#BUT!!!! since when has making things EASY ever been MY concern???

[capricorncorvette]

DREW BLADE RANGER AS A HORSE ^^

I've been asked multiple times if i can draw the characters from Planes as horses ever since i started doing the characters from Cars as horses, so i'm starting off with Blade :D

Blades actual name is Ranger, it was the name given by his human caretakers at the time. He has done a lot in his life: police work, acting on a show, and now he's a firefighter hore. I couldnt decide whether he should be a Thoroughbred or a Hannoverian, so i just made him a cross.

My designs so far:

Need to personalize him a bit more

Heres his character sheet for now

I thought it wouldnt be a good idea to make the helicopter that died on set another horse, because animals are easier to replace them humans when it comes to television productions most of the time, so i decided his rider died in an accident while he was riding Blade, because he did all his stunts by himself (mostly because Blade liked him the most out of all the actors) Blade really liked his rider and when he died on set he was Blades first concern. Blade was actually injured himself too and was rushed to the vet for a checkup, but had no bones broken and got out alive with some bleeding wounds. His rider died on the way to the hospital because of fatal injuries.

Blade was later bought by a firefighting team, where he works together with multiple other animals, mostly Windlifter, a big working horse, and Dipper, a Thoroughbred mare, who used to be a police horse just like him. Blade in an incredibly determined horse and easy to work and ride,

Headcanons ofc:

1. He doesnt really like working with different people, he would rather have a few people in his team and some other animals he knows well and trusts.

2. Blade finds riding and being ridden perfectly fine, he doesnt necessarily love it but he doesnt hate it or dislike it either.

3. Blade actually really enjoys to be ridden without a saddle - wich was done with him quite a few times back in his acting days - but with his job, he needs a lot of tack and he carries his water with him on his back.

4. If there is 1 things Blade absolutely hates it would be ignorant people. Blade hates ignorant people that don't listen to professionals and bring themselves and other people in danger. But those people on his back or on his friends' backs, thats the biggest no no you can give Blade. Blade will tolerate small mistakes like accidental kicks or pulls, but if someone is purposely trying to control him or pulling on his bit up there, he will not hesitate to throw them off. Blade knows when someone is pulling or kicking on purpose, but he's only ridden by a parcticular team of people anyway, so throwing people off is barely necessary.

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he’d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Recount Your Kids, Batman

[A loose continuation to this post]

Talia doesn't visit the Wayne manor. At least not regularly nor officially. All the batkids and Batman know she comes sometimes, just to check up on Damian and maybe bother Bruce from time to time, but this is the first time she has ever shown up to a dinner.

And, as they all take their seats, she gives Damian a long curios glance. Then, she looks to Bruce.

"Is that everyone?" She asks, easy and lighthearted. One might think she is simply not acquainted with the number of Wayne children or that she is teasing Bruce on the sheer amount of them. But Damian is looking down to his plate, and Tim knows for sure Talia keeps up with Wayne's head count, and Dick is fairly certain Talia would never tease Bruce, at least not so subtly.

It could have been some sort of a hint at Jason. If he was not here, that is. But he is, for once, so this is really all the family at one table.

"Yes?" Dick tries, looking around the table just to make sure. Steph and Babs are not here today, but that's definitely not what Talia could have meant. Bruce also looks just a little confused, which is a nice change of pace since he looked guarded and on edge from the very moment Talia showed up.

The woman hums, her eyes studying Damian. The youngest bat keeps his gaze down on his empty plate. No one really understands what's going on, but they all feel like there's something important and heavy hanging in the air.

Then, Talia stands up and turns to Alfred, "We will be dining later. It has come to my attention that kids are a lot more secretive than I thought," she explains cryptically and smiles at Bruce, "Beloved, will you come with me to the training grounds? I have something to show you."

Bruce doesn't move for a long moment, and Talia's smile becomes almost gentle, "It's about your son."

At least that makes the man move.

When they get down to the Cave - since Talia insisted this was not a matter that could be resolved in the manor's training room - it's not only her, Bruce, and the little bat there, of course. The whole family was way too intrigued, and some were even alarmed.

The most alarming part, though, was the fact that Damian had been uncharacteristically quiet on their way down. Yet, when Dick looked to Cass, she just shook her head slightly. The boy was not worried. To Cass, he looked almost resigned, if a bit displeased.

