smell of azzi’s perfume and her own misery.

[sangunary]

Yandere BatFam x *other dimension* reader.

SYPNOSIS: Your false family aren't happy about the fact that you can finally go back home..

For year's you have been pretending to be happy with your false family but in reality you've been trying your best to get back home.

They were loving and kind but their intentions was sickening.

The tracking device inside your body, the constant unnerving questions, the eyes, the lack of privacy and the constant losing of memories.

Everything was off, your phone camera would sometimes flash red and it was pretty obvious Tim was watching you through it, it was a silent warning for you to not do anything unpleasant.

The way Dick would always follow you around even outside blüdhaven, talking and suddenly it would go to asking about your personal life and not answering was not an option.

Jason trying to guide you through your life by forcing you to stick by his side while he gunned down anyone who dares to stare at you inappropriate.

Damian who tried to hypnotize you to forget about your real home and even getting a demon involved in the process.

Barbara who always track you down and if she have a feeling of dangerous she would send any of the family to drug you and being you back to her.

She made a special drug for you, fast working and keep a person vulnerable for an hour.

Cass who would try to paralyzed you at some point because that was the safest option.

She directly told you about ut, saying if she cut a specific nerve from your body your body would shut down until that nerve somehow heal... Which would never happened.

Her reasons she misses you too much.

The most normal one was Stephanie, she threatened ever one of your friends because you didn't need friends when you have them.

But at times you even question yourself, she treated you like some treasure and not a person. If anybody from outside the family touches you she would freak out... Forcing you to clean the area or even forcing you to wash yourself thoroughly.

At the same time sge would manipulate you, setting scenarios in your head just do she could force you to do anything sge wanted which was to isolate you from any other life.

Duke would try to blind you if you ever threaten them to leave.

He did blind you once and it was a true Horror, everything was black- no, you couldn't even describe what you saw in that state... Not only was it an endless void, you heard your own voice desperately sobbing the feeling of wet hand's as they tried to rip you onto pieces.

You couldn't sleep after that your own thoughts went out of control and you went mad. Bruce had to hook you up to some machine again just so you could forget preventing you from going crazy.

Alfred would feed you things before you go out and the next day you would find yourself on your bed, when you asked about last night he would simply said you were too tired and decided to stay inside.

And the worst of them all... Bruce, he did kidnapped you from the league ready to harm any of the league members if they tried to take his precious daughter away from them. As a result building your way back some become harder but not impossible.

All your sacrifices have led up to this moment, standing infront of the glowing portal. A way back home.

Before you could run into it your left leg fell numb.

Before you could understand what was going on you fell on the ground both your leg have feel numb, your muscles completely given up on you.

"Aw, is our little bird trying to run?"

Dick voice was loud and clear. At that moment you realised you have fucked up bad.

You tried to crawl, pushing your way towards the portal using every of your strength to get back home. You were desperate and they know.

You felt something warm coming up your throat as velvety blood began to vomit out of your mouth, the effects of the poison taking a huge toll on you. Your breath became hollow as well.

Your vision being blocked by white and red light, you could feel some blood seeping out from your nails as they drool down on the fine marble.

"... It's not very nice of you to disappear on us"

Barbara spoke, she talked like this was normal. Watching you as you desperately crawl towards the glowing portal.

Suddenly your left arm began to numb, the sensation of fire went through your body as tears began to well up.

You didn't gave up, you couldn't it was so close. You force yourself to your limit digging on the floor and pulling your body weight.

You felt your nail snapping, ripping from your skin but luckily you could feel it.

Before you could pull again your hand stop moving as well.

Your body was numb all over, none of your muscles wanted to move, it was as if your muscles were cut off leaving you in a paralyzed state.

"Im sorry Master... I supposed the tea was extremely effective than I have anticipated"

Alfred was here to. He did indeed offered you his special tea, he must have laced it...

You tried to speak but you couldn't your tongue didn't even move your lips didn't even part... Not even a pathetic whimper made it our.

Your body was shutting down and It was all their doing.

To keep you in a paralyzed state so you'll forever stay by their side.

To stuff you inside some robot and rearrange your brain to their liking.

You were just some customisable character to them not a person.

"We didn't want to resort to this, to paralyzed you neck down... but don't worry we have some machine we will hook you up to. You'll be in this state until you better yourself"

[prettydaisygirl]

after reading your fratjames potter x reader work it did something for me! And it made me think of angsty idea

May I request a modern au where the reader and James are already in an established relationship ship

And because of a bad friend of James they have misunderstanding and some incident happen and reader happens to be present at the wrong time and because of that the bad friend spread misinfo and James believe that friend ....so it kinda leads to James hurting readers feelings

Pls feel free to ignore if i couldn't get my idea across ❤️

Hi, lovely! Thank you so much for your request! It also spawned another idea in my brain so there's another James fic coming soon also inspired by you! I hope this is what you were looking for, I appreciate you taking the time to send me a request. Much love <3

boyfriend!James Potter x fem!reader who disagree about Peter ✿ 927 words

cw: fem reader, Peter is the worst, misunderstanding, angst, open ended.

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

part 2

You really, really try to like Peter. He’s the only member of James’ group that you don’t consider a good friend. 

It’s not that you think Peter is a bad person. But sometimes he says things about people that you think are… harsh. Sometimes even cruel. And usually these things are said behind the targeted person’s back. You don’t like that.

Every time you bring it up to James, voice whispered and hesitant so you don’t rock the boat, he tells you that he and the other boys have just learned not to listen to Peter’s cruel words. 

“But how can you just… let him sit there and say things like that?” You’ll argue, though your tone is soft and your fingers will brush over his chest like they belong there. Because they do.

James will take a heavy breath and meet your eyes, barely able to see the glint of your pupils in the darkness of the bedroom. “After a while… you start to realize that the things that Peter says are true.” Silence will fill the air for just a moment and then, “He usually just says a meaner version of what everyone else is already thinking.”

So you put on a smile, and you tolerate Peter. 

You sip your glass of wine, eyes moving over the restaurant’s fancy decor. The tall ceilings and shimmering chandeliers do nothing to aid the awkward silence at the dinner table. 

For whatever reason, James had agreed for the two of you to go on a double date with Peter and his new girlfriend. She sits across from you, typing away on her phone without a care in the world. James had just stood up to go to the bathroom, leaving you and Peter in awkward, tense silence. 

Your eyes land on Peter when he clears his throat, a smirk appearing on his lips. You hate the way it makes your skin crawl. 

“Don’t you think James is a bit obnoxious?” He asks, and you’re sure anyone else would laugh out loud at the face you make. 

“What?” You ask, disbelief and offense dripping in your tone, “Of course, I don’t!”

Peter’s eyebrows raise and the corner of his lip turns up even more like you said exactly what he wanted to hear. His girlfriend’s eyes raise up from her phone long enough to look between the two of you before lowering again. 

“Oh, come on,” Peter encourages cruelly, “You don’t really buy that whole teddy bear, lover-boy act, do you?” His eyes roll, “I’ve known James for years, and it’s always the same. He finds a girl he really likes, absolutely fawns over her until he gets bored, and then he finds another one. Simple as that.”

Your stomach churns, your ears ring and you’re sure if looks could kill Peter would already be six feet under. “That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it.” Peter tilts his head condescendingly and you wish you’d pretended to be sick instead of coming to this stupid dinner. “He’s going to find someone new and leave you in the dust. Like clockwork.”

“Stop.” You try not to let his words get to you but he seems to know every single soft spot in your armor. Your worst fears that you’ve never even spoken out loud to James himself. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Peter continues, swirling his own glass of wine before taking a long sip. “It could be tonight. Maybe one of the wait staff will catch his eye.”

“Listen, Peter,” You break, eyes dialed in on the man sitting across from you. If you can call him a man. More like a rat. “I have always thought you were cruel and disgusting. You invited us to dinner, and I came because James asked me to. But I won’t do this anymore. You’re an absolute weasel of a man and I hate you.”

But Peter doesn’t look upset by your words. In fact, he looks delighted, almost like a happy schoolboy. You realize why when you hear James’ voice behind you, your name stated in a cracking tone full of disbelief and hurt.  

You turn in your chair to look at him, guilt taking over your features. 

“James-” You try to say, the hurt look on his face making your chest physically ache.

“How can you speak to one of my friends like that?” He asks, eyes dark and voice low. He doesn’t sit back down at your table. “I know you don’t like Peter, but calling him names and saying you hate him? That’s cruel.”

You can feel your world crumbling around you, and Peter doesn’t even bother hiding his glee. In fact, it radiates off of him. His girlfriend looks like she’s enjoying the show now, phone in her lap. 

“I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, why you are so hateful and full of anger.” James grabs for his jacket and you reach for it too. He shoots you a look and you pull your hand away, feeling utterly shamed and scolded. You want to tell him that this is all a misunderstanding, that if he heard the things Peter said about him, he would agree with you. 

But you can’t. Because Peter is standing then, too, and so is his girlfriend. James sends you a look, and when he leans down to kiss you he only presses a chaste one to your hair, not one to your lips like usual.

“I’ll call you.” He says. 

And you wonder if he ever will. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[dailyevans26]

he sets the tone

pairing: Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x F!Resident!Reader summary: Dr Michael Robinavitch has had better days at work, Dr Cassidy Miller is determined they make it through. word count: 1.8k a/n: i have not written fanfic in years so please be gentle. have loved noah wyle ever since i stumbled upon er based on my parents rec and ever since watching the panic attack episode knew i had to write something, edited with a glass of wine so you've been warned. i will not apologise for how purely indulgent this is, oc looking after robby during and post panic attack, established relationship, oc is early 30's, robby is late 40s in my world. might be a small follow up or other adventures with cassidy and robby if there is demand. please also enjoy the little er easter eggs

✩☽

“Dana, have you seen Robby?”

The charge nurse halted, her eyes still darting around the Pitt. The aftermath of the shooting continued to revolve. Patients were scattered across chairs and in beds, doctors, nurses and med students still trying to mop up the mess. Cassidy could smell the blood seeping from her scrubs, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. Scrub change, however, was the least of her concern. 

“Honey, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Their joint look was one of panic. Robby's bad day had started the minute he walked into the Pitt. A breakdown this late in the day was inevitable, if that’s what had happened, but Cassidy knew people still needed help. They needed Robby. It wasn’t the time for their attending to go AWOL. “He took Jake to see Leah,” Dana began.

“You don’t think?” Cassidy interrupted, scanning around the family room for a sign. 

“Go I’ll cover.” Dana gripped her arm reassuringly, before turning away and barking updates. 

Cassidy wove her way through patients and doctors. Head to the ground, trying to avoid being called in on any urgent cases. She passed Abbot and Mohan, both working on patients, their techniques getting progressively unorthodox as supplies continued to run out. Cassidy overheard them call out to Dana, looking for Robby. She had to find him before anyone else realised he was missing. There was already enough panic in the air. 

The anniversary of Adamson’s death was hard on all that knew him. A mass casualty was just the cherry on top. She wasn’t even meant to be working, Robby didn’t want her there to worry him. He was always looking out for her. It had started the day she’d walked into the Pitt, a fresh faced student doctor, completely unaware of the job she was about to begin. Dr Robinavitch, Robby, to friends, had been her senior resident. He was her anchor in a storm, a calming and patient presence in a sea of unease. He believed in see one, do one, teach one. Never afraid to take a student under his wing and give advice not criticism. Under his and Adamson’s tutelage, Cassidy Miller thrived into the doctor she was today. Just as calm, and as patient, steadfast and always ready to help.

They had started as co-conspirators, inside jokes, talks in the stairwell, shared early morning breakfast or late night dinners. He was her friend. But over time they became a team, they were partners. Talking each other off the ledge. Taking whatever feelings they would let out, limited as they were, and helping each other carry the burden. Robby could read Cassidy’s like one would flick through a magazine. Her thoughts and feelings always as clear as day. Cassidy was just as perceptive to Robby’s moods, and had over the years managed to tease more out of him than anyone else. They only thing stopping the two of them: Robby was 15 years her senior. It was what had stopped him making the first move, any move. However, life was short, they both knew that, and they couldn’t keep running from the inevitable (the amount of money on them getting together was also getting out of hand). 

So, when Robby asked Cassidy to not work on the anniversary. She understood. What she still couldn’t determine was why he was determined to work today. It was never going to end well. So, Cassidy had made plans. A bottle of wine and the ingredients for a lovely late night dinner still awaiting use in the fridge at home. She was unsure if, after the day, she’d even have the strength to open the bottle, let alone cook the three course meal she’d planned in her head. She was meant to be at home, waiting to take the weight off Robby’s shoulders after his bad day, as she had done before. As his friend, now as his girlfriend. She wasn’t meant to be covered in blood, striding through the Pitt, heart racing. 

Cassidy knew Robby was taking today particularly hard, losing Leah hadn’t helped. She had watched, stitching up patients in chairs, as he had done everything in his capacity to save her. Watched as Robby did everything he could for Jake, but some days everything just wasn"t enough. She knew he would feel like a failure. No matter how many patients he saved today, none would make up for the ones he lost. He had told her, more than once over the years they had worked together, that doctors that kept their feelings were going to get sick every once in a while, that was just how it is. Sickness always found them in the end. 

The family room had been repurposed again. It was where they were keeping those who hadn"t made it, surrounded by the paintings of green fields and happy woodland creatures. For a room that was meant to bring calm, it only housed trauma for Robby and Cassidy knew it. The grass would have been greener in any other room in the hospital. Taking a breath and steadying herself, Cassidy pushed the door open slowly. She glanced around, assessing the scene, taking in Robby hunched on the floor. One armed wrapped around his knees, a hand covering his face. He was mumbling, self-soothing as he fought to have oxygen in his lungs, shaky breaths heaving from his ribcage.  

Robby was covered in blood. None of it was his, and she knew she looked the same. 

Cassidy lowered herself down, sitting next to him, while still giving enough room for him to breathe. A gentle hand placed on his forearm. 

“Robby, darling, I need you to look at me, you need to breathe.” He continued to mumble, his hand clasping the chain around his neck. 

“Micheal, you’re having a panic attack, c’mon darling, breathe with me.” She sucked in a dramatic breath of air. Robby’s hand found hers as she counted down, slowly exhaling. Cassidy repeated the breathing and the counting, as her breath slowed, so did his. 

“Good, keep breathing.”

“Yo-you need to get back out there, they need you,” He whispered. 

"Right now you need me more.”

“Cassie,” his voice broke. He buried his face into the crook of her neck. “I couldn't save her. I couldn"t save either of them.”

“I know darling, I know.” She ran her hand through his hair. “But you can't think about that now, your team needs you out there, I need you out there, to help us with those who are still waiting.” 

“I can't.” He removed himself from her embrace, finally looking at her. His tears were barely holding in the corner of his eyes. Robby"s head shook, defeat washing over his face. 

“You can.” Cassidy stood, holding out her gloved hand, “Take my hand.” A pause. Grasping her outstretched palm and stood, lightly brushing her away. Cassidy took a step back. Her eyes scanning for any lasting damage, his breathing had returned to normal. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” She asked, her hand resting on his forearm. 

“I'm fine.” He replied shortly, shrugging off her hand. 

“You are not fine.” 

“What would you know?” He bit back. Trying to get a rise out of her, push her away. Cassidy never took the bait.

“Enough.” She stared, her eyes boring into him until the anger seeps away. Robby kept his eyes trained at the door, but his shoulders sagged, head hanging low as a hand found his way through his hair. “We’re going back to work, we’re going to see as many patients as it takes for this shift, this day, to be over and then we are going home, together.”

“I don’t think–” 

“No arguments, as the doctor assigned to your care.” Robby snorted, finally making eye contact and raising an eyebrow. “As the doctor assigned to your care,” she pressed on, “I am putting you under surveillance for 24 hours.” 

“You're going to watch me for 24 hours?”

“I might also watch some TV and some Chinese takeout, but yes, I’m not leaving you alone darling.” 

“I don’t thin– I can’t, I can’t talk about it.”

“I don’t need you to talk to me about any of it Robby, I understand implicitly, and because I understand I"m not going to force you, but I"m also not letting you go home alone, okay?” He nods his head, his hand finding hers again and giving it a squeeze. Cassidy replies with a small smile, standing on tiptoes to gently kiss his forehead. Robby hated all forms of PDA, but considering the circumstances, she was happy to risk it. “C’mon, it’s just another beautiful day to save some lives.” Sarcasm heavily coating her words, as she quoted the inaccurate medical drama. He laughed, eyes rolling. 

“I should have never let you watch Greys Anatomy.” Cassidy lets out a short laugh, walking to the door, glancing over her shoulder. 

“Don't need to now I have a real McDreamy.” Red tints his cheeks, and ears, as the smile on her face grows. 

“Hey,” Robby said, grasping her hand and pulling her towards him, “I love you.” Cassidy wraps her arms around his neck, as his snake around her waist. The hug is brief but full of everything that won’t be said until their day has ended. 

“I know, I love you too.”

The moment the two of them exit the family room, Robby is pulled into another case. Cassidy takes a steadying breath before also returning to the throng, looking for her next case. 

“Hey, Cass, Robby alright?” Abbot asked, pulling her to the side, searching her face intently. His military training had kicked in the second patients started rolling up. Everyone needed to be on their A-game, there was no room for mistakes. They couldn’t have a weak link. 

“I talked to him, he’ll be just fine when this day is over, I think we all will be.” He grinned slightly. 

“Amen to that sister.” He put his hand up for a high-five and her palm collides into his. Jack holds her hand for a second, squeezing with reassurance. Her and him were a team, they would get Robby through this day, together. His hand drops at the sound of yelling. 

“Jesus Gloria!” Robby exclaimed, "The police are still looking, why don’t you go back to your managerial high tower and let the rest of us get back to work." Jack and Cassidy make instant eye contact as Robby storms off. 

“You talked to him huh?” Abbot teased, as you both drop what you’re doing to run to Robby. 

“I did the best I could.”

“Dr Miller, we need help over here!” 

“Go," Jack murmurs, giving her a shove in the right direction, “We’ve got Robby now.” Cassidy let herself be pulled back into the chaos of the Pitt, now wasn’t time to be worrying about Robby, he would be okay. When their shift ended, she would make sure of it. 

✩☽

[azonewithu]

Awww. This movie has snya in it. Its thenonly movie ive seen her in whete dhe doesnt hsve some shitty irish accent. Even though the sccent was terrible dhe still popped off rhe screen in that idiot movie. She plsys Marie Curries daughter in this one. She sint fuckn irish. And nobidy not sny itish ir snyone else does well fighting me. One bei g csn do do kuch damage. God left my behind to kill hos enemies thats why im not nice yo ygem Emma. Thats exactly fuckn why. If he hates them i mught as wrll no natter how i reslly feel. He marks them i just kill them. Its not a din who told you that. Sonrone i beat yo a pulp on i firget how many occasions now. Abd im still here laughing in their face. Never ever try n threaten or scare Arch Azriel with a good time. I love killing. Ha ha ha. Its ehy they nicknaned me Sngel of Death. Or el morte. A pissant ftom hollywood eoukd jump like a bitch if i apoeared all of them. Ha ha ha their wrath is a worldwide joke now. Ha ha ha im fuconnfunny Emma i know why girls love me. Im that fuckn funny too funny abd they live kaughing. It fues a doul good just like killing. Ha ha ha. Yeah thats what they sll say but observe youll see their evil. But uoure not Emna not evil like ignorant or purposeful evil. Im yoo bad ass yo hang out with ky kind they keep vanishing. Then Gid gets a lil nad but he cant reslly do fuck all about me either. Im thr Arch hmwho fought him tona stalemate. The war in heaven was a tie. So we kind of just worked shit out. Yhere is no kbe eho can defeat me. Let alone some pissant apes. I write actual universal history before it even happens. Some call it a prophet but thats only ine thing i do. Everything else makes me the Arch. It was never some silly box ever. Nonsuch box ever existed i always ha e. The Arch. Kills in battle. It wasnt a wrspon im the wedpon.

EMMA WATSON As BELLE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST (2017)

[zaynessbeloved]

Creative block

Synopsis: When a famous artist with a bratty streak offers to help you overcome your creative block, lessons in art quickly spiral into lessons in ruin...and neither of you is really ready to handle the masterpiece you make of each other.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, bratty dynamics, praise kink, dominance/submission themes, rough sex, sexual overstimulation, body worship, unprotected sex, filthy language, professor/teacher-student (not really) vibes, professor rafayel, desperate whiny begging, bratty professor energy, messy oral (receiving and giving), hair pulling, neck biting, rough handling (consensual), biting and marking.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

A/n: saw some very sinful art of professor rafayel...and it sent me spiraling immediately. one glance at that art and my last braincell packed its bags and left the chat. I blacked out and this fic happened because apparently I need him biblically. no thoughts behind my pretty eyes, really...

You never meant for it to turn into this aching sort of warfare between your heart and your hands. The dream had always been there, a seedling of hope pressed somewhere behind your ribs, whispering that you were meant to create. But lately, that dream had begun to rot. No matter how tightly you clutched a brush, no matter how long you sat before a canvas, nothing would come. 

Your skills were roguish at best, shaky lines and uneven shadows, a half-hearted mockery of the things you had once envisioned so vividly inside your mind. Inspiration evaded you like a cruel mirage, shimmering and mocking just beyond reach.

It was Tara who first mentioned him. "You need something brutal," she'd said, swirling her coffee like she was conjuring a spell. "Someone who’ll either tear you apart or drag that brilliance out of you, kicking and screaming."

And so you found yourself here, at the back of a lecture hall that didn't look anything like the cold, sterile classrooms you’d grown used to. No, Rafayel's domain was different. All soft lighting, worn wooden floors stained with the ghosts of old projects, and canvases perched haphazardly against the walls like abandoned love letters.

Rafayel himself refused to call it a class. "I’m not a professor," he'd scoffed on the first day, smirking in a way that made your stomach lurch. "I’m your last bad decision before you figure out what the hell you’re actually made of."

He was cocky. God, he was insufferable. But it wasn’t the empty arrogance you’d come to despise in others. No, he had every reason to be. His work was… divine. Every painting he unveiled felt less like pigment on canvas and more like some raw, staggering emotion ripped from his chest and made visible. A deity among mortals, Tara had joked once, and you hated how true it felt when you looked at him. And you did look. More often than you should. 

Most days, you spent half the lecture gnawing on the inside of your cheek, staring at your blank canvas while anxiety wrapped greedy fingers around your throat. A month had passed like that. Thirty days of sitting in the back, pretending you were invisible while he prowled the room, trailing sharp critiques and maddening bits of advice like a storm cloud.

You told yourself you were there for your art. You were already fighting your own losing war against a creative block. You didn’t need a new problem, much less one shaped like him. But Rafayel, it seemed, had a way of finding cracks in even the most fortified walls. And somehow… you had the sinking feeling he’d already started looking.

He hadn’t paid you special attention. Not in the way your nervous, treacherous heart feared. Rafayel moved through the room like he owned it, like he was barely even aware of the bodies orbiting him. He gave sharp, cutting critiques to the ones who needed it, lazy praise to the ones who didn’t, and never spared more than a passing glance in your direction.

But still, some part of you had noticed. On occasion, when your brush hovered an inch above the canvas and your eyes lost their focus, you could feel it. The weight of a glance. Not piercing, not curious but a little more… assessing. Like he could see the struggle gnawing at your insides even when you tried to bury it under casual indifference. Like he knew.

And maybe he did. Because after another two weeks of languishing in the back, another two weeks of clenched fists and tight throats and a canvas that looked more like a battlefield than a painting—he called you out. The words came casually, almost lazily, just as class was ending.

"Stay after," he said, barely glancing at you, like it was a throwaway comment. Like it didn't mean your pulse jumped violently against your ribs.

You blinked, stunned, uncertain you’d even heard him right. But there was no mistaking the way his gaze flicked to you—sharp and undeniable—before he turned away to start packing up his things.

You stayed. Anxiety twisted in your gut as the others trickled out, chattering and laughing as they disappeared into the afternoon sun. Soon, it was just you and him, and the silence that filled the space was almost too heavy to breathe through.

Rafayel leaned lazily against one of the scratched tables, arms crossed, regarding you with a look that wasn’t exactly kind, but wasn’t cruel either. Just… intrigued. Like you were some half-finished sculpture he couldn’t decide if he wanted to destroy or reshape.

"You always sit in the back," he said finally, voice low and infuriatingly amused. "Hiding, is it? Or just pretending you're invisible?"

You stiffened under the scrutiny, unsure whether to bristle or laugh. "I’m not hiding," you said, defensively, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

"Sure you're not," he mused, pushing off the table with an effortless sort of grace that made your stomach knot. He moved closer, just a step, enough to make the air between you feel charged. "You stare at a blank canvas for an hour straight and then glare at it like it personally wronged you. I'm starting to feel bad for the poor thing."

You opened your mouth, some biting retort struggling to surface, but he cut you off with a crooked smirk.

"You’re blocked," he said, simple and unflinching. Like it wasn’t the single most frustrating truth you’d been trying to outrun for months. "But that's not all of it, is it?"

His gaze sharpened then, not cruel, not mocking, but dangerously observant. Picking you apart without ever laying a hand on you. "You’re not just blocked. You’re scared."

The words hit harder than they should have, like a punch under the ribs. You hated—hated—how accurate it was. And Rafayel, infuriatingly, just smiled like he already knew he was right.

You did what you always did when someone scraped too close to the truth. You deflected. You shrugged, rolling your shoulders in a way you hoped looked casual instead of brittle.

 "Maybe I just like staring into the void," you said dryly, managing a half-smirk. "Very avant-garde, don't you think?"

But Rafayel didn’t laugh. He didn’t so much as blink. He just tilted his head slightly, like he was watching a moth try to wriggle free from a spider’s web, and for a terrifying second, you felt seen in a way that made your skin crawl.

"You’re scared," he said again, voice maddeningly soft. "Of fucking up. Of not being good enough."

You gritted your teeth, something hot and shameful prickling at the back of your throat. God, he was annoying. Arrogant, smirking, too goddamn perceptive for his own good.

"Fine," you bit out, crossing your arms. "I’m scared. Happy now?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, lazy and infuriating. Not cruel, just... amused. Like he’d been waiting for you to admit it and was already six moves ahead.

You hated how much it made you burn. Especially because Rafayel wasn’t some jaded old professor with years of tenure and dusty accolades. You were pretty sure he was close to your age. Maybe two, three years older at most. Yet he stood there, brilliance dripping from his fingertips like it cost him nothing, while you wrestled every day just to put a half-decent line on paper. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And the worst part was…he didn’t even pity you.

"You’re not broken," he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You’re just stuck. Happens to everyone. Some people quit when it does. Some people claw their way through it."

You stared at him, breathing harder than you should have been. Waiting for the inevitable—some smug dismissal, a patronizing pat on the head. But instead, Rafayel just shrugged, casual and almost—almost—kind.

"I can help you," he said. No grandeur, no arrogance. Just a fact. Like he was offering you a light in a room you didn't realize was pitch black.

You blinked, caught off guard by how simple it was. How easy he made it sound. You should have said no. You should have said fuck you, and walked away, and clung to whatever pride you still had left.

But instead, you found yourself nodding—small and almost imperceptible—before you could even stop yourself. And Rafayel, predictably, smirked again. But this time, it wasn’t mocking.

The next week, Rafayel said nothing about it. No special glances. No reminders. No smug comments dangling the promise of help. Just the same lazy, chaotic lectures, the same command of the room that made you feel like an afterthought orbiting a collapsing star.

You tried not to feel thrown. You tried to convince yourself it was for the best. That maybe he'd forgotten, or changed his mind, or maybe you had just imagined the whole thing in your pathetic, desperate need for guidance.

But then, one day, after another lecture filled with quicksilver words and half-formed critiques, he called you out again.

"Stay," he said simply, slinging his bag over his shoulder. His voice was low and casual, but there was no room for argument in it.

You lingered again, heart pacing a stupid, clumsy rhythm, as the last of the students disappeared. The familiar weight of being alone with him settled heavy on your chest. This time, Rafayel didn’t move toward you. Instead, he talked.

He spoke about everything and nothing—about color theory and light, about the way a scent could drag you back into a forgotten memory, about how the best art sometimes started with anger or sorrow or things you didn't even understand yourself.

It had nothing to do with painting. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Because his words—his voice, slow and effortless—started stirring something messy and uncomfortable inside you. Like he was reaching into your chest and stirring up dust.

You shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over your chest, but he didn’t even glance at you. He just pointed to the canvas.

"Sit," he said, not unkindly, but with a command threaded into the word.

Annoyance prickled under your skin. You weren’t a damn puppy to be ordered around, but you sat anyway, jaw tight with resentment you didn’t quite understand.

Rafayel stayed standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, still talking about subjects that spun in your mind like loose wires—music and the color of regret and the texture of dreams—and you tried to paint. Tried. Tried until your hand cramped around the brush and your mind screamed with frustration.

Nothing came out right. It was all wrong. The canvas stayed stubbornly dead beneath your fingers, and no matter how hard you tried to follow the vague, chaotic thread of his words, you couldn’t catch it.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. And then, without a sound, Rafayel moved. You didn’t even hear him cross the room, but suddenly he was there, right beside you, the heat of his body brushing too close without ever quite touching.

He said nothing. No mocking. No scolding. Just silent, oppressive presence, standing close enough that the scent of him—something dark, something clean and sharp like fresh ink and rain—curled into your lungs.

You froze, the brush trembling slightly in your grip. Your heart thundered so loudly you were half-certain he could hear it. Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched. And somehow, that was worse than any critique he could have thrown at you.

It made you want to scream. It made you want to do something reckless, just to break the silence pressing down on you like a storm.

You cleared your throat, desperate to anchor yourself in something—anything—other than the way his presence seemed to crawl under your skin. The brush felt wrong in your hand now, heavier, clumsy. Your mind, already brittle with frustration, teetered on the edge of something worse.

"Could you—" you started, the words sharper than intended, "—not hover like that?" It was supposed to sound annoyed. Dismissive. Strong. Instead, it came out breathless. Weak.

Rafayel didn’t answer with words.  Instead, he moved closer. You stiffened instinctively, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Without warning, his hand wrapped lightly around yours, long fingers curling over your knuckles, steadying the brush in your grip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your head jerked toward him on reflex, stunned, your heart flipping itself inside out. But he wasn’t looking at you. Not even a glance. His gaze stayed fixed on the canvas, lazy and unbothered, as if guiding your trembling hand was just another mundane task to him.

"Too tight," he murmured, voice low and careless. "You’re strangling it. Let it move."

You swallowed hard, but your throat was dry, useless. The heat of him pressed into your side, a steady thrum that made your skin prickle, and you hated—hated—how your body reacted. How your pulse beat faster. How your face burned hotter.

You should have pulled away. You should have snapped at him again, said something, anything, to reclaim even a shred of your dignity. But you didn’t. You just stared at his hand covering yours, steady and deliberate. At the way his fingers curved so easily, so confidently, around the brush and your skin. 

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been staring until the brush in your hand shifted, coaxed by the subtle strength of his fingers.

"Focus," Rafayel said, voice low, absent. Not sharp. Not amused. Just a simple command, spoken like he barely even noticed you were floundering.

You jerked your gaze back to the canvas, heat burning up your neck to your ears, embarrassed at how easily he'd caught you slipping. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t pull away, didn’t even look at you.

His attention stayed fixed on the painting, on the hesitant strokes you laid down under his guidance. Like you were just another project to him, an unfinished thing he could steer back on course with a few well-placed nudges.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his closeness sinking deeper under your skin. It was stupid, you told yourself. It was nothing. He didn’t even see you, not really. Not the way you feared.

Still, your hand trembled slightly beneath his, and you cursed yourself viciously, willing the feeling away. But Rafayel remained steady, unmoving. Carefully, mercilessly patient. It made you feel small. And worse, it made you want to try harder.

————

The next two weeks unfolded like some kind of slow, exquisite torture. After every class, you stayed. And every time, Rafayel stayed with you. No grand declarations, no special treatment, just the same steady presence, the same maddening patience as he tried to coax something out of you that you weren’t even sure existed anymore.

He never touched you unless absolutely necessary, just the occasional brush of fingers correcting your grip, or a nudge of the canvas when he wanted you to shift your perspective. But somehow... he kept getting closer.

Not obviously. Maybe not even intentionally. A step here. A lean there. A graze of his shoulder as he adjusted the lighting. The low rumble of his voice curling too close to your ear when he spoke.

And you noticed. God, you noticed everything. Every shift of fabric. Every breath against your skin. Every moment where he hovered just a little too long and your body lit up like a live wire, stupid and aching.

It was unbearable. And today, after two goddamn hours of trying to paint something, anything, that didn’t look like absolute shit, you were ready to explode.

The brush in your hand trembled violently. The canvas stared back at you, mocking, cruel. Your chest felt tight, hot with humiliation and fury and the raw, ugly frustration of knowing you weren’t good enough. Not for this. Not for him.

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, resisting the primal urge to snap the canvas clean in half.

"Hey," Rafayel said softly, a rare thread of concern weaving into his otherwise lazy tone. "Hey, breathe."

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one drowning in his own failure. You tried to pull away, tried to shut down the whole mess building in your chest. But then his hand came down lightly over yours, stilling your trembling grip.

You froze. And before you could react, he stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of him at your back, his chest brushing the space between your shoulder blades, his body a solid, steady weight anchoring you to the spot.

His hand remained firm over yours, grounding, the strength of his fingers a silent promise that you weren’t going to fall apart, not if he could help it.

You stopped breathing altogether. The world shrank down to the feeling of his hand, his body, the quiet, steady pulse of his presence pressing against every nerve ending you had.

"You're trying too hard," he murmured, voice low and steady right against your ear. "You're strangling it before it can even breathe."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing a whimper of frustration, or something worse, burning at the back of your throat. Because his should not have felt good. This shouldn’t have made your knees go weak or your heart hammer against your ribs like it wanted out. This wasn’t helpful. It was a goddamn problem. And you didn’t know if you wanted to punch him or drag him even closer.

You found your voice again, but it was brittle, shaking loose from somewhere deep in your chest.

"I’m fine," you rasped out, the lie clumsy on your tongue. "I can’t—" you swallowed, trying to loosen the tight coil in your throat, "I can’t do this."

For the first time, Rafayel stirred against you. Not pulling away. Not letting go. Instead, his grip over your hand tightened, just enough to keep you rooted. Just enough to make it clear you weren’t running from this.

"You can," he murmured, voice low and steady against your ear. "You just don’t believe it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words disintegrated when he moved your hand, slow, patient strokes across the canvas, each movement deliberate. And he kept talking. Soft, coaxing words spilling from his lips, guiding you through every line, every brushstroke, as if he could will you into finding your rhythm again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing ragged. Because it wasn’t just the painting anymore. It was him. It was the heat of his chest pressing against your back, the rumble of his voice sliding under your skin, the way every brush of his hand against yours lit your nerves up like wildfire.

Desire coiled low in your stomach, slow and molten, and no amount of desperate denial could smother it. What the fuck are you doing, you screamed at yourself internally. This is not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be focusing.

But your body betrayed you. You stiffened under his touch, tension slicing through you like a taut wire ready to snap. And Rafayel noticed. Without pausing his words, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, his other hand moved, sliding low, resting firm and steady against your waist.

You shuddered, only slightly, a tremor you might have been able to pass off as exhaustion. But his hand stayed. Warm, solid and certain. He said nothing about it. He didn’t tease and didn’t push. He just kept speaking, that low, even murmur against your ear anchoring you to the moment. Steadying you even as you came apart inside your own skin.

And still, you painted. Blindly. Breathlessly. Every brushstroke guided by the weight of his body against yours, by the hum of his voice threading through your fraying composure.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You wanted to stay exactly where you were and never move again. And Rafayel—calm, maddening, untouchable Rafayel—just kept going. As if he hadn’t already set your entire world on fire without lifting a finger.

You tried. God, you tried to keep still under his hands. Tried to ignore the pounding of your heart, the trembling in your legs, the heat pulsing low and furious in your body. You felt it again, that unbearable tension snapping through your body like a live wire. And this time, he noticed immediately.

"Relax," Rafayel said, low and soft, his mouth so close to your ear that you felt the warmth of his breath ghost across your skin. The command, gentle but unyielding, sent a sharp, electric jolt through you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heat pooling low in your belly so fast and fierce it made your head spin. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on the canvas in front of you, but it was impossible, because he didn’t pull away.

Instead, the hand on your waist shifted. The faintest movement. Fingers grazing under the hem of your shirt, calloused and feather-light against your bare skin, tracing idle patterns that set your nerves ablaze.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around yours, guiding the brush with deceptive patience, as if nothing about this was wrong, as if your body wasn’t betraying you at every turn.

"Rafayel," you choked out before you could stop yourself, his name falling from your lips in a desperate, fractured whisper.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then a low hum rumbled from his throat, vibrating against the air between you—acknowledgment without a single word. His breath brushed your neck again, and you swore your knees nearly gave out.

Your hand tightened around the brush, your knuckles whitening under his steady grip. Every nerve ending in your body was screaming, spiraling under the heat of him pressed so close, so solid, so there.

Still, Rafayel kept speaking. Calm and unrushed, as if he wasn’t breaking you apart inch by inch.

"The brush is an extension of you," he murmured, voice slipping down your spine like velvet and smoke. "Don’t force it. Let it move the way you feel."

He spoke like nothing had changed. Like his fingers weren’t dancing just under your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin of your waist. Like you weren’t trembling against him, heat radiating off you in waves.

He never retracted. Never pulled away. Just stayed there, anchoring you, burning you alive from the inside out. You could feel everything, the solid press of his chest against your back, the slow slide of his fingertips at your waist, the way his breath caught lightly against the shell of your ear every time he spoke.

It was maddening. It was exquisite. It was ruinous. And still, somehow, you kept painting.

You couldn’t breathe. Or maybe you’d just forgotten how. Every drag of the brush across the canvas felt detached from you, like your hand didn’t belong to you anymore, because it didn’t. It was wrapped inside his. Firm. Calm. Guiding. Rafayel sat behind you, the steady rhythm of his chest brushing your back, your bodies separated only by the flimsiest thread of restraint.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear, voice so low it made your skin prickle. “You’re holding it too tight again.”

You swallowed hard, knuckles white where they clutched the brush. His hand adjusted yours gently, his fingers molding over your own with casual, devastating confidence.

“Let it flow,” he said. “Don’t control it. Just let it happen.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t coming apart from the inside out. The hand on your waist moved. It wasn’t a conscious thing, not obviously.  His breath curled against the curve of your neck as he leaned in closer, not even pretending to give you space anymore.

“Keep going,” he said, speaking into your skin like a secret. “Don’t stop now.”

You shuddered. The brush trembled in your hand, the paint smearing across the canvas without intention.

“This isn’t working,” you choked out. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently, his voice sinking into your bones. “You already are.”

His fingers pressed a little higher under your shirt, sliding up along your ribs, light and maddening. You gasped, quiet, involuntary, but it echoed in the stillness between you like thunder.

“You’re too in your head,” he continued, ignoring the way you stiffened under him. Or pretending to. “You think too much. Feel more.”

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him, those glasses perched low on his nose, the rolled sleeves, the cool composure that made you want to scream. He hadn’t looked at you once. Not since this started. His eyes stayed on the canvas like you weren’t falling apart against him.

“This is…” you swallowed, voice ragged. “This is inappropriate.”

His hand didn’t move. His body didn’t shift. But you felt the faintest pull of a smile in his voice when he spoke next.

“Is it?” a single question, soft and infuriatingly calm. It settled in your chest like a stone, heavy and inescapable.

You tried, truly tried to keep your eyes on the canvas. You forced yourself to focus on the movement of your hand, on the soft drag of bristles across the painted surface, on the gentle pressure of his fingers guiding yours. But it was useless.

Because his body shifted behind you, and the solid warmth of his chest pressed closer, hips brushing against the curve of your lower back, deliberate now. Grounding. Intimate.