"Your sword, Damian," Talia commands, and the boy presses his lips into a thin line.

"This is not necessary, Mother."

"It is," the woman looks amused, but there's an underlying layer of concern to her tone.

"...Yes, Mother," Damian nods his head on what feels like surrender and takes his katana. Not the training one, the real blade. Bruce makes a soft, alarmed grunt, but Talia waves him off.

"Not to worry, Beloved. I will not harm our brethren."

She doesn't take a stance, nor does she pick out a weapon, simply lunges for Damian as soon as they are both on the mats. Two daggers seem to appear in her hands out of nothing, and, contrary to her words, her aim is towards Damian's neck. The boy blocks, jumps away, and blocks another attack.

Tim steps closer, "You can't just-"

"Step away, Drake," It's the first time Damian has spoken to them since they've sat down for dinner. His voice is tense, but not derisive. If anything, it sounds a bit tired.

Talia lunges for him again, faster, meaner. Metal clings against metal.

"You understand this can not keep going, my child," she tells the boy, startlingly gentle on the contrary to her definitely dangerous strikes.

Damian doesn't answer.

The rest of Batfam are forced to simply watch the encounter: Damian is mostly on defense as Talia goes for him, harder and harder with every hit. Until, without any warning, the woman strikes for Damian's arm, making him drop his katana, and-

A few things happen at once.

Talia lunges for Damian's throat. Bruce jumps onto the mats so fast that he almost trips. Tim yelps.

But Talia's blade doesn't strike.

A figure of another child, eerily similar to Damian and wearing the League of Assassins uniform, is standing in front of the littlest bat, two crystal clear blades in his hands, blocking the dagger.

Bruce halts midstep. The rest of the family holds their breath.

But Talia simply smiles and drops her daggers, backing away and looking at the boy between her and Damian with a fond gaze.

"Danyal," she greets, and the boy huffs, lowering his weapons. He doesn't drop them - they simply dissipate in the air, turning into tiny snowflakes.

"Mother," he greets back begrudgingly, and his voice is the exact replica of Damian's. A clone? No, because Damian reacts to him nothing like he had to the clones, simply clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes.

"You could have simply asked, Mother," he comments, taking a step forward and stading near the other boy. Danyal. When standing side by side, they look nearly identical - same facial features, same posture, same hair, even if Damian's is a little more tame.

But Danyal's eyes are just a few hues off. Still green but lighter than Damian's.

"I assumed if you have spent years living here and never bothered to mention your brother, I would need a little more than asking, my love," Talia doesn't laugh, but it sounds like she wants to. Both boys roll their eyes, perfectly in sync.

Hold the fuck up, brother?

"Huh. I thought you died," Jason mentions offhandedly, and the whole family whips their heads to him. Yet, before any of them speak, it's Danyal who answers.

"I mean, I did? Kinda?" He waves his hand in the air and shrugs, and he acts so unlike Damian while also simultaneously having his face, that it makes Tim shiver a little.

"You-" Bruce starts, seeming to finally find his voice, but the boy cuts him off.

"I'm not actually yours," he snorts at Bruce's facial expression, "Yeah, I know I look like I am. Blame the ghost sewers, Chronos, and my stupid ass for making decisions while not being fully awake."

There is so much to unpack in that sentence that no one has the barest of ideas on where to start.

Damian curves his lips down in a sneer.

"The longer you stay there staring, the colder the dinner will be when we return," he reminds them, and Danyal suddenly perks up.

"Dinner? Can I join? It's been ages since I've had anything home cooked," he smiles, like there's some kind of an inside joke in that sentence. Damian rolls his eyes.

"The food doesn't come alive in this household, Danyal."

"Bummer," the boy looks a bit disappointed, but not too much. "And it's Danny, for the thousandth time."

Talia picks up her daggers, hiding them somewhere in her clothes in an unnoticeable motion. Then, she gives Bruce a small, if a bit sly, smile.

"You can not call it 'family dinner' if not all your family is there."

[the-sunflower-room]

scared half to death

🌪️tyler owens x fem!reader 

☆ genre: angst, fluff, friends to lovers

☆ wc: 2.7k

☆ summary: tyler owens is not easily angered, but when the love of his life runs into an incoming tornado without a second thought, his emotions get the better of him.