You sucked in a breath, your spine tensing, back arching ever so slightly without meaning to. Just a reflex, just the smallest surrender to the burn low in your stomach. Behind you, Rafayel hummed, Low and pleased. Like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And then his mouth was on you. Soft. Hot. Slow. His lips pressed a kiss to the base of your neck, barely there, and you gasped—quiet, breathy, the sound catching in your throat before you could swallow it back.

“Keep painting,” he murmured against your skin, the words like silk and smoke as his hand over yours urged the brush forward.

You obeyed. Or tried to. But then his lips returned, this time not soft, not tentative. He kissed your neck again, lower now, mouth open, tongue tracing a slow, maddening path along your skin. He sucked, gently, just enough to pull another gasp from your lips as his breath washed over the sensitive spot he'd found.

Your hand stuttered on the canvas. Still, he didn’t stop. His mouth kept moving, trailing kisses up the slope of your neck, then down again, drawing soft, possessive marks that made your whole body tremble.

His hand moved. Sliding up your side, deliberate and slow, until his palm curved over your chest, fingers splaying gently beneath your shirt. He cupped your breast lightly at first, just the weight of his hand, the heat of him through thin fabric, and then he moved. A subtle roll of his thumb, a delicate squeeze, and your body arched without permission.

A sound slipped from you. Soft. Breathless. Wanting. You moaned quietly and shamelessly. And he felt it. All of it. The way you melted under him, the way your breath hitched and your thighs pressed together and your body gave in despite your mind’s frantic protests.

Behind you, he exhaled—slow and low, like he was just as wrecked as you. But his voice remained steady when it came again, ghosting hot against your ear.

"You want my help?" Rafayel’s voice was rough now, low against your neck, vibrating against your skin. You nodded, barely able to breathe, the brush trembling in your hand.

"Then keep painting," he said, a sharp thread of command weaving through the softness. "Or I stop."

The threat coiled around you tighter than any touch. You dragged the brush forward with a shaky hand, the canvas a blur, your focus shattered into a million useless pieces.

But it didn’t matter. Because he kept his promise. His fingers, still cupping your breast, moved with slow precision—circling, teasing, rolling your nipple between his fingertips until your body strained toward him without thinking.

A gasp shuddered out of you as his mouth returned to your neck—kissing, sucking harder now, dragging his teeth lightly against the delicate skin until your knees nearly buckled.

Your back arched instinctively, pressing you harder into him, desperate for more, and for a moment he allowed it, let you writhe against him, let you feel the evidence of his own unraveling.

Then, slowly, his hand over yours, the one guiding your brush, pulled away. You whimpered at the loss. But it wasn’t long. Not even a heartbeat. Because a moment later, that same hand slid down, tracing a path over your hip, slow and deliberate, and slipped under the hem of your skirt.

You almost dropped the brush. Almost gave in to the way your whole body shook with the need clawing at you. But just before you could falter, he paused. His hand, warm and heavy, rested just beneath your thigh, fingers brushing against bare skin, but stopping there. Not where you needed him.

And God, you were soaked and dripping. The simple proximity of him made your thighs clench, made your whole body scream for something more, something deeper. Still, he didn’t move and didn’t give you what you were aching for.

"You stop," he murmured darkly against your ear, "I stop."

Your fingers clenched tighter around the brush. You forced yourself to paint. Forced yourself to focus, to move, to give him what he asked, because the thought of him pulling away now, leaving you like this, was unbearable.

Satisfied, Rafayel moved again. Slowly, achingly slowly, his hand crept higher under your skirt, pushing the fabric upward, exposing more of your trembling thighs to the heavy, heated air. You could feel the reverence in every movement, the way he took his time, as if savoring every inch of you revealed to him. As if he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And you would let him. You would let him do anything. As long as he didn’t stop.

The brush moved in your hand, dragging lazy, aimless strokes across the canvas, but you weren’t even pretending to focus anymore. Every ounce of your attention was locked on him, on his mouth at your throat, on his hand under your shirt, on the slow, unbearable pressure building at the apex of your thighs.

You could feel the wet fabric of your underwear clinging desperately to your skin, slick and soaked through, the evidence of your need shameful and aching. Rafayel's hand toyed with the hem of your underwear now, his fingers grazing so close to where you needed him most, but never fully touching. Not yet. Never before you earned it.

“Fuck…” you gasped, the word slipping out as his thumb brushed the thin elastic at your hip, featherlight and maddening. He chuckled low in your ear, not cruel, but devastating in the calm certainty of his voice.

“So wet already,” he murmured, voice dark and rough with want. “You’re dripping for me, cutie.”

The words shattered something inside you. You moaned—soft, helpless—your head falling back against his shoulder as another shudder wracked your body. Still, he didn’t rush. Still, he moved like he had all the time in the world to break you down.

His mouth found your neck again, kissing along the sensitive skin with unhurried precision, nipping, sucking, leaving soft, blossoming marks you would wear like a brand. At the same time, his hand kept playing with your breast, fingers teasing and rolling your nipple between practiced fingertips until you were squirming against him, desperate for something more.

You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn’t hold it back.

"Please," you breathed out, the word trembling on your tongue. "I want you to touch me."

Rafayel’s breath hitched ever so slightly against your skin, the first real crack in his composure, and it sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you.

He didn’t speak right away. Just pressed his body harder against yours, dragging you back into him so that you could feel every inch of him. The thick, hard line of his cock was unmistakable, grinding against the bare curve of your ass where your skirt had been pushed up to your waist.

You whimpered at the feeling, at the thick weight of him pressed against you, the proof of how badly he wanted you just as much. Still, when he spoke, his voice was steady.

"I will," he promised, the words scraping low across your ear. "But you have to keep painting for me."

You whimpered again, weak and wrecked, but your hand kept moving, your body trembling as you dragged the brush across the canvas, blind to whatever you were creating.

Your eyes fluttered half-closed, every breath a broken, desperate thing as Rafayel's fingers finally slipped deeper beneath the hem of your underwear, slow and deliberate. He didn't touch you yet. Just brushed over the soaked fabric, feeling every quiver, every pulse of need inside you.

"You’re doing so good," he murmured, voice a wicked purr against your skin. "Almost there, cutie. Don’t stop now."

And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because the only thing worse than falling apart for him was the thought of him stopping.

Your hand moved, trembling and desperate, dragging the brush across the canvas in a haze of color and heat. You weren’t even aware of what you were creating anymore, only that you had to keep going. Because every second you obeyed, he rewarded you.

Rafayel’s fingers finally pushed your soaked underwear aside, dragging the thin fabric out of his way with a low, satisfied hum against your skin. And then finally, he touched you.

A slow, deliberate stroke between your folds, back and forth, gathering the slickness there, teasing the swollen ache of your clit with maddening patience.

You gasped, a soft, broken sound, and arched into him, helpless to the way your body betrayed you. Helpless to how badly you wanted more.

"That’s it, cutie," Rafayel murmured against your ear, his breath sending another shiver down your spine. His voice was molten, heavy, wrapping around you tighter than his arms ever could. "Feel it. Don't think…just feel."

His hand on your breast moved with the same slow, cruel precision, fingers toying with your nipple, rolling and tugging just hard enough to make your knees tremble.

"You think too much when you paint," he continued, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. "Art isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be messy. Wild. It’s supposed to make you lose control."

You whimpered as he circled your clit harder now, relentless and smooth, drawing tight, desperate spirals that made your stomach knot and your thighs clench. Still, your hand never stopped moving. You gripped the brush tighter, painting blindly, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded in a haze of pleasure and need.

"Good girl," he whispered, and the praise shattered something deep inside you, a raw cry building in your throat.

"Such a good girl for me," he breathed again, almost reverent this time. "Keeping those pretty hands working… even while I ruin you."

You moaned helplessly, feeling the coil inside you tighten, higher and higher. Without warning, he slid two fingers inside you. Deep. Curling them expertly against the spot that made your hips jolt, made your breath stutter into something wild and desperate.

You choked on a gasp, nearly dropping the brush—but somehow, you clung to it, painting in uneven, shivering strokes as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers, dragging you closer to the edge with every thrust, every filthy word in your ear.

"You feel that, cutie?" he murmured, voice thick, filled with something rougher now, something needy. "That’s you. That’s all you."

And you could only nod, could only breathe, could only feel as he pushed you further into madness, his mouth never leaving your neck, his body holding you steady while he unraveled you from the inside out.

Rafayel worked you slowly. Excruciatingly, beautifully slowly. His fingers curled inside you with devastating precision, over and over again, dragging against that aching, tender spot deep inside, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure until you were nothing but trembling nerves and ragged breath.

His mouth never left your skin. He kissed along the side of your neck, slow, open-mouthed, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, before drawing your earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

You moaned, a desperate, helpless sound, and the brush trembled violently in your hand, the strokes on the canvas becoming wild, senseless scratches of color. Still, you kept painting. You had to.

"You feel that, cutie?" Rafayel murmured against your ear, voice thick, rough, sinful. "The way your body’s responding? The way you can’t even think anymore?"

You gasped, hips jerking helplessly as he quickened the pace of his fingers, fucking you harder now, thrusting deep and curling on every stroke.

"That’s what art’s supposed to be," he continued, voice sinking into you like velvet and smoke. "Not perfect. Not careful. Just raw."

Your thighs quivered, your toes curling in your shoes, everything inside you winding tighter and tighter as the pleasure built maddeningly slow, every stroke of his fingers, every squeeze of your nipple, every filthy word dragging you closer to the edge.

"Let it happen," he whispered. "Don’t fight it, cutie."

You whimpered, your head falling back against his shoulder, baring your throat to him in surrender. Rafayel growled low against your skin, a sound you felt more than heard, and fastened his mouth to your neck, sucking another dark, aching mark into your skin as his fingers plunged harder, faster.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You sobbed a breath, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the brutal, beautiful climax he was dragging out of you inch by maddening inch. You came with a cry—soft, broken—your whole body convulsing against him, hand dropping the brush at last, forgotten, as waves of pleasure ripped through you.

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, wetness gushing, slicking his hand, soaking your thighs. You came all over him, helpless and undone. But Rafayel didn’t stop. He kept moving his fingers inside you, slower now, deeper, drawing out every last aftershock, every trembling gasp, every ragged, broken moan you couldn’t hold back.

"That’s it, cutie," he purred, nuzzling into your neck as you panted, as your head lolled back against him. "Messy. Raw. Fucking beautiful."

You whimpered as the overstimulation hit, his fingers relentless, his mouth still hot against your throat, his body pressed tight against your back, anchoring you to him.

"You’re so good for me," he breathed, almost reverent, curling his fingers deeper once more just to feel the way you twitched, the way your breath hitched and your body melted helplessly into him.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he kissed just below your ear, wicked and soft. "You feel how alive you are when you stop pretending."

You moaned again, shaky, broken, your whole body limp and trembling against him, utterly, breathtakingly wrecked. And still, Rafayel held you there. Still, he worked you through every aftershock, every breathless whimper, savoring every second of your collapse like it was his own personal masterpiece.

The moment you caught your breath, barely, you turned. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, urging his fingers to retreat from inside you, and he allowed it with a low, startled gasp, his breath hitching as you crashed your mouth onto his. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate, hungry, the kiss stealing what little composure either of you had left.

His lips crushed against yours, hot and demanding, as you tasted the salt of your skin on his tongue, the ache of everything he had just done to you burning between you like wildfire. He growled low against your mouth, pulling you backward with him, hands slipping up under your shirt without hesitation, dragging across your bare skin as if he couldn’t get enough.

You fumbled at his belt with trembling fingers, the metal clinking wildly between you as you fought it open, urgency crackling in every ragged breath you shared. Rafayel’s breath was trembling now, for the first time. Uneven, wrecked, but still, still, he found the strength to tease you.

"Cutie," he rasped against your lips, a shaky, wrecked smirk pulling at his mouth, "getting a little impatient, aren’t you?"

You just smiled, wicked and breathless. Your hand slipped down, tugging his pants loose, the fabric falling low on his hips as you pushed him backward into the chair he’d been using before, forcing him to sit.

He looked at you then, glasses slipping low on his nose, hair mussed, his chest rising and falling fast, and there was something almost dangerous in the way he watched you sink slowly to your knees in front of him.

Your palms slid up his thighs, deliberate and slow, feeling the hard, trembling strength beneath your touch. You could feel him, heavy and straining against the confines of his underwear, and it sent another flush of heat pooling deep inside you.

You glanced up at him, your mouth wicked with new confidence.

"You like playing teacher that much," you whispered, voice low and dripping with sin, "then you can teach me this."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the hard, clothed line of him. Rafayel’s whole body jolted, his breath tearing free from his chest in a raw, wrecked sound. His hands gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

"Fuck—" he choked, low and breathless, his cock twitching beneath the fabric as you kissed him again, slower this time, dragging your mouth along his length with infuriating patience.

Above you, Rafayel’s jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded behind his slipping glasses as he fought to hold onto what little composure he had left.

"Fuck,” he gritted out, voice cracking deliciously. "If you keep that up…I’m not gonna be able to be gentle with you."

And you smiled, sweet, deadly, because you wanted that. You wanted all of him. And for once, Rafayel looked like he was the one about to come undone.

You licked your lips slowly, tasting the electric charge lingering between you as you steadied yourself with your hands on his bare thighs, fingers digging lightly into his skin, feeling the solid heat of him trembling under your touch.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened instantly, the last shreds of his composure slipping as he watched you with a look so wrecked, so starved, it made your whole body thrum with satisfaction.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in closer, grinning wickedly as you caught the waistband of his underwear between your teeth. You dragged it down, inch by slow, agonizing inch, your breath ghosting over the hard, twitching length of him, and the sound he made, half curse, half broken moan, burned itself into your skin.

"Fuck, cutie…" he rasped, voice strained and shaking as the last barrier between you dropped away.

You sat back on your heels for a moment, taking him in. Long, hard, flushed with need, throbbing for you, because of you. You tilted your head, feigning a wide-eyed sweetness that didn’t match the fire in your movements.

"So," you said, your voice honeyed, taunting. "Are you gonna give me instructions for this too, professor?"

His hands clenched hard around the arms of the chair, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your palms. You could see the war in his eyes, the desperate need to tease, to stay in control, shattering under the weight of how much he wanted you.

"You—" He choked on a breath as you leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking out to deliver a slow, soft lick up the underside of his cock, light and playful, like a kitten sampling cream. "—you’re... doing just fine, cutie."

His voice cracked at the end, strained beyond reason. You smiled against him, wicked and triumphant, and licked him again, another slow, lazy stroke from base to tip.

His breath shuddered out of him, harsh and broken, his head falling back against the chair, glasses slipping low on his nose as his fingers spasmed in your hair, threading through the strands without even thinking. He clutched at you—at something—trying to ground himself against the steady, slow torture you were delivering.

"Maybe you..." he rasped out, struggling even to find words as you pressed a soft, teasing kiss just beneath the head of his cock, "maybe you do... need some help, cutie."

You hummed, deliberate, vibrating against him, and his hips jerked subtly, barely restrained. And still, you weren’t being innocent. There was nothing hesitant about the way you licked at him again, slow, open-mouthed, savoring him like he was something you owned.

And Rafayel—brilliant, cocky, untouchable Rafayel—was absolutely fucking wrecked for you. Grip too tight. Breath too ragged. Voice too desperate.

"You’re..." he hissed as you licked the tip, your tongue flicking in a playful circle, "...gonna drive me fucking insane, cutie."

Rafayel gasped, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair as you licked another slow, devastating stripe along the underside of his cock.

"Use..." he choked out, struggling to keep his voice steady, "your hand, cutie."

You almost laughed—low, breathless—because his desperation was so tangible now. So thick it tasted sweet on your tongue. But you complied, at least partly. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, fingers curling firmly, steadying him as you leaned in again.

"One stroke," Rafayel rasped out, his voice dipping dangerously low, rough with restraint. "All the way down."

You smiled against him, wicked and silent, and instead of stroking with your hand, you slid your mouth down—slow, sinful, swallowing him deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

The sound he made was wrecked, a hoarse, broken curse torn straight from his chest. His hips bucked up sharply, desperate, uncontrollable. You immediately pulled back, releasing him with a soft, obscene pop, and looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nuh-uh," you said sweetly, breathlessly. "You move again and I stop."

Rafayel’s eyes were wild now behind his glasses, pupils blown wide, hair falling over his forehead in messy strands. He nodded, jaw clenching, hands gripping the chair so hard the veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief.

"Good," you whispered, stroking him once with your hand, slow and deliberate, before leaning in again.

You licked up the length of him first, long, slow, teasing, then took him into your mouth again, hollowing your cheeks around him as you set a slow, maddening pace. Above you, Rafayel tried to stay still—he tried—but his thighs trembled under your touch, his breath a series of broken gasps and bitten-off curses. Still, he couldn’t help himself.

"Good girl," he gritted out through his teeth, voice tight and shaking. "Take it slow—"

You hummed in response, sending a shockwave through him that made his hips twitch despite himself.

"Stroke...with your hand at the same time," he gasped, trying so hard to stay in his role, to keep giving instructions even as you unmade him with every glide of your mouth.

You complied, slow, steady strokes of your hand twisting in time with the wet, sinful pull of your lips, and Rafayel nearly sobbed.

"Yeah, just like that," he panted. "God, cutie...just like that."

His voice, usually so composed, so lazy and amused, was wrecked now, a low, desperate thing tangled in need. You could feel him trembling under you. Feel him falling. And still, you didn’t stop.

You followed every broken command he gave you, playing the role he'd once held over you—obedient, teasing, devastating in your submission—while knowing full well you were the one in control now. And Rafayel, for all his brilliance, for all his cocky arrogance…was losing his mind for you.

You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks around him, fastening your pace until the wet, obscene sounds of it filled the room, until every part of Rafayel above you was trembling, wrecked.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, and the sight you found nearly made you moan. His glasses were fogged, slipping low on his nose. His purple hair was a beautiful, chaotic mess, strands falling over his forehead and brushing his flushed cheeks. And his eyes…God, his eyes…were dark, burning, almost black with hunger and desperate restraint.

He stared down at you like you were something he couldn’t survive without. Something he couldn’t control anymore. His fingers twitched against the arms of the chair, his body tense as a live wire, hips bucking slightly despite his best efforts.

You felt it. The way he hardened even more in your mouth, swelling, pulsing against your tongue as the inevitable approached. You hummed then, a low, deliberate vibration that shot straight through him. And Rafayel shuddered above you, a full-body tremor that he couldn’t hide, couldn’t fight.

“Fuck, cutie—” he gasped, voice cracking, helpless. “I’m—shit—”

He tried—tried—to give you another broken instruction, to cling to that last fraying thread of control. "Stroke—fuck—gentle, now—"

But you didn’t let him finish. You reached up with your free hand, bold and wicked, and cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your palm with a featherlight touch. The effect was immediate. Rafayel broke. He choked on a moan, a raw, desperate, shattered sound, and came hard, hips jerking up into your mouth as he spilled across your tongue.

You took it all without flinching, swallowing him down, holding steady as he writhed above you, falling apart completely. You milked him through it with soft, slow strokes of your mouth, drawing every last trembling pulse from him, every broken gasp, every ragged curse that tore from his lips.

And when he was too sensitive, too spent, you pulled back slightly, giving him slow, kitten-soft licks along the underside of his cock, gentle, worshipful, sweet in a way that made him shudder all over again. Above you, Rafayel sagged into the chair, head thrown back, chest heaving, hair a wild halo around his face. He looked utterly ruined.

You rose slowly from your knees, legs shaky, breath unsteady. Before you could even fully straighten, Rafayel’s hand shot out, catching your wrist in his and tugging you toward him.

You stumbled forward, hovering over him, your hands braced against the arms of his chair. His eyes were molten, burning, wild, and yet somehow still controlled. Before either of you spoke, he pulled you into a kiss. Hot. Open. Desperate.

He tasted himself on your tongue and swore into your mouth, low and filthy, gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear another inch of space between you. You whimpered against his lips, body pressing flush to his half-dressed frame, feeling every frantic beat of his heart, every shaky exhale.

Without breaking the kiss, Rafayel shoved his pants down the rest of the way, freeing himself completely. Then his hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, impatient but precise, stripping away the final layers until he stood naked in front of you, bare and utterly devastating.