☆ warnings: a very upset tyler, yelling, language

note: so i watched twisters and it was actually everything to me! the brainrot is bad and i’ve been wanting to write for tyler ever since i saw it, so here it is! this is very much the idiots in love trope because it’s one of my favorites. enjoy! :)

“Where is she?”

Tyler isn’t sure if he’s ever felt this angry before. He considers himself a fairly easy going man, always quick to make light of a situation and put everyone in the room at ease with his charming, joking nature.

But this was different. This had his heart pounding, his ears ringing. His face is flushed red and he feels like he can hardly breathe.

All because of her.

He slams the door of his truck, approaching his crew in the gas station parking lot with a look on his face that’s so completely un-Tyler that it makes them all shift uneasily.

“Where’s…who?” Boone tries weakly, unsuccessful in his attempt to play dumb. Lily rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs, shooting him a glare.

Tyler clenches his jaw, for once not in the mood for his friends’ antics. “You know damn well who I’m talking about.”

They all exchange glances, his uncharacteristic demeanor both surprising and concerning. This isn’t the calm, charismatic frontman of the Tornado Wranglers they’re used to.

“She’s in the RV, but I don’t think-” Dani begins, but he’s already beelining for the camper before they can finish. He can hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears as he nearly bursts through the door, finding her sitting at the small table in the back with her head in her hands.

Her gaze snaps up at the sound of his entrance into the RV, and her face immediately drops when she sees him practically fuming. “Tyler-” she says urgently, instantly on her feet as he approaches as if she’s about to defend herself. But he isn’t having any of it.

“You wanna tell me what the hell you were thinking out there?” He seethes, suddenly towering over her with his jaw clenched and hands on his hips. She swallows thickly, nervous around this version of him. Terrified to have upset him, disappointed him.

“Tyler, I promise, I was just trying to do the right thing-” she starts again, her tone practically pleading, but he just scoffs. 

“The right thing?” He questions in disbelief, cutting her off with a shake of his head. “You call nearly getting yourself killed in the field ‘doing the right thing’?”

She squeezes her eyes shut at the reminder of what she’d done, at the venom in his voice that’s ordinarily so gentle when directed at her. Memories of what had transpired nearly 20 minutes ago flood her mind and she feels a lump forming in her throat.

“I couldn’t let our data get lost,” she whispers weakly, her gaze glued to the floor in shame. “Bullshit,” he mutters, jaw clenched as his breath picks up. His eyes search her face, grasping to understand why the hell she had risked her life the way she had.

“You don’t run into the path of an incoming EF3 to recover some stupid equipment for our disruption research,” he practically spits, his voice growing louder, more emotional.

“That equipment is completely replaceable. You sure as hell aren’t. So I want to know why on god’s green earth you thought it was a good idea to run headfirst into danger like that.”

Her breath hitches, her eyes welling up with unshed tears at the reminder of her brashness. She feels ashamed and almost embarrassed as Tyler practically berates her.

They were best friends, a pair that the rest of the team liked to call the “dynamic duo.” With a shared passion for tornadoes and a taste for danger, they had instantly clicked from the moment they met during a chase a few years ago, becoming inseparable. Which is why Tyler’s harsh reminder of her stupidity stung so painfully.

She wasn’t used to hearing him so upset, so emotional in the worst way. With her, his tone was always soft, teasing, sometimes so overtly flirty that it would leave her heart pounding and her cheeks flushed.

But this was different. Now his gaze was harsh, curses unnaturally tumbling from his lips as she struggled to explain herself. And she hated every moment of his scrutinizing stare.

“You’ve worked so hard on putting together the equipment for the disruption research. I didn’t want you to have to start from scratch…not after all the effort you went through,” she explains pathetically, her voice cracking slightly as her emotions begin to shine through.

Tyler shakes his head, stepping even closer into her space. “And you thought it was worth risking your life for?” He grits out, his furrowed brow and downturned lips looking so unnatural on his normally smiling face.

Another shuddering breath escapes her as she catches herself from revealing the true reason she’d been so careless, from baring her soul and telling him that she’d run into the path of an incoming tornado because she loved him more than anything. That the thought of his disappointed face, his devastation over months of work lost to an unpredictably large tornado, hurt her so much that she would have done anything to save that equipment.

Anything to make him happy, to be the hero that he was to her.

“I- I didn’t get hurt, I knew I had time to get at least some of it-” she stammers, but she can’t get the words out.