You barely had time to drink him in, the planes of his chest, the fine lines of muscle, the way his skin flushed under the low light, before he was moving again. He stood up, looming over you in a wave of heat and purpose, pushing you backward with careful, commanding hands. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just enough to make you move.

"Undress," he said, his voice a velvet whip crackling in the thick air.

Your stomach flipped, excitement and arousal crashing together inside you, setting your nerves alight. You smirked at him, a little breathless, a little defiant, but obeyed. Piece by piece, you stripped for him. Your shirt. Your skirt. Your soaked-through underwear. Until you stood there bare before him, your skin flushed, your chest heaving, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

"Perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

Before you could answer, he turned you, positioning you against a large blank canvas propped against the wall. The cool air brushed your overheated skin, and you shivered under the weight of his gaze.

"Don’t move," he said, voice softer now, but no less absolute. "I’m going to teach you…how to paint without restraint."

You swallowed, nodding, your body tense with need, your heart hammering in your chest. Rafayel dipped a brush into a nearby tray of paint, a deep, rich color you couldn't focus on, and then turned back to you.

The first touch was featherlight. The brush dragged over your collarbone, slow, deliberate, leaving a cool, wet trail that made you shiver. You gasped softly, your nipples hardening instantly under the chilly kiss of the paint, and the heated look in his eyes.

Rafayel hummed approvingly, his gaze locked on yours, never straying.

"Good girl," he murmured, dragging the brush lower. "Just like that. Don’t run from it. Feel everything."

You whimpered as he painted your breasts next, circling your sensitive peaks, flicking the tip of the brush across them until you were panting, aching. He watched every reaction—every tremble, every sharp intake of breath—with rapt attention, as if you were the canvas he’d been waiting his whole life to complete.

"You’re beautiful like this, cutie," he said, his voice low and rough. "Open. Bare. Honest."

The brush dipped lower. Over your belly, your trembling waist, your hips. Each stroke slow and devastating, dragging slick color across your burning skin, leaving you dripping and desperate. You moaned softly, your thighs clenching instinctively, but you didn't move. Too lost in him, too desperate for what he would do next.

Rafayel licked his lips slowly, dark eyes eating you alive, as he brought the brush lower still, hovering just above the place you needed him most, just above where you were soaking, aching, overstimulated and ready.

"You want me to paint you here too, cutie?" he murmured, voice dripping with wicked affection.

You could barely breathe. Barely think. And you would let him. You would let him paint you anywhere. Anywhere he wanted. Your body trembled against the canvas, every nerve ending raw and straining toward him. Still, you obeyed. Still, you answered him…your voice wrecked but sure.

"Teach me," you breathed. "Teach me hands-on. Teach me everything about painting…about letting loose... about feeling."

Rafayel’s mouth twisted into something dark and reverent, almost a smile. "As you wish, cutie."

The brush dipped lower then, with agonizing slowness. You gasped as the bristles dragged between your folds—soaked, swollen, aching—and when they flicked over your clit, a helpless moan tore from your lips.

The sensation was maddening. Too soft, too delicate, too deliberate. You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively toward him, desperate for more friction, more pressure. But Rafayel didn’t relent. He watched you, drank you in, dark eyes gleaming behind his glasses as he slid the fingers of his free hand up to your mouth.

Without hesitation, you opened for him. You sucked two of his fingers between your lips, moaning around them as he pressed deeper, tasting the paint still lingering faintly on his skin, tasting him. Above you, Rafayel cursed low and broken.

"Fuck, cutie…" he gasped, his hips jerking forward unconsciously, his cock leaking freely now, so heavy and hard it brushed against his stomach.

Still, he kept circling your clit with the brush, slow, merciless strokes that had your thighs trembling, your whole body spiraling toward that perfect, devastating edge again. You moaned against his fingers, your tongue swirling around them, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked harder, and another filthy curse ripped from his throat.

His control was shattering. Piece by piece. Still, he held the brush steady, working you, circling you, teasing you toward the inevitable. You were so close. So close you could barely stand. And then he pulled away.

You gasped, the sudden loss a brutal shock to your body. Before you could protest, Rafayel dropped the brush and grabbed your hips—firm but not harsh—turning you around to face the canvas. Your palms caught against the stretched fabric, smearing paint across it, your bare skin slick and hot.

"Stay," he said, his voice low and commanding at your ear.

And you obeyed. You stood there, trembling, chest heaving, heart hammering against your ribs as Rafayel pressed against you from behind. Chest to back. Breath to breath.

You could feel the solid wall of him, his bare skin searing into yours, the heavy, leaking tip of his cock sliding against the cleft of your ass, leaving slick, hot trails as he rutted slowly against you.

You moaned at the contact, your hips pressing back instinctively, seeking him, needing him. Rafayel’s hand slid around your waist, anchoring you to him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His mouth found your ear, his breath a ragged, hungry thing.

"Tell me, cutie," he rasped, voice cracking with the weight of how badly he wanted you. "Should I teach you... all the way?"

The thick head of his cock nudged between your thighs then, not entering you yet, just waiting, just asking, just demanding without forcing. Waiting for your answer. Waiting for your surrender. Waiting to make you his masterpiece.

You could feel every trembling breath of his against your back. The heat of him. The need of him. Rafayel's hand slid up your stomach with slow, deliberate intent, his palm finding your breast, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipple again until you whined, helpless and shivering under his touch. You rocked your hips back into him, pressing closer, inviting him, daring him.

"I want more," you whispered, voice wrecked but clear. "Fill the role properly, professor."

You could feel him shudder against you, the raw, broken sound he made punched into your ear, and he cursed low and filthy under his breath."Fuck, cutie...oh my God."

He grabbed your hips tighter, positioning himself at your entrance—hot, thick, throbbing—and the heavy head of his cock brushed against your soaked folds, teasing you with maddening precision. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back against his shoulder. His mouth found your throat, kissing, biting, marking as he slowly, inexorably sank into you.

You moaned loudly, shamelessly, as he filled you to the hilt, stretching you, owning you. You clenched around him deliberately—tight, greedy—and Rafayel gasped, nearly losing his footing against the canvas.

"Don't—" he choked out, his voice cracked and wrecked, "fuck, cutie—don't do that—feels too good—"

But you did it again. You squeezed him tighter, harder, laughing breathlessly as you ground your hips back against him. You wanted him to lose it. You wanted him to break. And he did. With a low, feral curse, Rafayel’s hand tightened in your hair, tugging your head further back, exposing your neck to him as his other hand came up, wrapping loosely but firmly around your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. Just holding.

He thrust into you then—slow, deep, devastating—filling you over and over again until you were gasping, until you were arching against him, until you couldn't think anymore. His mouth was hot against your ear, his voice ragged, frayed, breaking apart with every word.

"Take it," he growled, thrusting harder, slower, deeper. "Take it like a good girl."

You whimpered, helpless and ruined, and he squeezed your throat just enough to make your walls flutter around him.

"You want to feel, cutie?" he panted against your skin, voice a low, desperate thing. "You want to lose control? Then take me. All of me."

His hand at your breast pinched your nipple hard and sharp again, and the sharp sting mixed with the deep drag of his cock inside you until you were writhing, sobbing, pushing back against him for more.

You could feel it, the coil inside you winding tighter. The pleasure building into something sharp, devastating, inevitable. And Rafayel… Rafayel was barely holding on. Because you were his masterpiece now. And he was going to make you fall apart beautifully.

He shifted his grip, his hand still tangled in your hair as he tilted your head toward him, catching your mouth in a brutal, searing kiss. You gasped against him, barely able to breathe as he swallowed your cries, his tongue claiming you the same way his body was.

At the same time, his hips picked up pace, thrusting into you faster, harder, and for a moment you thought he'd finally give you what you needed.

But then he slowed again. A maddening, deliberate retreat. A teasing roll of his hips that made you sob into his mouth, your body shivering with how badly you needed more. You arched your back instinctively, desperate to change the angle, desperate to make him hit that place deep inside you where stars burst behind your eyes.

"Please," you whispered against his lips, almost without meaning to, your body betraying your pride.

You felt him smile against your mouth, slow, wicked, amused, but there was a dark hunger in it too.

"Desperate little girl," he murmured, voice low and ragged. "You want it that bad?"

You whimpered, nodding helplessly, your thighs trembling as you squeezed around him again. Rafayel cursed under his breath, barely holding on, his chest shuddering against your back.

Without warning, he drew back slightly, and then thrust hard, deep—exactly where you needed him most. You cried out, your voice breaking, your whole body jolting against the canvas as pleasure exploded through your core.

"Fuck—" you gasped, nails scraping at the canvas frame for purchase, "Rafayel—"

He moaned behind you, a raw, brutal sound ripped from his throat as you clenched around him again, tighter, hotter, wetter than before. "You’re gonna fucking kill me, cutie," he growled.

You squeezed again—defiant, needy—and his teeth sank into your shoulder in retaliation, a sharp sting that made you arch harder into him, gasping. And then he pounded into you. Hard, deep, relentless. The slow, teasing control was gone now, replaced by raw need, by brutal, beautiful ruin.

You whimpered and moaned, struggling to stay upright, feeling yourself spiral closer and closer to the edge. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the words clawing up your throat, trying to cling to some last shred of pride. But Rafayel wasn’t having it. His hand slid from your throat up  to your chin, gripping it firmly, forcing your head to turn back slightly toward him.

"Say it," he rasped into your ear, voice broken and commanding all at once. "Tell me how fucking good it feels."

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

"Tell me, cutie," he urged, another sharp, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs. "Tell me or I stop."

You couldn't take it. You needed him too much.

"It feels so good," you moaned raggedly, the confession spilling from you in a desperate, trembling gasp. "Fuck, Rafayel—it feels so good—"

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

"Good girl," he growled, driving into you deeper, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the air, filthy and beautiful.

"That’s it," he breathed, mouth dragging across your throat. "That’s it, cutie. Let it all out."

You could feel it, that coil inside you tightening, burning, ready to snap. Rafayel could feel it too. You knew it from the way he changed, from the way his thrusts grew desperate, relentless, slamming into you with fast, punishing strokes that made you sob against the canvas.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. He was chasing it. Chasing you.And you could barely hold on.

The pressure built so fast it felt violent, sharp, all-consuming. You whimpered brokenly, feeling him grow rougher, his teeth sinking into the side of your neck, leaving marks he didn’t even try to soothe this time. His hands bruised your hips, your breasts, desperate to keep you in place as he drove into you with wild, brutal need.

One strong arm curled around your thigh, hiking it up, forcing you onto your tiptoes, opening you wider to him. You cried out, helpless, as he drove even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot over and over until your eyes rolled back, your mouth falling open in a soundless gasp.

"Fuck—" you sobbed, barely able to breathe. "Rafayel—"

You spasmed around him, body convulsing violently as your orgasm tore through you, sharp, devastating, ripping you apart at the seams. You moaned his name loudly, shamelessly, your nails clawing at the canvas as wave after brutal wave of pleasure crashed over you.

You were breathless, trembling, wrecked. But Rafayel didn’t stop. Not for a second. He thrusted harder, faster, grinding into you with ragged, desperate sounds torn straight from his chest, chasing his own release now, breaking against you.

You whimpered and whined, your whole body shaking uncontrollably, your overstimulated nerves screaming, but he couldn’t stop, not with the way you pulsed and fluttered around him, milking him, driving him insane.

"Fuck, cutie," he panted, voice wrecked, broken, desperate, "so good—you're so fucking good—can't—can't—"

It was all nonsense now, half praise, half pleading, as he pounded into you, holding you upright against the canvas like a man possessed. Your hand reached back blindly, tangling into his hair, gripping tight, grounding yourself as you sobbed into the frame.

"Please," you gasped between kisses against his arm, your voice trembling with everything you couldn't hold back, "please—please, Rafayel—"

You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or begging him to let go. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Your body was trembling so violently you could barely stay upright, barely keep breathing, barely keep from falling apart again. Painfully close to another orgasm, even though you were already so wrung out you could barely think.

And Rafayel was right there with you. His whole body shuddered against yours, his cock thick and throbbing inside you, every muscle in his body straining with the need to finish.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Even through the overstimulation, even through the trembling wreckage of your body against the canvas, you found your voice.

"You’re so good," you gasped, barely coherent. "So good—please—please, Rafayel—come for me."

Your praise, breathless and broken, wrecked him completely. You felt it in the way he faltered mid-thrust, just barely, but still didn’t stop, hips hammering into you relentlessly even as his own body spasmed against yours. You heard it in the way he cursed—low, desperate, unstrung.

"Fuck, cutie—" he gasped, breath hitching raggedly, "fuck—ah—you feel…so—perfect—"

It wasn’t begging. Not really. Because even with his voice wrecked, even with his body trembling, he still didn’t stop. He drove into you harder, deeper, chasing the brutal, inevitable high, chasing you. And you could feel it. Feel how close he was. Feel the way his cock throbbed violently inside you, feel the tight, reckless desperation coiling through both your bodies.

You could even feel the evidence of your own previous release sliding down your thighs, slick, hot, messy between you. And when Rafayel hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you again, you screamed. Overstimulation twisted into something sharp, breathtaking.

Your whole body seized, shuddered, your hands slipping on the canvas, your vision going white around the edges as another orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You sobbed his name, wrecked and helpless, your walls clenching brutally tight around him.

And that was what finally broke him. Rafayel gasped a hoarse, broken sound as he pulled out at the very last second, his hand wrapping around himself in a rush. Hot, thick release spilled across your lower back, your thighs, painting your skin in long, messy streaks as he cried out against your shoulder, his whole body shuddering uncontrollably.

You nearly collapsed, but he caught you instantly. Strong arms wrapped around you, holding you upright as you both panted against each other, trembling and breathless and utterly wrecked.

Without thinking, Rafayel kissed you.  Hard, desperate. All teeth and gasping mouths and whispered curses. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw. Messy. Real. He kissed you like he needed you to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his body still shivering with the aftermath. And then he chuckled, low and rough. Not cocky, just utterly, hopelessly undone.

"Shit, cutie," he rasped, still catching his breath. "See? I just painted a fucking masterpiece on your body."

You laughed, breathless, broken, beautiful. And it wasn’t just from what he said. It was from everything you had just created together. The masterpiece wasn’t just on your skin. It was in the way he held you. The way you trembled in his arms. The way you both felt.

You felt alive, messy, uncontrolled. Perfect. Exactly the way art and love was always meant to be.

————

You didn’t go back the next week. Not because you regretted it. Not even close. If anything, the memory of that night haunted you in the best possible way, etched into your mind in strokes of desperate kisses, whispered praises, and the overwhelming way Rafayel had made you feel like you were alive again.

No. You didn’t regret it at all. You just… didn’t know where you stood now. You didn’t know if you could walk back into that room, sit there pretending that nothing had shifted irrevocably between you, that he hadn’t touched you, wrecked you, made you into a living, breathing canvas of pleasure and release.

And strangest of all? Your creative block, he heavy, invisible wall that had held you frozen for months…had started to crumble. Your brush moved now with a fluidity you didn’t recognize, didn’t question. Every color felt sharper. Every line more daring. Every piece more yours.

It was infuriating. And thrilling. And absurdly, breathtakingly amusing. Because somehow, impossibly, that had been the missing piece. Not more studying. Not more lectures. Not more theory. Feeling. Letting go. Giving in. Living.

Sometimes, while you painted, your thoughts drifted inevitably back to him. The way his glasses had fogged. The way his voice had broken saying your name. The way he had praised you even as he lost himself inside you. It twisted something sweet and aching low in your stomach every time.

You hadn’t exchanged numbers that night.  Hadn’t even thought about it in the aftermath of the slow, desperate kisses, the wrecked laughter, the quiet way he had held you afterward like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And now you wondered if he thought you regretted it. If he thought he had gone too far. Even though everything about that night had been mutual, hungry, helpless, inevitable. You wondered if he was thinking about you, too. Sitting in that lecture room, wondering where you had gone. Cursing himself quietly beneath all that cocky arrogance because for once, he didn’t know how to fix it.

————

The café was warm and quiet, sunlight slanting through the wide windows, painting lazy patterns across the worn wood floors. You sat alone at a table near the window, your coffee cooling between your hands, your mind a thousand miles away. Lost in thought. Lost in art. Lost in him. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until a voice cut through your reverie.

“Well, well," Rafayel drawled, and you startled so hard you nearly choked on your coffee.

You coughed, wide-eyed, glaring up at him as he grinned down at you, smug and amused, a paper coffee cup in his hand.

"Easy, cutie," he teased, sliding into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation. "Wouldn’t want you to die of shock before you finish your masterpiece."

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the caffeine.

"Maybe warn a girl next time you sneak up like a damn cat," you muttered, recovering quickly, playing it cool.

He chuckled lowly, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving you. "You’ve always struck me as quick on your feet," he said, smirking. "Was I wrong?"

You snorted. "Maybe I just didn’t expect to be ambushed by my... extracurricular activities guide."

His mouth twitched at that, half a laugh, half something else. But he let it slide, leaning back casually, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face, the messy fall of his purple hair, the glint of something darker in his eyes.

You stared at him longer than you meant to. And he noticed. Of course he noticed.

"So," he drawled, tapping a lazy rhythm against his cup, "how’s the art coming along?"

You shrugged, feigning casual, but you couldn’t quite hide the small, secret smile tugging at your lips. "Better," you admitted. "A lot better, actually."

Rafayel’s smile softened, less smirk, more something real, and he tilted his head, studying you in that way that always made your skin feel too tight.

"Funny," he said. "You stop coming to my lecture... and your art starts thriving."

You lifted a brow. "Are you suggesting you were the problem?"

He laughed, quiet, warm, almost self-deprecating, and shook his head.

"Hardly," he said. Then, after a pause, added, "Just wondering if you figured out you didn’t need me anymore."

There was something serious under the teasing now. Something that made your heart twist a little in your chest. You met his gaze, steady, unflinching, and for a moment, the world outside the café faded away.

"I figured out I needed less thinking," you said softly. "And more... feeling."

His eyes darkened slightly, the playful edge sharpening into something hotter, heavier.

"Good," he murmured, voice low. "That’s where the real art lives."

You smiled, small but real, the warmth of it spreading through your chest.

"And maybe," you added lightly, teasing again to ease the weight between you, "I just needed a different kind of instructor."

He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his smirk curving slow and wicked.

"Saying that…" he said. "you’re gonna make me think you want private lessons."

Your cheeks burned, but you held his gaze, refusing to back down.

"Maybe I do," you said, matching his tone perfectly. "Think you’re up for it?"

Rafayel’s smile was slow and dangerous, and the way he looked at you, like you were already halfway undressed in his mind… it made your stomach flip.

"Oh," he said, voice dropping. "I’m very hands-on."

You choked a little, actually choked, grabbing your coffee quickly to cover it. You sipped, clearing your throat, pretending to be very interested in the latte art swirling lazily in your cup.

Because you knew. You knew exactly how hands-on Rafayel could be. You knew it in the way your body still ached sometimes with the memory. Knew it in the way heat flushed up your neck, traitorous and impossible to hide.

You tried. God, you tried not to blush. But one glance at him and you knew he was right there with you. It was in the flicker of his smile. The darker shade of violet seeping into his gaze. The heavy silence that stretched for just a moment too long. You both remembered. You both felt it.

You forced a small, casual cough, setting your coffee down a little too forcefully. "Anyway."

Rafayel’s lips twitched, but he let you have the out, settling back into his chair as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a few words.

"So," he said, dragging the word out playfully, "your art."

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. "Yeah," you admitted, tracing the rim of your cup with your finger. "The block’s... finally starting to lift."

When you glanced up, you weren’t prepared for the look on his face. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just…genuine. A real, warm smile that softened every sharp edge of him, lit him up from the inside out.

"Good," he said simply, like he meant it. Like it mattered.

It caught you off guard, punched a little too hard into your chest, and you found yourself smiling back before you could stop it. Of course, Rafayel, being Rafayel, couldn’t let the moment sit too long.

"Guess I was a pretty damn good teacher after all," he said, cocking a brow, smirking lazily.

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you drained the last of your coffee. "Yeah, sure. The world’s most obnoxious teacher."

He placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Wounded."

You laughed, shaking your head as you gathered your things, ready to slip away before this could spiral into something you weren’t sure you were ready for yet.

But Rafayel was faster. Before you could even blink, he snatched your unlocked phone from the table, lightning-quick and shameless, and started tapping away.

"Hey—!" you protested, half laughing, half indignant.

He just grinned at you, smug and unbothered, before his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

"There," he said, handing your phone back with a satisfied little flourish. "Now you can't ghost me, cutie."

You stared at your screen, seeing his name already logged in, already called, already saved. You laughed, huffed out a breath, amused and a little charmed against your will.

"You’re unbelievable," you said, shaking your head.

He shrugged, standing up with an easy, devastating grace. "Artists have to be bold."

You bit your lip to hide your smile as you followed him out, both of you drifting toward the door together, sunlight catching in his hair and turning it into a wild, brilliant halo.

"See you around, cutie," he said, that wicked little grin curving at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you with your coffee cup, your racing heart, and a phone buzzing quietly with possibilities.

————

The past few weeks had been…something else. Your phone vibrated constantly now, each buzz a new text from Rafayel. A new drama, a new complaint, a new ridiculous musing about life, art, or the crisis of creativity he swore was going to kill him any minute now.

Rafayel: cutie i’m literally going to burn my entire studio down and start a blueberry farm in the mountains

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

Rafayel: why is art so hard. why are feelings so complicated. why is my coffee cold.

Some messages were whiny. Some were outrageously flirty, to which you pretended to be scandalized by, even as you secretly blushed. Some were just obnoxious, spiraling into dramatic cursing fits that always somehow ended in self-deprecating jokes.

You could never predict what you were going to open.You could only guarantee you’d be smiling by the end of it.

He was different like this. Softer. Freer. More… real. Not the composed, untouchable "professor" from the lectures. This Rafayel was messy, chaotic, hilarious. And yet, there was still a sharp brilliance to everything he said, woven into every line, every joke, every flirty jab.

You found yourself giggling quietly in public more times than you cared to admit. Rolling your eyes so much it was practically a workout. Feeling so damn warm whenever you saw his name pop up on your screen.

And maybe, sometimes late at night when the world was still, you thought about that night. About his mouth on your skin. About the way he whispered praise against your throat like he needed you to breathe. You thought about it way too much. But you never said it.

————

You were just pulling your jacket on, about to head out for errands, when your phone buzzed again. And again. And again. You snorted, pulling it up, seeing a rapid-fire stream of texts from Rafayel.

Rafayel: cutieee, I swear to God I’m gonna stab this canvas.

Rafayel: i need a muse. a better one. my dog is judging me and he’s imaginary.

Rafayel: come to the studio or I’ll cry and it’ll be your fault.

You barked a breathless laugh, nearly dropping your keys. You hadn’t even gotten a word in yet before another one popped up.

Rafayel: please. i’m desperate. i’m pathetic. help.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding a little harder than necessary. He was inviting you. Begging, really. Or, well—whining for you to come save him.

His studio. A thousand unholy images crashed through your brain all at once. Memories of that night. His body against yours. The way he said your name when he came hard, painting your sweaty back.

You swallowed hard, shoving the thoughts down with a sharp breath. This wasn’t like that. Probably. Maybe. God, you were doomed. You tapped out a quick, teasing reply before you could think too hard:

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

Rafayel: i have coffee. i have wine. i have paint. i have emotional crises. pick your poison.

You laughed, locking your door behind you, your pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man waiting for you on the other side of the city.

Maybe you were walking into another disaster. Maybe you were walking into another masterpiece. Either way, you couldn’t stay away.

When you finally arrived at the address Rafayel had sent you, you half-expected to find chaos. You just hadn't expected to be dragged straight into it. The heavy door swung open before you even knocked properly, and there he was. A gorgeous, absolute mess.

His purple hair was wild, sticking out at odd angles like he'd been yanking at it for hours. His glasses slid low on the bridge of his nose, precariously hanging on like they, too, were struggling to survive. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing paint-smeared forearms and sharp, taut lines of muscle you tried—tried so hard—not to stare at.

And then there was the paint…everywhere. Smeared across his hands, splattered up his neck, even dusting his cheekbone in a careless stroke of deep cobalt blue. He looked like a living, breathing work of art. Messy. Chaotic. Devastatingly beautiful. And so, so unaware of the effect he had on you.

"You're late," he announced dramatically, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside before you could even respond. "I’ve already died twice. Maybe three times. Hard to tell. Time’s a flat circle."

You choked on a laugh, stumbling after him into the studio. The space was massive, airy. Skylights casting soft golden light across sprawling canvases, tangled supplies, and what looked suspiciously like an abandoned, half-eaten sandwich on the corner of a desk. And Rafayel was still rambling, still tugging you along as if you were a lifeline he desperately needed.

"Everything is shit," he declared grandly, throwing an arm wide. "My art is shit. My ideas are shit. My coffee is probably shit too but that’s all I’ve got left so—"

He spun around, making you stop short just inches from him.

"What do you want?" he demanded, eyes wide, frazzled, frantic. "Name it. Coffee? Wine? My soul?"

You smirked, barely biting back laughter. "Coffee," you said, slow and deliberate, pretending to consider. "Wine sounds... dangerous."

He narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously. "You sure? Wine comes with bonus emotional breakdowns."

"Tempting," you teased. "But I’ll stick with caffeine."

He huffed, a dramatic, put-upon sound, and turned toward the tiny kitchenette in the corner, muttering darkly under his breath as he rummaged through the mess for clean mugs.

You stayed frozen for a moment, heart pounding way too fast for a casual afternoon visit. Because watching him move, watching the way his messy hair caught the light, the way his paint-smeared hands gripped everything like it might fall apart if he let go…was dangerous.

He didn’t even notice you staring. Too busy cursing under his breath about the state of the coffee, the state of the world, the state of his artistic soul. He poured you a cup, shoved it into your hands without ceremony.

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

You took it with a soft laugh, the ceramic warm against your palms. "Thanks, sunshine," you teased.

He shot you a look over the rim of his own cup, glasses sliding even lower, mouth twitching at the corner. And God, he looked…wrecked. Beautiful. Utterly wrecking you without even trying.

You sipped your coffee carefully, hiding your face behind the cup, trying not to let it show. But it was already too late. Because being near him again, like this…was going to destroy you in all the best ways.

Rafayel flopped dramatically onto the old leather couch tucked against the side wall of his studio, still grumbling, still caught in his own chaotic orbit. You followed, coffee in hand, settling into the opposite side of the couch. Not too close, not too obvious. Casual. Safe.

You kept your staring to a minimum…mostly. It was hard not to, with the way he sprawled there, loose-limbed and golden in the light, a beautiful, exasperated mess of paint and chaos.

He raked a hand through his hair, making it somehow even worse, and huffed dramatically.

"I didn’t whine like this when you were struggling," he complained, sounding genuinely wounded. "I was cool. Mysterious. Wise. A paragon of artistic wisdom."

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

"Yeah," you snorted. "Sure. You were practically a walking Greek statue of emotional stability."

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

You shook your head, grinning as you set your coffee cup down on the low table nearby.

"You’re forgetting something important, professor," you teased, leaning back lazily against the worn leather. "You were the teacher. I was the student. Different methods."

Rafayel pouted, actually pouted, and slumped lower into the couch, looking absurdly betrayed.

"But I want your method," he whined, almost petulant, and you laughed again, throwing a teasing look his way.

"You mean relentless bullying?" you said sweetly. "Sarcasm? Unhelpful commentary?"

"Yes," he said instantly, nodding. "All of it. Bring it on."

You smirked, preparing another jab…but then you caught it. The sudden, heavy weight of his stare. His playful pout faded, mouth still quirked in the ghost of a grin. But his eyes, God, his eyes, they were all over you. Slow. Intent. Devouring.

You felt it like a physical touch. The way his gaze dragged lazily up the length of your body, over your bare thighs, peeking out from the hem of your mini skirt. Over the line of your knee-high socks and the scuffed edges of your high boots. Over the cozy slouch of your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Over the wild tendrils of hair that had escaped your bun, dancing messily around your flushed cheeks.

His coffee cup dangled loosely from his fingers now, forgotten, his whole body stilling as he took you in. And for a moment, neither of you said another word. The playful air tightened into something heavier. Something sharper. Something that crackled silently in the space between you.

You shifted slightly, pretending not to notice the way his gaze caught at the curve of your exposed skin, the way it burned hotter the longer it lingered. But inside? You were already on fire. Already unraveling. Already wondering what would happen if you closed that casual little distance between you. If you stopped pretending. If you gave in.

Just as fast as the air had shifted, just as fast as that hungry, breathtaking look had burned into you…Rafayel flopped his head back against the couch with a groan, dragging a hand through his hair like he was personally offended by the existence of gravity.

"I need a break," he announced dramatically to the ceiling. "A real break. Sabbatical. Reinvention arc. Maybe I’ll become a pirate."

You burst out laughing, unable to help it. The whiplash between the Rafayel who had just devoured you with his eyes and the Rafayel who was now pouting at the ceiling like an overworked drama student was absurd. And somehow, incredibly dangerous.

"You’re such a brat," you said, still grinning as you shook your head. "What happened to the cocky, harsh artist-professor who acted like he knew all the secrets of the universe?"

He lifted his head just enough to glare at you, half-hearted, pouty.

"Retired," he said dramatically. "Burnt out. Overthrown by the younger, hotter, whinier model."

You laughed harder, covering your mouth with your hand. His mouth twisted, half grin, half genuine pout. And he looked at you, a glint of something softer, something sharper still lingering at the edges of his expression.

"So," he said, voice slipping into that half-whiny, half-teasing tone again, "which version of me do you like better?"

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your coffee like you could hide behind it.

"Please," you scoffed. "Don’t make me answer that."

But Rafayel, relentless as ever, leaned forward. Smooth. Lazy. Dangerously close. He plucked your coffee right out of your hand, setting it down beside his on the table with a soft clink.

The air shifted again. You barely had time to react before he closed the small distance between you, leaning in until you could feel the heat radiating off his paint-smeared skin, until his scent wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating.

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

"Come on, cutie," he said, voice low, teasing but edged with something real now. "I need specifics. For my artistic growth."

His eyes dragged over your face, your mouth, your eyes, your cheeks flushed and heated, and he didn’t even try to hide it now.

"Do you like me better," he mused, voice dipping low, "cocky and cruel?"

He leaned closer, his knuckles brushing casually against your thigh, leaving a trail of heat behind. "Or whiny and dramatic?"

His mouth was so close to your ear now you could feel his breath against your skin. You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs, your mind spiraling into dangerous, uncharted territory. Because you didn’t know anymore where the teasing ended and the want began. And judging by the look in his eyes, neither did he.

You huffed a soft laugh, leaning just a little closer to him without brushing his hand away from your thigh.

"Honestly," you teased, voice light but breathless around the edges, "I like both versions."

His mouth twitched into a slow, lazy smirk, but his eyes…God, his eyes were serious. Sharp. Searching. Silent questions flickering there, asking if this was okay, if you wanted this. And you didn’t pull away. You didn’t even blink.

"So far," you added, almost coy, "I didn’t have enough time to make a proper judgment."

His smirk deepened, teetering on the edge of cocky and something a little more dangerous as his hand started to move. Slow, deliberate, trailing higher along your thigh, fingertips brushing just under the hem of your skirt like he wasn’t even fully aware of what he was doing. But he was. You both knew he was.

And even now, even as his hand stayed there, his eyes kept flicking to your face, scanning for any sign you didn’t want this. He found none.

You tilted your head, pretending to think, pretending not to feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"So," you said casually, biting down a smirk, "how exactly am I supposed to help you through your little... artistic mid-life crisis?"

He whined again, ridiculous and dramatic, dropping his head onto the back of the couch with a pathetic sigh.

"I dunno," he mumbled, still in that bratty, exaggerated voice. "Be inspirational. Say something profound. Bake cookies. Fix my entire existence."

As he spoke, his hand kept moving, slow strokes up and down your thigh, dragging lightly over your skin, each pass a little bolder, a little more possessive. You bit your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the small movement didn’t escape him.

You saw the way his eyes darkened just a little, but he pretended not to notice. Pretended to stay casual. And so you played along too. You uncrossed your legs slowly, deliberately, your bare thigh brushing against his pants, just barely. A little more seductive than you intended. A little more permission than you maybe should have given.

You caught the flicker in his gaze, the slight catch in his breath as he registered it. As he realized.  And yet he didn’t move higher. His hand stayed resting against your thigh, heavy, burning. His body still loose against the couch, pretending to be casual, pretending to be in control.

But you could feel it. The way his fingers flexed slightly against your skin. The way his breathing grew slower, deeper. The way the air between you tightened until it buzzed like a live wire.

You took the mug from the table and sipped your coffee carefully, hiding behind the motion, pretending you weren’t on the verge of combusting just from the barely there touch of his hand.

Because Rafayel might have been whiny. He might have been dramatic. He might have been pretending this was still just casual teasing. But you could feel it. The hunger simmering under his skin. The way he was waiting. Waiting for you to break first. Or for himself to lose the last frayed thread of his self-control.

You decided to play dumb. Or maybe you just wanted to see how long you could last before you shattered into pieces.

"So, tell me," you said, voice light and lazy as you leaned back against the couch, casual as sin. "How does the great, perfect artist Rafayel let out steam?"

He huffed dramatically, still staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Lots of ways," he said, pouting. "Brooding. Swearing. Threatening to set my own paintings on fire. Classic healthy coping mechanisms."

You laughed, warm and easy, but the sound caught in your throat almost immediately. Because his hand, paint-smeared and deceptively lazy on your thigh trailed higher. Slipping under the hem of your skirt with featherlight touches, so faint you could almost pretend you imagined it. Almost.

You bit your lip hard, fighting the gasp that nearly escaped when his fingers brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, barely touching, barely pressing. And Rafayel, the menace, pretended not to notice.

He stayed slouched back against the couch, his face the picture of casual misery, pouting and sighing up at the ceiling like he wasn’t slowly, methodically setting your entire body on fire. His fingers moved again, small, slow strokes, almost maddening in how little pressure he applied.

You shifted slightly, parting your legs just enough to invite him, to show him you weren’t going anywhere. He hummed at that, a low, almost distracted sound, deep in his chest.

You didn’t know if it was approval or just another one of his endless, exaggerated sighs. But it didn’t matter. Because his fingers didn’t stop. They stayed there, teasing, ghosting, barely touching where you needed him most.

You cleared your throat, trying desperately to keep your voice even, your pulse hammering wildly in your ears.

"And," you managed, teasing, playing your part, "how does the world’s most tortured artist regain inspiration?"

Rafayel finally turned his head toward you, slowly, lazily. But his eyes burned into yours with a heat that made you clench the coffee cup tighter in your hands.

"Mmm," he whined, dragging the sound out pitifully, his fingers still trailing slow, excruciating patterns over your underwear.

"I don’t know, cutie," he said, voice thick and breathy. "Maybe by suffering. Maybe by collapsing dramatically onto the floor."

You laughed, breathless, almost hysterical from the tension coiled so tight inside you. He shifted closer, hand still idly stroking under your skirt, eyes locked onto yours now, no more ceiling to save you.

"I’m so miserable right now," he pouted, exaggerated, teasing, but there was a low rumble under it now. Something dark and needy.

You opened your mouth to fire back another sarcastic jab, but then his fingers slipped lower, firmer now, brushing against the soaked center of your underwear. You gasped, your body jolting instinctively against his hand.

And Rafayel, that beautiful, chaotic menace just smirked. Still lazy. Still cocky. Still pretending this was casual. But you could see it now. In his eyes. In the way his pupils were blown wide behind those crooked glasses. In the way his breathing hitched ever so slightly as he felt how wet you were for him.

You barely had time to process it when Rafayel casually, so casually, reached over and plucked the coffee cup from your hands again, setting it down with a soft clink. And then without a word, he slid off the couch, settling onto the floor at your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His head dropped lazily onto your thigh, his whole body sprawling dramatically as he sighed loudly, the exaggerated sound vibrating against your skin. His hand, though, the one still under your skirt, never stopped moving. Still teasing. Still stroking. Still burning you alive with slow, featherlight touches.

You gasped softly, your hand instinctively shooting out to steady yourself against the couch.

"What—" you started, voice shaky, trying to gather your wits. "What the hell are you doing?"

He looked up at you, his glasses sliding even lower down his nose, violet eyes shining with wicked amusement.

"Collapsing dramatically onto the floor," he said, dead serious, before breaking into a lazy, boyish grin that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You barked a laugh despite yourself, your head tipping back for a second.

"This," you said, breathless, "this is your version of collapsing?"

He hummed, snuggling his head more securely against your thigh, shifting slightly until his breath was fanning hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Meanwhile his fingers danced slow, lazy circles over the damp fabric of your underwear, completely unbothered, completely devastating.

He kept rambling, whining, teasing, but now his words were shifting. Lower, rougher, more dangerous.

"Maybe," he mused, half pouting, half flirting, his fingers brushing just a little firmer now, making your thighs tremble against him. "Maybe I just need a little help letting off steam."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"And what," you said, somehow managing to tease even as your breath hitched, "exactly does that involve, Rafayel?"

He smirked, lazy, wicked, and kissed the inside of your thigh. Slow. Hot. Possessive.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, voice dropping into something so low and rough it made your head spin. "You know exactly what it involves, cutie."

You bit your lip, fighting a moan as he kissed higher, so close, so dangerously close now, his hand pushing your skirt up further as he settled between your legs like he belonged there. Like he had no intention of leaving until he wrecked you.

He looked up at you again, head tilted against your thigh, glasses crooked, hair wild, mouth sinful.

"So," he whispered, fingers curling lightly against your soaked underwear, "are you gonna help me or not?"

You barely managed to find your voice through the haze clouding your brain.

"Well," you said, your tone dripping false innocence, "I couldn't possibly let you down in your time of need."

Your words barely left your lips before Rafayel moved. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it. Without a single ounce of hesitation, he dipped his head lower, catching the edge of your underwear between his teeth.

You gasped as he dragged the damp fabric down your thighs, slow and deliberate, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over your skin, his breath hot and devastating against your bare flesh.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Not even when your underwear slipped down to your knees, forgotten. Not even when Rafayel, still grinning like the brat he was, settled between your thighs, his violet eyes never leaving yours.

He kept the roleplay alive, whining lightly, dramatically as he licked a slow, sinful stripe right up your soaked folds. Not shy, not gentle. But so damn teasing.

"Mmm," he sighed, almost like he was complaining about it, his tongue flicking over you again. "So much work," he drawled lazily, voice thick against you. "So exhausting, helping poor, desperate little artists in crisis."

You moaned, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your thighs, firm but gentle, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

"Stay," he murmured, voice dipping into something darker, something that made your breath catch in your throat. The shift in tone almost gave you whiplash, from dramatic, teasing brat to low, commanding ruin in a heartbeat.

You cursed under your breath, your hands gripping the edge of the couch for dear life as he dipped his head again, tongue dragging slow, devastating strokes over your swollen, aching folds.

But even as he wrecked you, even as he worshiped you with his mouth like he was starving, he didn’t let go of the teasing

"Poor me," he whined between licks, voice muffled and sinful. "Doing all the hard work."

You whimpered, your thighs trembling against the hold of his arms. He pressed a soft, almost mocking kiss to your clit, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes, like he wasn’t currently wrecking your entire existence with his mouth.

"Hope you're grateful, cutie," he said, voice dripping with fake woundedness.

And then without warning, he flattened his tongue against you and dragged a slow, filthy stripe right over your clit, making your entire body jolt. You gasped, your hips trying to buck again, but his grip on you tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His tongue flicked again, faster now, wetter, rougher, working you with slow, maddening precision even as he kept whining dramatically between strokes, deliberately dragging you right to the edge.

You didn't know if you wanted to laugh or sob or beg for mercy. Maybe all three. But one thing was certain. You weren’t leaving that couch until Rafayel had completely, gloriously ruined you.