“You didn’t have time!” He practically yells, gripping her shoulders and giving her a gentle shake. His eyes are wide, his gaze burning as he stares down at her.

“If Boone hadn’t been close by with his truck, you could’ve easily not made it. You could’ve died,” he chokes out, his grip on her tightening. His eyes are watering now, his anger fizzling out into something more desperate, more panicked.

Tyler still remembers the pure, unadulterated fear he’d felt as she slipped out of the safety of his truck before he could stop her, sprinting out into the open field where the winds and torrential rain were getting worse by the second.

He remembers the devastated scream of her name that had ripped itself from his chest, lost to the howling winds.

He sure as hell can’t forget the feeling of overwhelming fear and helplessness that overtook him when the rain became so intense that he could not longer see her, no longer assure himself that she hadn’t been sucked up into the raging funnel or hurt by the flying debris.

It was only when he got radio confirmation from Boone five minutes later, stating that she was safe in their truck with some of the equipment intact, that he even knew she was alive.

It had been the most hopeless, terrifying five minutes of his life.

“Don’t you understand what you mean to everyone? What you mean to me?” He rasps, his voice quieter now, more broken. “Some stupid equipment for an experiment isn’t worth your life, Y/N. Not in the least.”

His eyes are tender now as they rake over her face, scanning the scrapes and cuts littering her cheeks, the patch of dried blood clinging to her temple. His heart aches at the thought of her getting hurt, even if the injuries are small.

She notices that nearly all of his anger has left his body, replaced by the emotion that had truly been brewing beneath the surface: crippling fear at the possibility of losing her.

A silent tear runs down her face at his softer, more vulnerable words, her heart breaking as she realizes the effect her thoughtless actions have had on the man she loves. He’s quick to gently wipe it away with the pad of his thumb, his touch lingering on her cheek as he gazes at her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice breaking as she chokes back a sob. In an instant, he’s enveloping her in his tight, comforting hold, cradling her head to his chest and pulling her so close to him that their bodies are practically molded together.

“Shhh…it’s alright, sweetheart,” he gently hushes, his hand stroking through her hair as she cries softly against him. He’s back to himself now, all anger and frustration long abandoned in favor of his naturally calm, caring demeanor. Through her tears, she feels herself flushing slightly at his term of endearment.

“I’m the sorry one. I shouldn’t have yelled at ya, you didn’t deserve it,” he murmurs into her ear, his arms tightening around her.

He internally berates himself for defaulting to anger when she had also probably been scared and upset. But thinking she had died in that tornado just for attempting to recover his equipment had struck something so deep within him that his brain had reacted irrationally.

He stews in his remorse for a moment longer before admitting a truth that might be a little too vulnerable, a little too revealing of his deep and unwavering love for her, but he has to get it off his chest.

“…You just scared me half to death, darlin’. I can’t lose you...I can’t. It would tear me apart worse than a damn tornado ever could.” His whispered words are so raw and tinged with devastation that her breath hitches against his chest.

Slowly, she peels herself away from his comforting embrace to get a good look at him, and what she finds makes her heart clench in her chest. 

His eyes are red and glassy, obvious signs that he’d been crying. His muscles are taught with anxiety, like every fiber in his body had been tense ever since she fled his truck. His hair is slightly tousled and she instantly knows he’d been running his hand through it the way he does when he’s stressed.

The thought that she could cause him this much worry, this much pain, sucks the breath from her lungs and makes her feel dizzy.

“I only tried to save the equipment because I knew how important the research was to you,” she whispers, her voice still shaky but full of sincerity.

“I know how much it means to you, finding a way to keep these tornadoes from causing so much damage to innocent lives. I just- I wanted to do something brave and selfless for you, the way you always have for me,” she admits softly, swallowing as she meets his gaze.

His lips part slightly at her admission, the reverence in her words staggering. Hearing that she cares for him, finds him brave and selfless, wants to return the way he makes her feel, fills his heart with a love so deep he feels like he’s drowning in it.

“Y/N, you’re-” he rasps, pausing to clear his throat when he hears how raw and weak his voice sounds.

“You’re so damn sweet. Your heart is so big. That’s what I love about you. But please, don’t be as stupid as me. I throw myself headfirst into danger so much because I don’t think first…my judgement gets clouded by the thought of helping someone and I get tunnel vision. Which has put me in one too many potentially life-ending scenarios,” he murmurs, his hands squeezing her slightly as they rest on her shoulders.