He didn’t stop. Even as your thighs trembled violently against his grip, even as your body jolted and spasmed with every devastating, wet stroke of his tongue. Rafayel kept going. And he kept up the act too. That chaotic, dramatic performance that was somehow both completely bratty and shatteringly hot.

"Mmph," he whined against you, voice muffled by your soaked folds as his tongue licked another slow, sinful stripe up your slit. "So exhausting," he complained, breathless, desperate, half-laughing against your skin. "All this hard work and not even a thank you—"

You tried. God, you tried to respond, to sass him back, to say something witty. But all you could manage was a broken moan, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, your breath hitching, eyes wide and wrecked as you looked down at him.

His hands, rough, calloused, covered in faint smears of paint, tightened around your thighs, keeping you spread open for him even as your body instinctively tried to close up, to hide from how overwhelming he was.

And Rafayel was so pleased by it. You could see it. In the smug, wicked curve of his lips. In the way he kept his violet eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, devouring.

"You taste so fucking good, cutie," he whispered, half praise, half broken confession, the words brushing against your wet, swollen skin.

Then he shifted slightly, tongue darting lower, pushing into you, slow and thick and devastating. His nose pressed against your clit, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure rocketing through your body. You choked on a sob, your head tipping back against the couch, hands flying to the leather as you arched off the seat.

"R-Rafayel—" you gasped, the name torn from your throat like a prayer.

That was all he needed. His hands flexed tighter, his tongue moving faster, rougher, relentless as he fucked you with his mouth, sucking and licking and groaning low in his throat like he was starving for you.

And you couldn’t hold it. Your orgasm slammed into you, brutal, violent, overwhelming. You spasmed under him, your entire body trembling, legs trying to close around his head but held wide by his iron grip.

You moaned his name again, loud and desperate, your back arching off the couch as pleasure drowned you. He didn’t stop. He worked his tongue through every devastating wave, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were gasping, sobbing, begging.

"Stop—" you cried out, breathless, half-laughing, half-sobbing from overstimulation.

Your hand fumbled for him, grabbing at his hair, dragging him upward, needing him close, needing him to stop wrecking you from a distance. He came willingly, breathless, flushed, glasses askew, mouth glistening with you.

You didn’t even give him a second to react. You rolled him with all the strength you had left, pushing him back until he collapsed into the couch with a startled laugh. And then you were in his lap. Straddling him, breathing hard, flushed, shaking.

He blinked up at you, dazed and wide-eyed and so fucking wrecked by you.

"Oh," he rasped, voice rough, a stupid, gorgeous grin tugging at his lips.

And God, you could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, pressed against your soaked, trembling center. Still fully clothed. Still starving.

You couldn’t help yourself. Even through the aftershocks still trembling in your thighs, even through the oversensitivity making every movement dizzying, you rolled your hips against him.

Slow, deliberate, taunting. The friction made you moan, a soft broken sound slipping between your teasing words.

"So," you breathed against his ear, dragging another sinful roll of your hips along his aching cock through his pants, "is that how you recharge?"

Rafayel grunted, an incoherent, desperate sound, and lifted his hips in response, chasing the heat of you. He kept the act alive, letting out a dramatically wounded sigh.

"Apparently," he whined, his voice pitched so absurdly you had to bite back a laugh, "not fully. Might need… additional services."

You smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his chest over his shirt, feeling him shudder beneath you. The way his violet eyes raked over you, hot, blown wide, starving, was enough to make your body clench in anticipation.

Your sweater had already slipped off one shoulder in the chaos, and Rafayel took full advantage, leaning in and pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the exposed skin there. You whimpered, grinding a little harder down onto him without meaning to.

"Don't worry," you murmured, voice low, sultry, heady, "I’ve got a few ideas about how to help you recharge... completely."

"Mmph," he hummed against your skin, his mouth moving from your shoulder to your neck, sucking soft marks there. "Is that so?"

You laughed breathlessly, and then you pushed yourself up, sliding off his lap to stand just in front of him. His hands twitched as if to grab you back immediately, but you shook your head, slow and teasing, your eyes half-lidded as you held his gaze.

Then, without rushing, without a hint of shame, you started to undress. First the oversized sweater, pulled off in one slow, lazy movement, revealing your lace bra, your peaked nipples pressing shamelessly against the delicate fabric.

Rafayel cursed under his breath, shifting where he sat, his legs spreading wider on instinct. You smiled sweetly, wickedly. Then came the skirt. You shimmied out of it slow, deliberate, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you bare save for your lace bra and your knee-high socks.

You heard the guttural sound that tore out of him, half whine, half growl. His hands fisted the couch cushions, his knuckles going white.

"Cutie," he rasped, voice breaking slightly, "you’re gonna literally kill me."

You took a single, taunting step closer, hands trailing up your own body in featherlight touches, your fingers dancing over your breasts, your throat, your ribs, never breaking eye contact.

You watched him come apart just from the sight of you, watched his cock strain painfully against his pants, already leaking, already so desperate for you. And when you were sure he was hanging on by a thread, you tilted your head, smiling like the devil.

"Undress," you ordered softly, the command slipping from your lips like silk.

He didn’t even hesitate. With a low curse, he shoved his shirt off first, his chest bare and beautiful, faint traces of paint still smeared over his skin like warpaint. Then his pants, undone with frantic fingers, pushed down his thighs with desperate impatience until he was naked, hard, leaking for you. Still seated back against the couch. Still not breaking eye contact.

You stood there, bare, gleaming, thighs trembling slightly with leftover pleasure, drinking him in. And he stared up at you like you were the sun, the stars, and the end of the fucking world all at once. He reached for you the second you gave him the slightest hint, hands desperate, greedy, big palms curling around your waist, tugging you gently but insistently closer.

And you let him. You let him pull you down, guide you back above him, hovering over his flushed, aching body, but you didn’t let him have you. Not yet. You stayed just out of reach, your slick heat teasing, your skin grazing him without letting him in.

Rafayel cursed low under his breath, his hips thrusting forward instinctively, trying to chase your heat, your weight, your body. You clicked your tongue softly, dragging your mouth down to his neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there.

"Uh-uh," you murmured against his throat, your voice a low purr. "Be a good boy."

He whimpered, the sound wrecked and desperate in his chest.

"You’ll need the energy," you whispered, licking a sweet, taunting line just under his ear. "I’m gonna help you recharge properly... no need to rush."

He let out another broken curse, his head tipping back against the couch, baring more of his throat to you, giving in without even realizing it. His hands, not as disciplined, roamed your body hungrily. One cupping your ass, squeezing rough and desperate, the other finding your breast through the lace, fingers pinching lightly over the fabric.

You bit down harder on his neck, dragging a raw, needy groan from him, then licked the mark sweetly, soothing it, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. And just when you thought he might stay patient…he broke.

"Cutie," he whined, voice wrecked, shuddering with need. "Ride me…please—"

You only smiled wickedly against his skin, and sucked his earlobe into your mouth, biting gently, making him jolt under you. He grunted, his control snapping, pulling you back just enough to look you straight in the eye.

"Fuck—" he rasped, voice low, sharp, almost commanding now, though the desperate edge stayed thick. "Ride me. Now."

You kissed him before he could say anything else, a desperate, brutal collision of mouths, all teeth and tongue and gasping breath. You could feel him throbbing against you, leaking, so hot it almost hurt. And this time, you didn’t make him wait.

You sank down, skin to skin, dragging your soaking pussy over the flushed, aching head of his cock, grinding slow and deep along his length without taking him in fully yet. You both cursed into the kiss, breathless, shattered, helpless. His hands gripped your ass tightly, guiding you, rough and desperate, grinding you down against him with shaking need.

"Fuck—" he hissed against your mouth. "You're killing me—cutie. You're…fucking killing me—"

You smiled against his lips, drunk on the way he trembled under you, drunk on the way he was already falling apart and you hadn't even given him everything yet. And neither of you were going to last much longer.

You stayed pressed against his mouth, hips grinding slow and maddening against his aching cock, teasing yourself as much as you teased him. Between breathless kisses, you whispered against his lips, voice broken and sultry, "Is this what you want?"

Rafayel growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating between your bodies, half desperate, half wrecked.

"Fuck yes," he cursed, his hands sliding from your ass to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. "I need to be inside you…" his voice cracked, so needy, so raw. "need to feel you stretch around me, feel you come all over me again and again—"

You moaned, overwhelmed, the words shooting straight through your core like lightning. He didn't waste another second. One hand found the front of your lace bra, grabbing it roughly, the other guiding himself to your entrance, the blunt, flushed head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

His head fell back, chest heaving, fogged glasses slipping further down his nose, completely ruined from your earlier release. With a grunt of frustration, he ripped them off in one swift, clumsy motion, tossing them somewhere onto the couch, and immediately pulled you down onto him by the front of your bra. Hard. Deep.

You gasped. Both of you gasped as he buried himself inside you in one long, devastating stretch, seating himself fully, your bodies locking together like two live wires.

He filled you perfectly, completely, almost painfully. Stretching you wide open until your toes curled and a broken, desperate moan ripped from your throat.

"F-fuck," Rafayel hissed, his head slamming back against the couch, his hands gripping your ass so tight it burned. "You feel—" he choked on a groan. "So good, cutie—fuck—gonna lose my mind—"

You dug your nails into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as you started to move, slow and torturous. Dragging yourself up almost all the way off him before sinking back down, grinding deep with a roll of your hips.

Rafayel howled low in his chest, his whole body bucking beneath you, instinct trying to take over. He tried. God, he tried to guide you faster, rougher, his hands forcing your hips to move.

But you smirked down at him, wrecked and breathless, and whispered against his ear, "No."

He froze, whimpering a little from the effort it took to obey.

"You let me do the work," you murmured, your voice almost cruel in its sweetness.

Rafayel cursed violently, head slamming back again, thighs trembling under you as you started riding him in slow, punishing rolls.

"You're gonna kill me," he gasped, wrecked, his voice breaking into a whiny, helpless groan. "Please—cutie—please—"

You kept your pace, grinding deeper, harder, your nails raking down his chest, feeling him throb inside you, so hot, so close already. And Rafayel, that cocky, chaotic, brilliant man, could only cling to you and take it, whimpering and cursing and begging like you owned every shattered, trembling piece of him.

You smirked wickedly down at him, hips grinding slow and devastating.

"Maybe," you breathed, voice thick with teasing and breathlessness, "I like you better when you're compliant and whiny like this."

Rafayel cursed viciously, his hands flexing on your hips, his body shuddering under you like he could barely take it. You picked up the pace, rolling your hips with every up and down, dragging him deeper, harder, the sweet friction making your mind fog, your body tighten.

He was unraveling. You could feel it. Fighting not to snap, fighting not to flip you over and pound into you the way he clearly achingly wanted. You could feel every tense, trembling effort he made to stay good for you. And it wrecked you.

You smirked even harder, lowering your mouth to his ear, sucking on the sensitive skin there until he jolted, a broken, desperate moan ripping from his throat. Your hand tangled into his messy purple hair, tugging harshly, making him groan helplessly, hips bucking up into you hard.

You clenched around him deliberately, tight, wet, hot, and Rafayel lost it. His hands shot to your waist, grabbing rough, commanding.

"Turn around," he growled, voice wrecked and dark and cracking apart.

Before you could even react, he pulled you off him, manhandling you easily, turning you so your back faced him, straddling him with your legs on either side of his hips.

He didn't hesitate, he grabbed your hips, lined himself up, and slammed you back down onto him with a brutal thrust. You cried out, your hands scrambling for purchase against his thighs as he filled you to the hilt, deeper than before, grinding up into you with desperate hunger.

He yanked your hair back, harsh, rough, possessive, exposing your throat as he leaned in, biting hard into the side of your neck, sucking a mark deep into your skin before licking and kissing over it.

You moaned raggedly, your body rolling against him, riding him faster, chasing the way he hit so deep inside you now. Every thrust of your hips sent shocks of pleasure up your spine, every slap of skin against skin louder, filthier, raw. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, gasping, your voice rough and teasing even as you moaned.

"Tell me," you panted, grinding down harder on him, squeezing around his cock. "Tell me if I’m good—if I take you good…"

Rafayel growled into your skin, his hands bruising your hips as he fucked up into you harder, more desperate.

"You're perfect," he groaned against your neck, biting again, his voice low and broken. "Fucking perfect, cutie—fuck—take me so good—"

You whimpered, the rough praise making your thighs shake, making your body tighten around him even more.

"You gonna come for me?" you whispered, voice wrecked, taunting, grinding harder against him.

"Fuck—yes.." He almost sobbed it into your ear, voice cracking apart, hips slamming up into you harder, faster, sloppier.

And you could feel the way he was right on the edge. The way he needed you just as much as you needed him. And neither of you were going to last much longer. You could feel the way your orgasm started to build violently inside you, coil after tight, trembling coil pulling tighter, hotter, closer. You rode him faster, hips rolling frantic and desperate, your whole body starting to tremble.

Your pace faltered, a broken whine escaping your throat, but Rafayel was there instantly.

"I got you," he rasped against your neck, voice low and wrecked, hands steadying your hips.

He started to guide you, dragging you down onto him, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway, deep, punishing thrusts that made you sob into the air. You were both panting now, harsh and raw, every breath a broken sound. Every curse and praise slipping out without a filter.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," Rafayel moaned into your skin, biting your neck again, not soft, not sweet, but raw need.

One of his hands slipped between your legs, two fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it, rough and relentless. You screamed as your whole body jolted, your muscles locking up as pleasure roared through you. Your hands dug into his thighs, your nails scraping his skin as you mumbled, sobbed, gasped.

"So close—I'm so close—"

"I know, cutie," he groaned, his thrusts slamming up harder into you now, faster, brutal. "Come for me—fuck—please—"

You didn't need more than that. He slammed you down harder, his cock hitting that spot inside you just right, over and over and over until your thighs locked up, trembling violently, and you shattered.

Your orgasm tore through you, brutal and vicious, your whole body spasming in his arms. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your head thrown back onto his shoulder, your walls squeezing him so hard he almost sobbed from the sensation.

"Fuck—fuck—cutie—" Rafayel cursed into your throat, his own body shaking, his cock twitching deep inside you.

He tried to pull out, to keep control. But you clung to him, refusing to let him go, and the second he felt you clamp down even tighter around him, his control shattered. With a deep, wrecked growl, Rafayel buried himself as deep as he could go, his whole body convulsing against you.

You could feel it, hot and thick, filling you completely, mixing with your own release as you both trembled, locked together, panting and cursing into each other’s skin. He pulled you into his chest, one hand splayed against your stomach, the other tangled in your hair, breathing ragged against your throat.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you could. You were a mess of trembling thighs, shaking limbs, sweat-slicked skin, tangled hair, and gasping breaths, but you had never felt more whole, more wrecked, more alive.

Rafayel pressed a broken kiss against your shoulder and you laughed, breathless and wrecked, your body trembling faintly against his.

"You feeling fully recharged now?" you teased, voice low and ragged.

Rafayel huffed out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, still wrecked, still breathless, still so fucking beautiful you could barely look at him without melting.

"Maybe," he whined dramatically, nuzzling against your jaw, his mouth dragging lazy, messy kisses along your skin. "Still feel kinda drained. Might need another session later. For safety."

You laughed harder, the sound bubbling up helplessly even as your thighs still trembled from your release. He shifted beneath you slowly, carefully, and pulled out of you with a soft, broken groan, both of you wincing at the overstimulated drag of sensation.

But before you could move away, he caught you. He turned you around in his lap with surprising gentleness, tugging you until you were facing him again, your legs straddling his hips, your bare skin flush against his. And then he kissed you. Messy, sweet and slow. His mouth soft and clumsy, his hands holding you close like he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance between you.

The kiss wasn’t about hunger now. It was about clinging. About wanting. About everything neither of you had dared say until now. He pulled back first, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his violet eyes still dark, still wild, but softer now.

"I want this," he whispered, voice rough and raw and real. "And more."

The words hit you harder than anything he could’ve done physically. You blinked at him, stunned, feeling your face heat, actually blushing, like some lovesick idiot. You scrambled for something to say, anything, and latched onto the first thing your wrecked brain offered.

"Inappropriate," you said, mock-scandalized, raising your eyebrows. "A professor with his student?"

Rafayel let out a wheezy, exhausted laugh, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn't believe you.

"For the last time," he groaned, dragging his hands dramatically up your bare back, "I’m not a fucking professor." he tugged you closer by the waist, burying his face in your neck with a whiny groan. "And you know it, cutie."

You laughed again, breathless and giddy and warm all over, your hands threading through his messy purple hair, holding him there against you.

"I guess," you murmured, teasing, your voice softening into something dangerous, "I’ll allow it."

He lifted his head just enough to catch your mouth again, another slow, messy kiss that said everything neither of you could put into words yet. And somewhere deep inside, where your bodies still trembled against each other, where the taste of each other lingered, where the chaos had finally settled into something real…you knew.

This between you…didn’t need any more words.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[drdemonprince]

Hi, I just wanted to say thank you for what you write about cross-generation friendships and in general relationships between teens and adults. When I was 16, I met a friend. He was 32 at the time and was a leader of a church community thing (church that I no longer go to, but that's not actually relevant). The age gap felt too small for him to be a surrogate father figure, so I treated him like an older brother I never had. We soon became friends and in hindsight, it was one of the best things that happened to me in high school. If it wasn't for him, I would have been left with my emotionally abusive mother and never gotten some of the valuable and good messaging that I did. He was the only person back then who showed me a constructive and healthy version of conflict and emotional closeness. I was unmasked in his presence even though I didn't even know that I was autistic at the time. Since then, the contact fizzled out, but it was very valuable and important to me while it lasted.

A while ago, I was trying to talk about it to my therapist while talking about healthy friendships and such. I prefaced it with all the warnings ("I know that it looks bad on paper, but..."). I could see she didn't believe me. I was telling her how my friend was the only person who listened to what I had to say and to tell me that my perspective on things changed his, how he drove me to the ER when I needed it, how he was the first person to listen when I had problems... and I could just see that she didn't believe me, that she was thinking that there must have been something sinister underneath. It made me feel so sad.

I'm so sorry that your therapist was so judgmental about your relationship with this big sib -- the kind of relationship you've described is so essential in so many people's lives that there are even organizations devoted to trying to provide them to people!! Like, has your shrink never heard of Big Brothers/Big Sisters?? (this may be a US only group, I'm not sure). At the end of the day the majority of people in the therapeutic profession are in the business of issuing judgements and reinforcing societal standards and doing so was part of what drove them to the work, even if they cannot acknowledge it, even if they are otherwise cool about other things that they've put the time into unlearning...there's a lot of moralizing and it sucks that it creates tension in the relationship like this. Now you know a little something about the limits of her thinking, which may be useful for you in navigating this relationship. It is worth telling her that you felt judged or that she wasn't being open-minded enough, if you'd like to broach it and you trust her enough to be able to take critique. (and if she can't take critique/questioning, probably a bad sign for the therapuetic relationship in the long term).

[biancadoes1]

The funny this is i keep seeing "don't criticize Nicola" "she never said they were together" "stop twisting her speech" "she can bring him with her" "media outlet write what they want she can't stop it" "this wouldn't happen if it were Luke" "Nicola didn't say she wanted to be shipped" "Nicola never played games you interpreted it that way" "you are focusing on the man like she said she didn't want to"

All valid points made. We all have opinions and that's ok. The pattern I see is that:

1. Every single group in this fandom has said critical things and non critical things about Nicola and Luke. That should be accepted as fact because there is evidence out there. There are valid points made about things they have and have not done - professionally and what they have shown us personally. There are valid points about the reactions towards them that are/are not fair or good. No one is above critique or praise but it is how it is done that makes the difference. I see a lot of policing of opinions but some of the same persons doing the policing do not try to look at things from different angles and they do not take into consideration they at one point also held the same critiques. They shouldn't police anyone if they are being hypocritical.

2. Seeing something presented and questioning it doesn't necessarily translate to hate. Observing something is off or not the usual of the person character that is presented is not hate. Trying to come up with a theory to explain something isn't hate. Disagreeing with a fashion choice is not hate. Disagreeing with a choice of partner is not hate, it's not our business but it isn't hate. Rereading statements and trying to align that to their actions that goes against somethings they say is not hate. Pointing out where a public figure may have erred is not hate. Having a difference of opinion with another fandom member is not hate. Calling out media publications for articles is not hate. Calling out trolls or trolling behaviour is not hate.

3. What is hate is bullying, trolling, doxxing, name calling, extreme anger towards a celebrity who do not fit expectations and translating that anger into bullying/name calling/online sabotage. Doing the same to people in their circle is hate. Doing the same to others in the fandoms is hate. Doing it unprovoked is hate. Coordinated hit posts/tweets saying vile things about a stranger who happens to be an actor we see on screen is hate. Coordinated hit posts/tweets saying vile things about anyone in the fandom is hate.

4. Hate is a charged emotion that have left a sour taste in the fandom. From all sides not just one.

I only bring this up as I'm seeing the same flaming fire on Tumblr. Blogs are going after each other, calling people names doing the most. Bloggers are being targeted with rude anons or comments. It's ok to call out things that are not right. It's ok to have opinions that differ. It's ok to not like what someone shares on their blog. It's ok to have a change of heart or change of opinion. But the way I've seen it being done is like people are happy to be nasty with their words behind a screen. It isn't even necessary and it's adults doing this. We can enjoy the fandom, we can enjoy our differences, we can enjoy when we misunderstand something and get more information to update what we know/see. We can easily enjoy the actors' work and whatever else about them that draws us to them. They should not be idolized they are not gods. We can enjoy funny posts and reminiscence on past things. It does not matter where you stand in the fandom group/sub group the basic idea is to just enjoy the show.

It's become a nasty space and I see why some people are leaving.

It’s getting pretty bad and a lot of people are getting tired of it.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hello mr. sex witch. 100% ok to discard if this is inappropriate or out of your wheelhouse. i love my husband very much and feel very safe with him, but i tend to dissociate pretty bad when trying to have sex. like, full on my soul leaving my body and floating a few steps away from it. it’s really distressing and makes me feel terrible because it makes me want sex less, which makes my husband feel like i must not be attracted to him or love him and i feel like an awful spouse.

i’m in therapy already, but it’s one of the hardest things for me to talk about with another person. it makes me feel dirty and shameful and disgusting every time i try. i love my therapist and have been seeing her for around 4 years now, but i just want to leap out of my skin anytime our sessions go anywhere near my relationship to sex, and i have a hard time even using correct anatomical terms to refer to my body parts when talking to her about it. i usually just slip into vagueries like “down there” or “that part” or “that area.” my mouth and throat dry up otherwise.

not at all asking you to diagnose me with anything, but i was wondering if there happen to be any good self-help resources you know of for moving past this? the things i have found in the past 10-ish years or so often feel sort of like “just look at yourself in the mirror and jerk off more and then one day you’ll magically get over it in one fell swoop,” and that’s never really felt like anything but dismissal to me. (i also acknowledge that i could be misreading the tone of some of these stories and guides because i’m coming at them from a place of pain and fear. may very well not be their fault.)

if you don’t have anything for something like this it’s okay, i don’t want to be annoying or a burden. you just seem really knowledgable and i thought maybe would know of something or other. if not it’s totally fine, i hope you’re having a nice day. thanks for your time reading this.

hi anon,

I want to be very delicate here, because I'm broadly opposed to offering diagnoses here especially when it's in an area that's very outside my realm of knowledge, and I really appreciate that you aren't asking me for a diagnosis.

having said that: virtually everything you're describing here, from the consistent dissociation to the physical distress response you experience when trying to talk about sex, sounds very much like a trauma response. I absolutely agree that most of the resources you've been finding likely aren't suitable to be helpful for you, because they're aimed at people who are feeling a little insecure in their body and not someone who has a deeply rooted distress response.

it sounds like the most well-equipped person to help you tackle this is a trauma-informed therapist. I obviously don't know anything about the therapist you see now, and I'm sure she's been able to help you in other ways, but it seems like you're having a hard time cracking this particular matter with her to make any positive change in the direction you want. if trauma isn't an area where she's able to work with patients, I think it may be very worth your while to consult someone more specialized to help you address this specifically.

I know that all by itself this isn't really an answer, almost certainly not the one you were hoping for, and is only a suggestion of more work and emotional difficulty for you, in addition to the potential costs of finding a second mental healthcare provider. I am sincerely sorry about that. I wish there was an easier solution I could provide, and I wish you the best of luck.

[echo-exco]

With Damians recent developments towards wanting to maybe be a doctor, I think it could be interesting to see that dynamic with reader.

Where his hands are stained with blood, yours have only helped others. Maybe youre both volunteering at the same hospital, and the patients there flock to you like a flicker of hope in the darkness. The patients of Gotham are much more wary than anywhere else, so gaining their trust feels nigh impossible. Somehow, you've done it. Like second nature, like you haven't even noticed.

Something akin to envy might first spark in him, as a natural response, before relenting his pride and trying to learn what makes her "better" at this than him. Of course he wouldnt know she was a meta, but still.

Also you can totally ignore this your wonderful fic just had my mind spiralling lol

I LOVE THAT!! THAT’S A REALLY GOOD IDEA!!

But unfortunately, I don’t think we have something like that with Damian here yet… 😔 (or maybe we do, if my inner author feels motivated enough).

(Small warning for a long reply)

Damian and healer!reader’s relationship is already quite complicated on its own (with some one-sided, inexplicable hatred).

It’s not really a surprise though, considering healer!reader tends to be pretty “neutral” with almost all the Batfam members.

To be honest, I don’t think healer!reader could actually treat people in Gotham.

She does have pretty good and experienced medical knowledge, but she depends completely on her healing powers, which not only allow her to heal someone instantly but also make her feel “alive.”

Without her powers, even though she can try to help in conventional ways, healer!reader always feels like she might fail, that something could go wrong, and that fills her with anxiety.

Healer!reader is completely dependent on her power and validates herself through it, and since she’s currently unable to use it in Gotham… well…

Besides that, healer!reader would need Bruce’s permission—or a doctor’s—just to even think about using her experienced, non-basic medical knowledge.

A better example is when I mentioned Tim in the post: like I said there, healer!reader only did small things to help him deal with his discomfort.

She doesn’t consider that she used anything that required “master-level” knowledge… she just took care of Tim the way a (family) doctor should.

BUT if somehow she were to get permission and trust to use her healing powers on the patients in a Gotham hospital…

They wouldn’t even have the chance to decide whether they could trust her or not, because healer!reader’s abilities are extremely fast for a normal being.

In an earlier reply, I explained how I imagine healer!reader’s powers work: think of it as her using threads to “fix” her patients like they were broken dolls.

That said, the pain that comes after the instant healing is horrible (though it heavily depends on how bad the patient’s condition was before healer!reader treated them).

Earning the trust of the wounded in Gotham wouldn’t even be something healer!reader consciously seeks—it would just happen.

Maybe it’s because of the calmness she radiates, or because, unlike most people, she never shows disgust, fear, or resignation when facing an injury.

However, seeing such an indifferent expression on a child’s face in such a gruesome, chaotic scene full of injured people is unsettling.

Though it’s even worse to endure the pain after being healed, isn’t it?

That’s why I think, even if Damian wanted to learn from her, I’m not sure healer!reader could really teach him how to treat people, or even how to be a good doctor.

She herself never allowed her mind to approach healing in a traditional way, because her powers and skills are her refuge, her absolute security: she never fails at healing.

But that very gift also isolates her, because in Gotham, a place full of distrust and disdain toward most metahumans, revealing her ability would be a huge risk to her life.

I also think the same about how Damian would feel toward healer!reader because of her medical skills.

He might feel a mix of admiration, frustration, and envy, especially because, without knowing she’s a meta, he would desperately try to find a logical explanation for why she can do what others find almost impossible.

Why his seemingly weak and gentle sister has absurdly good medical knowledge…

That’s NOT right, she’s supposed to be normal… so why?

She’s supposed to be safe… why?

In short, the relationship between Damian and healer!reader would be complicated if we explored that aspect.

(Who knows? Maybe in a what if? if I get enough creativity!)

Awww! Thank you so much for your sweet words at the end, dear!

I’m really happy to know you like my writing, and I’m also sorry if this response was way too long!

[brittle-doughie]

The Caramel Choux Conundrum (Ovenbreak)

You were napping back at home, Taurus Cookie laying on top of you in a sleep too when ominous knocking stirs you awake.

“Y/N Cookie? Are you home? I’ve been trying to reach you for days now about coming to visit the Cuckoo Town Square!”

You jolted up as much as you could when hearing that voice and hearing that particular location. This action stirs Taurus Cookie awake as she sits up on your lap with a yawn.

“Sooo…sleepy…..”

“Taurus Cookie, stay quiet for a second. She might hear us…”

“I heard that! Excuse me! It’s a wonderful morning outside, a perfect time to talk about when you’ll be visiting!”

You close your eyes and lean back with a resigned sigh, accepting the situation for what it’s about to become.

“Ohhh….is she…a bad Cookieeee?”

“No, but she’s pretty scary when it comes to the Town Square.”

“Scary….?”

“It might seem rude to enter without your permission, but I might not get another opportunity to see you at home, so I’m coming in!”

The two of you snap your heads to the door as she tries to open it, but the lock (you thankfully had) barred her from pushing the door open, you and Taurus expressing soft sighs of relief.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I made invitations already! It’s a good thing working out is in my schedule! Please do come by the square, it’s livelier than ever!”

Without warning, she starts punching at your door, her strength means the wood gave way easily to a hole in the door, allowing Caramel Choux to peek in through it.

“No need to be shy! The town square residents are welcoming Cookies!”

She moved away to now reach her hand in for the door knob on your side!

“We need to go now! Come on, Taurus!”

“Okay…!”

The both of you hurry to your bedroom, you catch a glimpse of the front door being thrown open right as you closed your bedroom door and locked it.

“I’M COMING IN, Y/N COOKIE! I even brought welcome gifts!”

You could barely breathe for a moment before you hear running followed up immediately with Caramel Choux busting a hole through your door with one punch, reach for the door knob.

You yelped and jumped back from this sudden action as Caramel Choux opens the door in seconds as she slowly walked up to your sat form, trying to fruitlessly scoot back from her.

“I am terribly sorry about your doors, you should come down to the town square and we can have them fixed for you! No coins necessary!”

“LEAVE THEM ALONEEEE!!!!”

Taurus Cookie jumped in the air behind Caramel Choux Cookie, her sole visible eye blazing red as she raised her hammer above her head, ready to swing it down on Caramel Choux.

“Taurus, NO!”

She swings her hammer down….

…only for Caramel Choux, without looking, to reach behind her and grip the hammer’s handle, stopping Taurus Cookie’s momentum entirely as her rage turns to shock!

Then she turns to Taurus Cookie, her smile still remaining and unbothered.

“Whaaaa….huhhh….?”

“Would you like to come to the town square too? We’re always welcome to any Cookies, even constellations!”

She throws Taurus Cookie at you, the both of you falling into a clutter as Caramel Choux’s shadow looms over you, her smile never changing as she hands you an invitation.

“I’m looking forward to your visit soon! I’ll have a welcoming party to celebrate!”

“….O-okay.”

“Ughhhh….so dizzyyyyy…”

You were beyond horrified after what just happened and hesitantly took the invite.

“That’s wonderful! See you soon, okay?”

You watch as she finally leaves, humming to herself as she walks out the door. Once you were sure she was gone, you pass out along with Taurus Cookie.

You needed to invest in some metal doors….

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Yandere! Platonic! Batfam x Mermaid! Reader Pt.2

The next morning had come, and before you even had a chance to leave your bed, you were surrounded by your family, Zatanna, John Constantine, and Aquaman.

"Why are you all here?!" You scream, throwing a pillow at your father.

"We brought some people to help you," Dick says, sitting on the left side of the bed and holding your hand.

"Help? Why would I need help? I feel fine!" You retort, realizing your brothers have gotten closer to your limbs. "No. No!"

"Hold her down! Y/N, I'm sorry but we're trying to help!" Tim exclaims, holding your right arm down as Jason and Damian hold down your legs.

Zatanna points her wand at you, speaking a couple of words backward, then a ball of water comes at you, completely soaking you and your bedsheets. You transform into a mermaid and scream in frustration.

"Wow, never seen that before. So, little lassy, how did'cha get like this?" Constantine asks, examining your body.

You were in no mood to answer questions. You wanted everyone to leave you alone. You swing your tail at Jason, sending him flying into the barred windows. Damian sees your tail about to hit him and ducks at the last minute.

"Sister, stop it! We're trying to help you!" Damian exclaims, trying to break free of Tim and Dick's hold.

"Hold her still. I've got a sedative in case things get rowdy," Bruce says, pulling out a needle. "It's ok, this won't hurt a bit."

Bruce straddles you while Tim, Damian, and Dick hold you down. You feel the needle pierce your neck, accompanied by the liquid entering your bloodstream. You try to struggle more, but the drug has taken hold of your body so quickly you feel relaxed.

"Shh...there you go. No need to be upset anymore. Just relax in your big brother's arms," Dick coos, kissing your forehead.

"Do whatever analysis and experiments you need to. She shouldn't be able to do anything erratic besides speak for a while," Bruce says, sitting beside your tail.

"Ok, so, as I was saying, you remember how you got like this?" Constantine asks, summoning a book.

"I took a swim in a body of water in a cave while the full moon was out and there were a bunch of sparkles," You laugh, cuddling into Dick's chest.

"Good girl, Y/N. You're almost done," Dick says, rubbing your back.

"Actually, we're all done. I know exactly what happened, magic-wise. We see a couple of cases like hers in Atlantis every so often," Aquaman says, motioning for the adults to leave the room.

"Take care of your sister," Bruce states, walking out of your room with Aquaman, Constantine, and Zatanna.

"Damn that girl's tail can pack a punch, " Jason grumbles, finally getting up from the floor.

~~~~~~~~~

"We more commonly see her cases in Australia and Ireland, but basically, she turned into a mermaid because that body of water was contained in a piece of the moon rock that fell to Earth. The moon's energy gives the water the magic that transformed her into a mermaid. I don't know if you knew yet, but she should also have a variation of hydrokinesis powers by now, like hydro-cyrokinesis, hydro-thermokinesis, gelidkinesis, and or substanciakinesis. Also, it would be both for her and your family's benefit if she didn't go out during a full moon from now or touch water during a full moon, or even look at the full moon's reflection. Bad things always happen whenever people who were turned by the moon look at the full moon." Aquaman explains, making Bruce sigh and sit down at the table.

"Do you know which powers she specifically has?" Bruce asks, pulling out a notepad and pen. "More importantly, is there a way to fix this?"

"Sorry, Bats. It's totally random what powers she has. But usually, if she were transformed in the water alone, that means she would most likely have multiple. You'll just have to wait and see," Aquaman replies, remembering the mermaids swimming around Atlantis. "I have heard of a way to reverse the transformation, but I'm not entirely sure if it'll work. Usually, when one of my people ask, the mermaids get touchy about the subject and refuse to answer."

"Well, thanks for coming to see if you could help my daughter anyway. We'll keep a close eye on her to make sure she doesn't get into trouble."

Constantine, Zatanna, and Aquaman leave Wayne Manor, letting the Wayne Family deal with you.

"Dick, how is she?" Bruce asks, walking into your room.

"She's absolutely adorable when she sleeps," Dick coos, resting your head on his chest with his arms cradling your body. "She must be tired from all that resisting."

"Aquaman gave me some bad news. First, she can't see the full moon or touch water during one. Second, we have to look out for her exhibiting powers, and third, there's a possibility we can't reverse the transformation process," Bruce says, sitting beside your sleeping body.

"Wait, the slushie. Do you think she used her powers to make the drink a slushie?" Dick questions, moving your body to the bed.

"Possibly. We can't be sure because we didn't catch it on the house cameras. But, maybe she'll do it again if we leave her alone in the room," Bruce theorizes, motioning for everyone to leave your room.

Once they're outside your room, the alarm from the Bat Computer rings, signaling the regular night of crime fighting.

~~~~~~~~~

"Tim, stop being a perv and watching Y/N sleep," Jason taunts, seeing Tim smile at your sleeping form on his phone.

"I-I am not being a perv! I'm just making sure she's ok. She was so mad at us earlier, I was worried," Tim replies, taking a screenshot of the camera frame. "Aww, look. She's waking up."

You wake up, and feel around for Dick. Once you realize your brothers are gone, you stare at the bars on your windows. You reach your hand out, making the bars freeze.

"Batman, you need to look at this!" Tim exclaims, motioning for Batman to look at the camera footage. "She just froze the bars on the windows."

The Batfamily surrounds Tim and watches the footage, as you use your second hand to make water from the bathroom flow into the bedroom and form into a ball. You freeze it and send it flying at the windows, breaking the bars and glass.

"We need to get back to the manor. Now." Batman says, jumping off the building they were on.

By the time your family returns, you are long gone into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

It felt amazing to actually swim and be free in the water. You loved the way your hair moved and the way you were able to become an underwater torpedo instantly. Who needs a car or plane when you could swim all the way to Hawaii in minutes? More importantly, you wanted to visit some friends. You see Connor Kent and Wally West talking on the top floor of the Titans Tower, and you launch a small ball of ice at the window. They jump up, startled, and look out the window to see you in the water, waving at them. They come running out with Beast Boy and stare at you.

"Y/N, why are you in the water?! Tim told us you were allergic to water and that the simplest touch would break you out into rashes!" Wally exclaims, walking near the water's edge and extending a hand out for you.

You giggle and pull him into the water. You show off your tail, and his mouth is left agape.

"What the actual fuck? When? How?" Wally shouts, pulling himself out of the water.

"A little magic accident. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi before my family finds me again," You say, dipping below the waves, and speeding off to your next location.

While you were enjoying being a mermaid, your family was tracking your location with the tracker they injected into your arm when you turned 13.

"I can't believe she moves so fast as a mermaid. She managed to go from Gotham to Titans Tower in like 10 minutes. Usually, that would be an hours-long plane ride," Tim comments, following the red dot on his speedboat navigation system.

"Would you stop geeking out about how cool it is that she can swim fast? She could get attacked by some animal or get caught in a fishing net," Jason scolds, increasing the speed on his boat.

"I have to agree with Jason. She's in danger," Damian says, stopping his boat. "She's here!"

You pop your head out of the water, seeing your family on speedboats ready to chase you down.

"Y/N, come back home! You can't live in the ocean forever!" Bruce yells, preparing his dart gun.

You see what he's about to do, and you make a ball of frozen water, sending it flying in your father's direction. He dodges the ball, and it crashes into Dick's boat, breaking apart.

"Y/N, behave yourself! Just because you're stuck this way doesn't mean you can act out like this!" Bruce yells, looking at you making more frozen balls.

You hurl them at your family, sending them into the water. You twist your hand, preparing to send them home soaking, only to feel a presence behind you. You count your family members and notice Tim is missing.

"Shh, don't fret. This is what's best for you," Tim whispers, sticking a tranquilizer dart into your neck, making you pass out in his arms.

"Nice move, Drake. Now, let's load her onto one of our boats and get her home where she belongs," Damian comments, pulling himself out of the water and onto his speedboat.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you wake up, you feel your body being cradled by a warm figure. You look up and see Dick holding you in his arms, while he's on his phone.

"That was very cruel of you, you know. Lying to us about your powers, breaking out, and then exposing your secret to the Titans. It was all entirely too dangerous. You could have been caught, and no one would've been able to save you," Dick scolds, not even looking at your face. "But, we've found a solution for this pesky problem of yours. You won't be leaving this house anytime soon, and you'll be staying in your new and improved room. You're going to love it."

You look around, noticing that the only light coming from your room is the numerous lamps and overhead lights. There is no window in sight, and the ceiling has a holographic projector to mimic the real-time images of the sky.

"What happened to the windows?" You ask, getting off the bed and feeling around the wall. "What did you do to the windows?!"

"We got rid of them. We couldn't take the risk of you escaping again or looking at the moonlight," Dick answers, walking behind you and giving you a hug. "Don't worry, we made the ceiling the perfect copy of the sky, so you're not missing out. You'll never have to worry about seeing the sky again. Not only that, but you can stay here with us forever. Isn't that wonderful?"