“I can’t- I won’t let you be that careless. You mean too much to me.”

Her eyes widen at the tenderness in his voice, the affection and worry dripping from every word. It feels like their conversation is breaching on something deeper, something much more vulnerable and terrifying.

Her mind is hung up on his soft that’s what I love about you. Even hearing the word love directed at her from the mouth of Tyler Owens makes her head spin and her face heat up, and she’s unsure if she’s even breathing anymore.

“Tyler…” she manages, her voice threatening to break with the overwhelming swirl of emotions running through her. She can’t help herself, knows that she’s finally going to put it out there, tell him how she feels no matter how scary it might be.

“I love-” his lips are on hers before she can even finish. The sensation of Tyler kissing her is unlike anything she’s ever felt, and she’s damn sure she never wants him to stop.

His large hand tenderly cups her cheek while the other snakes into her hair, tangling his fingers through the strands as he pulls her even closer. She gasps softly as his grip tightens, his lips moving against her own with an almost feral desperation.

The salt from her tears mixes with his sweet taste – something like honey and peppermint – and she melts further into him and his warmth. She can feel him pour every ounce of his turbulent, pent-up emotions into the kiss, and it leaves her completely breathless.

He’s waited for this moment for so long, and after thinking he’d lost her today, he’d be content to just kiss her like this for the rest of time. Reassuring himself that’s she’s still there, that she’s his. Showing her what she means to him.

Finally getting a grip on his emotions, Tyler pulls away for a moment, wanting to make sure he hasn’t misread the signs, misinterpreted what he’d felt brewing between them for so long.

But a wide, disbelieving grin spreads across her face as she fights to catch her breath, and he suddenly has no doubt that she’s been his all along.

“I’ve been waiting for that for- well, I don’t even know how long,” she laughs breathlessly, slightly woozy from his intoxicating taste.

He huffs a laugh in return, his eyes shining with an overwhelming adoration for the woman before him. “Yeah…I think Boone might owe Dexter and Lily some money,” he jokes softly, his thumb gently brushing her rain-soaked hair away from her face.

His eyes roam over her, taking in every inch of her muddy clothes, her scraped up hands, the shallow cut on her temple. Regret courses through him at the way he’d raised his voice at her, even if it had been out of fear of losing her.

“Are you sure you weren’t hurt?” He murmurs, his voice lower and more serious than before. She gently nods, her hand moving to rest on top of his own as it cups her face.

“I’m ok, promise. It’s just a little scrape from slipping in the mud,” she reassures him, sensing his lingering gaze on her slightly bloodied face. She can practically feel the apprehension in his stare, his constant worry for her well-being so endearing that she just wants to kiss him again and again.

“I promise, Ty. And I swear, I won’t do anything like that again. I just got lost in the moment and didn’t think before acting.” He nods slowly, letting the sincerity in her voice wash over her and comfort his racing mind. 

“You’d better not,” he teases softly, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. “If we’re doing this thing, no more running headfirst into tornadoes, you hear? Can’t have my girl acting like an irrational daredevil like me. I’ve been told she’s smarter than that.”

She feels herself blushing as he calls her his girl, the title rolling off his tongue so naturally that it makes her heart skip a beat. Tyler watches as a hearty laugh escapes her and she leans into his touch, his own smile growing wider.

Suddenly nothing else has ever mattered beyond this moment of her in his arms, blushing and laughing like he’s the funniest damn man in the world.

“Ok, alright,” she giggles with feigned exasperation. “No more running into tornado paths, I swear. Wrangler’s honor. But you have to swear it too. You’re an adrenaline junkie and a trouble maker, even more than I am.”

He chuckles at her playful jab, his body feeling lighter than it has all day as he finally lets the tension within him fade. She’s safe, he tells himself over and over. She’s alive, she’s teasing him like she always does, and she’s got him smiling like a damn fool.

“Baby,” he mutters with that teasing glint in his eye, “you need to get my head checked if I ever run away from you and into a tornado. No man in his right mind would leave a gorgeous thing like you for some wind.”

Before she can reply to his ridiculous comment, he captures her lips once more with his own, relishing in the way she smiles against him as he pulls her closer.

This is all Tyler’s ever wanted - all he’s ever needed. Just her, safe and sound, loving him in all his flaws and worry for her.

If her running into that damn field led to this moment, this reality where she’s finally his, then so be it. He’s never been more grateful for a tornado.

[sparklystarrrr]

crewel adopt us headcanon?

Anon I fucking love you for this request. (you don't know how I tweaked out from happiness from seeing this in my inbox)

Adopting His Puppy

Synopsis: Crewel adopts you as his own lovely chidl!

Contains: Divius C. x Gn! Reader, platonic, Potionology is your best subject, papa Crewel is my fav Crewel, minor(?) reader - not specified, reader has implied familial problems

Arriving in Twisted Wonderland and forcibly getting acclimated to their traditions, history and simple ways of life were no easy feat. It was probably the worst time of your life besides the distractions your friends gave you.

It was so much worse now that you had no parental figure and no family. No one was there when you needed some sense knocked into you or if you just needed parental guidance

Along with your friends though, Potionology with Professer- Master Crewel was easily enjoyable

Since you got here, you and Master Crewel had been getting closer and really starting to get to know each other. It was the most fun you'd had in a while. For the first time you had a home away from home

One thing that stood out to you the most was that he would be less strict with you. He wouldn't yell or prod at you during lessons and would take his time teaching you and making sure you understood what was laid out before you

You'd go to his classroom to find him whenever you needed guidance or just someone to be with and the two of you would talk for hours. Eventually he'd send you on your way with a few extra dollars because he highly detested Crowley's ways of "caring" for you

He would sew clothes he thought would look nice on you and would even teach you some sewing skills. Everything you mastered, with his teaching or not, he would give you a pat on the back, saying he's proud of you.

It was the first time in a while you'd heard those words come from someone's mouth. It was like the world bloomed around you every time he congratulated you on something or suggested you come down to his classroom for some extra Potionology or sewing while you talked endlessly about things like his dogs or your shared hatred for Crowley (the jokes you two make are actually terrible but so hilarious that they can't be spoken outside the room)

At one point after a particularly hard day of school with finding out you flunked two exams, Ramshackle was literally breaking down again, you had no more money for food, and your favorite shirt snagged a hole from getting caught on a splintery door, you came to his classroom weeping. It wasn't the first time you'd cried around him but it had never been this heavily

That day was the first time he'd hugged you. It was a bit awkward since he didn't want to wrinkle or soil his clothes but it was warm and soft in a way. Most importantly, it was loving.

He rubbed your back gently and let you cry while you both talked. This was the most concerned he's ever been for a student. You both figured out ways to fix everything after you calmed down. He suggested you go to your friends dorms for the time being since it would be convenient due to your dorm situation

He even helped you study for the upcoming exams you had to make up for the two failed ones. He was a bit more strict than usual but you knew he had a good intention to do so. Right after, he lent you his sewing machine and with the skills he gave you, you fixed up the hole in your shirt.

Not too many days later you received a call to go to Headmaster Crowley's office for important business you dragged your feet a bit. It was unknown to you the big news behind his words, but to you any request from Crowley was a tedious and unwanted one!

Once arriving, it didn't seem too awkward. The air was light and warm and it smelled of the woodsy cologne Crewel wore. It felt familiar to you.

There were papers on the desk laying perfectly organized. It seemed like this was paperwork once again but it was odd that Crewel was there...

"Hey Crewel! And Crowley... Why was I called here? I heard there were some papers I needed to sign?" (y/n) spoke with a small sigh. The two men turned their attention to them after what seemed to be a conversation that had annoyed Crewel to his wits end. His stiff hand that was previously pinching the bridge of his nose was set down on the table more comfortably. A small smile grew on his face "Hello, Pup. How have you been?" He patted the chair next to him and ushered (y/n) towards it gently. With a silent nod and a smile as your answer, they sat down.

"So, (y/n), we've called you here to discuss a rather important topic! Wouldn't you say, Crewel?" Crowley spoke in his boisterous tone."Yes yes, it will be very important to discuss. Remind me of why I had to take this up with you out of all people?"Crewel groaned and ran his fingers through his neat hair. "W-well Divius, all paperwork going to the College must go through me of course!"

"Did you make that up?"

"... On with the papers Crewel! The poor Prefect doesn't have all day as you know!"