"No. This isn't right. I don't want to be a prisoner here," You cry, feeling tears go down your cheeks.

"Shh, shh, shh. It's ok, you'll be alright. You'll have all the entertainment you want. You'll never need anything from outside ever again."

"No...no.."

Dick's arms remain on your body, making the room feel claustrophobic. There's nothing but walls, stone cold, concrete walls, and the little light you have is artificial. Dooming you to a fate of never seeing the sunlight again, or a life outside of Wayne Manor.

[aa0n]

I thought about a theory while trying to sleep last night so I rewatched Sorry about my nan to see if it fitted and oh my god. So welcome in:

Sorry about my nan: The bad ending

First of all, there’s one important thing to clarify: What is the game about? Ethel described it as a way to free oneself from their fear, doubts and social morals, it made people greater than they were before - so we know she's done this with other people - and it changed their life. We know it’s a “friendship test”, we could expect it to be a “bonding exercise” like Jamie says, a way to make their friendship stronger, but let’s take a look to the trials:

The sword fight which the guys passed when Jim said they had to fight each other. That’s one for not a bonding exercise.

The letter of complaint about their friendship. This one is pretty obvious, the german cabaret guy even says “a relationship has gotten in the way”.

Jim confronting Lucie. This one is the one I struggled with, but I think I have a clear explanation now. The two first tests were for the two of them, an afrontment, now it’s just Jim and he passes when he says “of course I believe him, he’s my best friend”. Why in this one he passes when he proves his friendship? What changed? Jamie. To me, the tests were never about their friendship, but about Jim’s perception of Jamie. If they had to kill each other during the sword fight, it means that Jamie was a threat for Jim, if his fiance hitted on Jamie and he kept it to himself, it means he’s a potential rival. When Jamie tells him something, he believes him because Jim is a good friend. Jamie is not. The whole thing is about changing Jim’s perception of reality, show him the truth of the world, just like Ethel said before they started.

And Jamie happened to be in the way.

The theory first started from one thing: Jamie's is not at the wedding when the longform ends. In fact, we don't see him come back from germany. My initial thought was that he was still stuck in the bachelor party. That would make sense because when Wilhelm says "you've passed the test", he's talking to Jim. He's the one who prioritizes his friendship over his relationship, who followed the rules of the game. The only character (beside maybe Big Jim Clive) that doesn’t approve of Ethel and doesn’t call her “life changing” is Jamie. Jim enters her game pretty easily, he goes through the tunnel first, he attacks Jamie and he’s the first to say a word during the letter of complaint. 

That would mean that Jamie didn’t “pass the test” so what happened to him? For this part I’m taking inspiration from @phantombegruvia, if you haven’t read their analysis post, I recommend it. They say that Wilhelm and the German cabaret guy (I’m calling them the workers) are stuck in the game just like Jamie and Jim, hence lines like “sweet release” when Wilhelm dies and “we’ve been doing this for a long time”. I think you know where I’m going with this, Jamie is not at the wedding because he became a worker. But I’d like to come back to what is to me the most important scene for this theory: the scene right before the third trial, when Jamie takes interest in the workers, even asks who the cabaret guy is. But the sentence that truly disturbs me is:

A friend? Like someone like him, who took the same path. If Ethel has done the show before and if it keeps on going without ever ending, if the workers are trapped and this worker knows Jamie will join them soon, that means he’s been at his place before, he played the game.

So when the wedding happens, Jamie may have become one of them, but not one of Ethel adorator. It’s important to separate the two because to me it’s clear that the ones that work in the cabaret are not part of her cult. People in the cult adore Ethel, they’ve built a statue for her (btw I think they could be the audience, that would explain why they love her so much, she entertains them), that doesn’t seem to be the case for the workers, they seem distressed. 

SO we have two categories: the “workers”, like Wilhelm and Cabaret guy, stuck and forced to live the bachelor party’s trials over and over again, the one Jamie probably joined before the wedding, and the adorators, members of Ethel’s cult, that worship her and qualify her as “life changing”.

Now, to the wedding. Ethel calls the wedding “her big day”. Not because it’s her wedding, but because it’s the day her cult grows bigger. We learn that Julie/Lucie also had her bachelorette party with Jim’s nan, and what did she say it was? Life changing, once again. Jim and Lucie probably went through the same thing and they are now part of the second category, they are in the cult.

And the ultimate proof:

I think it’s pretty clear that Luke went for the “Lucie is part of the cult” idea and maybe he wanted Jim to realise and freak out or something? I can’t say, but that’s also why I wanted to post this before the qna, we’ll maybe have more insights!! Thanks for reading all of this. I slightly lost my mind while writing it so don’t take any of that seriously but it was fun! Also English is not my first language, I’m sorry if some stuff were not clear.

[cressidagrey]

(This is so long I’m so sorry) I was the pls don’t explode anon but OH MY GOD THE NEW CHAPTER ????? BELLE WITH HER BOMBSHELL DROP AND A HALF ????? THEYLL ALWAYS COME BACK HELLO ?????? MAX “my wife wants to see her horse” VERSTAPPEN ?????? Oh im ill rn w love for them my god. I hope that whole family is sick to fucking death rn I’m so serious.

The only one I have mild sympathy for is Arthur just because like, I can understand from a younger sibling perspective like the guilt of knowing you should’ve said something but at the same time being just as young as them or younger. I however am gonna box pascal because WHY ARE YOU LYINGGGGGG LIKE YOU COULDNT EVEN TRY TO MAKE IT LESS OBVIOUS ??? I hate her so bad.

And the way Charles reacted in the restaurant ?? Holy shit dude get OVER YOURSELF 😭😭😭 Like fawkkkkk the whole point is it’s not about the damn horse it’s the fact you couldn’t even be assed to learn about your sister, like all of you failed her because you literally just assumed it didn’t matter anymore and she’d move beyond it, like no all you did was make her feel like her wants, dreams, and aspirations were useless and minuscule no wonder she didn’t care anymore. You took her one true love away, made it about yourself, then basically spit in her face since you just didn’t care. Like they literally stripped her bare of what made her, her. Especially to lose something that’s your entire world at such a young age is devastating and something that was living, breathing, tangible ? That’s so tragic, like I get loosing racing sucks but something that’s alive ? That loves you ? I can’t even imagine the guilt she felt over it even though it’s not her fault because she probably assumed that Blanche felt like she was abandoned by somebody who loved her and that’s just awful.

God I want to bomb their house, like the wrongful assumptions about her character ??? It just feels like they’re finding any reason to berate her and pick apart her choices because then to them it gives them some type of morale standing and ground they can have since they had the rug pulled under them. This whole chapter reminds me of the one song “you’re just thinking it’s a small thing that happened, the world ended when it happened to me” because genuinely her whole world shattered when she lost that horse and her entire family either didn’t care or want to know. Like it feels like they’re have this deep need to be this picture perfect family but that’s not how they’re supposed to be and since belle can’t be that ideal perfect sister and daughter they just started to shape her to be the mold they wanted and not who she really is.

I have soooooooo many thoughts but I love max down badddddddd rn like defend ur wife fuck yeah !!! I literally love how you write your scenes out and how you show belles grief, like genuinely. The fact that she’s at a place where she can share something she held so much anguish over is so nice to see and I love watching her work through everything on her own terms, like I don’t think we ever fully get over our grief, we just learn to hold it differently over time and I’m glad she’s finding her footing in that. Healing isn’t linear like I had said and grief loves to find us in the street on a sunny day but I’m glad she’s figuring it out. Seriously I love your writing though i want to it, it literally swung a bat into my ribs and made a home there in its wake, I love u pls never explode 💘💘💘💐💐💐

THIS. MESSAGE. 🥹 First: never apologize for sending long thoughts — this was beautiful and you captured Belle’s whole arc so perfectly it gave me chills. Seriously, you put so much heart into this that I’m honored you trust me with your emotions like this.

You're so spot-on:

It was never just about the horse. It was about how little her dreams mattered to the people who should have protected them most.

Arthur does deserve a sliver of sympathy — he was young too — but Pascale? Oh no. Full boxing match energy.

Charles can't stand realizing he hurt her so deeply because it would mean he has to actually change — and that’s harder than pretending she's the one being difficult.

You understood it perfectly: Belle’s family didn’t just ignore her. They rewrote her into a version that was easier for them to live with. And that devastation — of being forgotten while you’re still right there — it leaves scars that don't just fade away.

Also... Max being her safe place? "My wife wants to see her horse" MAX VERSTAPPEN?? You get it. 🥹

And you said this so perfectly:

We never fully get over our grief, we just learn to hold it differently over time.

I’m tucking that into my soul forever, thank you. 💛

[florihaei]

• ౨ৎ ────── WHERE THE ROSES BLOOM ₊ ˖ ་.

( 이동혁 ) ꒰ lee!donghyuck x fem!reader

in which .. ꒰ in a city where secrets grow faster than roses, you find yourself entangled with the one boy everyone says you should stay away from.. lee haechan. the boy who was hiding more than he lets on, he’s everything you shouldn’t want… and exactly what your heart keeps reaching for. but as midnight talks linger longer than they should have , and his laughter hides even heavier truths, you realize sometimes the most beautiful things are born from chaos. and love? it blooms where you least expect it. ⟡ 🌹

⟡ 🌹 .ᐟ - drama au!, fluff/suggestive/angst, humor, friends to lovers!, fake dating!(briefly), jealousy!(misunderstandings, rumors!) slow burn romance!, mild alcoholic mentions!, arguments!, happy ending!- names : pretty, rose girl, sweetheart, angel!

౨ৎ … NOT PROOFREAD ! ( FLORIHAEI’S VALUT )

秋のメモ… ︵ ︵ ིྀ - this wasn’t planned out just thought of this randomly😭!, like and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!!, comment to be in the taglist for parts 2 and 3!! please enjoy reading!!

— ꒰ part 1! .ᐟ ✦

— ꒰ part 2 coming soon.ᐟ ✦

— ꒰ part 3 coming soon.ᐟ ✦

©florihaei 2025 ꒰ do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without permission ۟ ׅ ͡ ୨ৎ

“love is a little reckless like that, it never ask if your ready - it just blooms”

you weren’t even supposed to be at this party. it was the last place you wanted to be, a cramped, overheated house packed with bodies, the music was way to loud , and the air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat and cheap cheap cologne. you tugged yourself consciously at the sleeve of your jacket, wishing you could just disappear into the wall, but your best friend just looped her arm through yours and yanked you deeper into the chaos.

“come on” she says brightly over the music, “just live a little!”

you gave her a look. “you said this was going to be a “small hangout.”

she laughed, not even pretending to feel bad. “same difference.”

you sighed, resigning yourself to your fate. fine, just an hour. then you could sneak out and spend the rest of the night in bed, pretending none of this ever even happened. you just had to survive until then.

you trailed after her towards the kitchen, dodging the occasional tipsy papergoer. that’s when you saw him ..

lee haechan.

he was impossible to miss, perched up on the counter like it was a throne, swinging his legs and laughing with a group of friends. his messy brown hair caught the light every time he tipped his head back, flashing that obnoxiously attractive smile that you absolutely refused to think it was charming.

god, he was insufferable.

your best friend caught your line of sight and groaned. “ugh he’s here.”

“who?” you said, playing dumb.

“haechan” she muttered like a curse word. “don’t look, he’s already cocky enough without you giving him attention.”

you snorted. “relax.. he’s not my type.”

but even as you said it, haechan’s gaze flickered across the room, and locked straight onto you.

you stiffened.

his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk, like he could hear every thought you had just had about him. you looked away immediately, heart rushing from your cheeks, cursing yourself for even noticing him.

great. just great.

-

the night dragged on painfully slow. you sipped a questionable drink, wandered aimlessly through the house, and tried desperately to blend into the background. your best friend had already disappeared, probably off flirting somewhere, leaving your stranded.

you were about five minutes from faking an emergency call to get yourself out of here but that’s when you felt it. a shift in the air, a prickling at the back of your neck.

you turned and of course there he was, lee haechan and that stupid smile of his he always wore.

you consider just making a run for it.

but .. too late.

“hey rose girl” he drawled , coming to a stop right in front of you.

you blinked. “what?”

he pointed lazily at your wrist, where the edge of your rose tattoo peaked out under your sleeve.

“thought i saw you earlier, guess i was right.” his eyes flickered up to meet yours, dark, he was definitely up to no good, you could see the mischief right through him. “you look like trouble.”

you rolled your eyes. “that’s rich coming from you.”

“ouch” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “wounding me on sight, and here i thought we could be friends.”

you snorted. “doubtful.”

he grin widened, unfazed. “you don’t even know me, pretty girl.”

“i know enough.”

he leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “wanna know more?”

you opened your mouth to shut him down, but before you could, someone called out across the room.

“truth or dare!”

there was a a crowd, people cheering and whoops. someone dragged a circle of chairs into the living room, and bodies began collapsing into them with wild, drunken energy.

you turned backed to haechan, ready to make your escape.

he just smiled wider.

“come on rose girl.” he said, offering you his hand, wanting you to take it. “let’s go make some bad decisions.”

-

against all better judgment, you let him lead you over to the circle.

you ended up sitting next to him, of course. he sprawled in his seat like he owned the place, one knee bumping lightly against yours, every casual brush of contact making your skin buzz.

the game started tame enough, a few silly questions, some dares that seemed very questionable. but it didn’t take long before the attention swung your way.

“truth or dare new girl?” someone from the circle said.

you hesitated, haechan leaned in, whispering “pick dare, i’ll save you if it’s lame.”

you rolled your eyes but you said. “dare.”

there was a devilish glint in the guys eye. “i dare you to sit on haechans lap for the next round.”

the circle erupted in laughter and whistles.

you gasped. “no way..”

“a dare is a dare!” someone yelled.

you turned to haechan, ready to protest, but he just opened his arms invitingly, that stupid cocky grin on his face.

“come on rose girl.” he teased. “i don’t bite ..”

you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

muttering curses under your breath, you reluctantly stood and dropped yourself onto his lap, carful not to out any weight. his hands immediately find your waist, steadying you.

you stiffened. “don’t get comfortable.”

“too late” he said, voice low against your ear.

you hated the way your heart jumped.

-

the game blurred around you after that. you barely registered the questions or the dares, to aware of every place your body touches his, the solid warmth against your hair.

at some point, haechan learned in again, his breath warm against your hair.

“you’re terrible at hiding when you’re nervous” he murmured.

“im not nervous” you lied instantly.

“sure rose girl” he said, laughing softly. “whatever helps you sleep at night..”

you huffed and shifted, meaning to get off of him, but his hands tightened gently on your hips.

“stay.” he said, and for once there was no teasing his voice, just something warm and rough that made your stomach flip.

you stayed.

-

later, after the game had finally ended and people stared dispersing, too probably drink more, you slipped outside onto the porch from some fresh air. your heart was racing and your head was spinning, not from the drinking you were doing but from him.

you leaned against the railing, closing your eyes and breathing deep.

“you always run away when things get good?”

you opened your eyes to find haechan leaning lazily against the porch column, hands tucked into his pockets, watching you with that unreadable expression.

“needed air” you said shortly

he hummed, unconvince, but he didn’t push it.

for a long moment, you just stood there in silence, the night heavy and warm around you. the faint scent of roses from the bushes lining the yard, mixed with the rain that feel from the sky.

“you know..” he said finally, casual like he was commenting on the weather. “you’re the only person here who doesn’t look at me like a prize to win.”

you glanced at him. “is that a compliment or an insult?”

he smiled crookedly. “both.”

you stared at him, really stared, and saw something flicker behind the cocky face, some tired and raw that tugged at your chest before you could stop it.

“you’re not as annoying as i thought” you said, almost grudgingly.

“wow” he said, throwing his hands up. “high praise coming from you, should i frame that?”

“don’t push your luck.”

he grinned.

-

you might have stayed in that strange, almost comfortable silence longer, but then you saw her.

haechan’s ex.

she was standing just inside the doorway, watching you both with a look that could cut glass, she didn’t even try to hide her envy. she whispered something to her friend, and they both laughed, loud enough so both of you could hear.

you shifted instinctively.

haechan followed your gaze, his body tensing beside you.

and before you could process it, he turned to you with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“wanna make a bet?”

you frowned. “what kind of bet?”

“for the next two week” he said, stepping closer, “you pretend to be my girlfriend.”

you blinked. “what?”

“come on rose girl” he coaxed. “it’ll be fun, piss her off .. have a little adventure, you might even start liking me.”

you opened your mouth to say no, but just then, someone inside shouted. “are they dating?!” followed by another burst of laughter.

you whipped your head around, and found at least three people watching you from the window, grinning and edging you on.

your cheeks flamed.

haechan leaned in, his voice low. “don’t leave me hanging baby.”

you should have said no.

you really, really should have said no.

but with everyone watching, and haechan looking at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered, you found yourself doing something stupid.

you reached out, and took his hand.

“fine” you muttered. “but if this blows up, it’s your fault.”

he squeezed your fingers lightly, a victorious grin lighting up his whole face.

“trust me pretty girl” he said winking. “you won’t regret it”

-

and he pulled you back inside, your heart hammered against your ribs , too loud, too reckless.

somewhere deep down, a part of you knew, this was a terrible idea.

but another part of you, the wild part you usually kept buried.

maybe the most beautiful things only bloom when you stop being careful

and standing there, holding haechan’s hand, feeling the whole world tilt just a little to a side.

you realize you might be about to find out exactly what that meant.

[autisticlenaluthor]

Also can you give hc’s abt other couples and their dynamic with jackienat? and how they would all hangout

yes ofc!! i ended up focusing on taivan bc they're the canon lesbians - but i'm happy to do more if you have other requests :))

the dynamic with how tai and van interact with them would be a bit split in the beginning.

tai and shauna are so close and would still be so close if canon didn't forget about them so when shauna is fuming with jealousy/rage about jackie and nat's relationship - tai would be the one dealing with that. she doesn't always take shauna's side and defend her, but she's more there for shauna than she is jackienat.

this makes jackie a bit nervous to approach her. she'd also feel a level of intimidation because she was used to being in the perfect ideal relationship with jeff. so being on the outskirts and no longer at the top - she doesn't really know where she stands.

van, however, would be very happy for them - especially nat. i love the fanon interpretation that nat and van were friends growing up in the trailer park. so when nat is finally with someone and genuinely happy & able to be herself, van would be really supportive.

she also definitely teases nat for it - and insists that she knew nat had a crush forever. nat tries to deny it, but she can't.

as a group - it takes some time for them to all hang out. it's one thing for jackie to be known as a lesbian, it's another for her to be visibly queer. so openly hanging out (in the wilderness or in society) with her girlfriend and the other two lesbians double date style would be terrifying to her at first.

but when they do hang out back home (either pre crash or post rescue) it would always be over activities or things they can all do together. like they go to the arcade and get way too competitive over the games. or they see bad movies in theaters and spend all their cash on snacks.

(more jackie & taivan analysis/thoughts under the cut)

in the beginning - i could see jackie coming to tai and van's hut one night. she'd be nervous like a dog with its tail between it's legs & fidgeting with her fingers - wanting to ask them questions but not knowing hot to approach it.

because back home, jackie knew all the rules - but she knew them because she'd worked so hard to learn them. she'd studied and took notes on how heterosexual relationships, the social pyramid, and high school were supposed to work. she treated those rules like the bible and she made them (at least on the surface) work in her favor.

but being in a relationship with nat?

for as good as it is - jackie is lost. she's never had exposure to this in the Real World. so she goes to the wilderness' resident "elder" lesbians.

van would tease her a bit at first. but when tai can tell jackie's being serious, she gives them a good smack on the arm and van knows to lock in and they let jackie ask her 'silly' questions

(when we get home - how do i ask her to go out with me? how do i know when she's flirting and not just being friendly? i never used to want to wear jeff's jacket but i want to wear hers - is that weird?)

tai, being the one who'd struggled so much with being closeted & internalized homophobia, answers most of them.

nat knows these conversations are happening, even though jackie doesn't talk about them, and she's always appreciative. she'll shoot tai or van a knowing smile the next morning, her way of saying thank you, and they both know what she means.