(y/n) and Crewel both sighed in unison. "Anyways... What are these papers about?" Crewel took a deep breath and spoke more gently, "These are papers to legally adopt you, Pup. You do not need to make the decision now but as I've spent more time with you, I've viewed you as much more than a student." (y/n) knew exactly what he meant. He saw them as family. There was a sudden feeling of warmth in their chest again. They felt the same, the exact same.

"N-no no... I'd like to sign it. I'd love to.." They spoke. Their voice wavered but was still as bold as ever. Crewel smiled to himself and placed the papers in front of (y/n). He slipped the pen into their hand,"Sign away Pup."

They signed the papers with shaking hands. Not of fear or anxiety, but out of the excitement they felt. They'd longed for the feeling of truly having a parental figure who cared for them, one who wanted them. Here they were with their favorite teacher in this new magical school; he was adopting them. They finished signing with tears in their eyes and placed the pencil down.

In one quick movement, they threw themselves into Crewel's arms. Through his surprised grunt, he laid his hands on their shoulders,"My my Pup, you will wrinkle my clo-" "Thank you, Father." He let out a breathy laugh and kissed the crown of their head softly"Of course, my Pup." He hugged them closer while trying his best to ignore the tears falling on his shoulder.

"My, how gracious it is to see a family come together!-" "SHUT UP CROWLEY!"

Also also, for any other requests for Staff members (or Grimm) THEY WILL ONLY BE PLATONIC JUST LIKE THIS -- I see them all as family in the game and it would be super uncomfortable for me to write about shabloinking with them

[whatifitis]

♡ you happened - LN 4 ♡

Summary: Did I just... fall in love with the worst person to fall in love with?! *crashes out in a grocery store*

WC: 2565

CW: fluff, friends or something to lovers, use of swear words ☝, joke about death/banter, also not proofread and I've veen awake for almost 24 hrs and my last sleep was 4 hours long :D

Your whole life, all you ever heard was “Oh the two of you are so cute together!”, “Just wait, you two were meant to be”, “Never say never!”

Everyone, your family, his family, neighbors, even staff at restaurants and cafes you frequented thought it. Spoken as if it was written in the stars that you and Lando Norris were fated. You’re not kidding when you say that both your families have placed bets on when you two would finally end up dating… turns out the person who gets closest to the day will win $1,000. 

At first, it didn’t really bother you. It was quite easy to get on with life and ignore their antics. But as you grew older, it stopped being a little joke or little bits of hope within them. When you started dating your first boyfriend in high school, your family audibly sighed when you introduced them to him. The audible sigh was only the start as well. Soon they were making sly comments about how your boyfriend didn’t have green eyes like Lando or curly hair. 

When your family continued their behavior with the second boy you brought home, you stopped introducing them. 

The pressure didn’t just affect you and your love life. After some time, you and Lando stopped talking. After being inseparable since you were practically born, the two of you were pushed apart because of your families and their incessant need to hope for something truly insane. 

You think it had been about 9 years of no contact before you and Lando had reconnected. And the only reason that you two had found each other again was because you needed a new roommate and Lando was lonely…

It was awkward at first. The two of you had grown up and completely changed as people. The interests and hobbies you once had as children were now nonexistent in your lives today. Everything has changed: your favorite colors, foods, and movies. 

It took quite some time, but now you two know each other better now. Though Lando is rarely in the city where you two live, he’s always home when he’s there. The man never leaves the house and it was quite concerning at first. You wondered if he was deficient in vitamin D. The doctors probably thought he went out less than a vampire. 

The one thing that really helped the two of you to bond, besides having mandatory hangouts at least once a month, was when you had been infected with a cold and had somehow shared it with Lando. The two of you were almost bedridden for a week. To make sure neither of you would need to be sent to the emergency room, camp was set up in the living room. Who knew being cramped together in the same room for a week would make the two of you best friends again. 

Not only did you guys relearn each other's favorite colors and movies, but now you know his favorite video games and what his life is like. Lando also got to learn about what you studied in university and how you once duetted ‘Everyday’ from High School Musical 2 with Phoebe Bridgers at a bar in Manchester. After sharing this information, Lando had mentioned the fact that he had never seen any of the High School Musical movies. Sure his sisters had played it in the house as kids but he never paid any mind to it. Naturally, you forced him to watch all 3 movies and now his favorite song is ‘You Are the Music in Me’, HUMUHUMUNUKUNUKUAPUA’A was a close second though. 

And because you had forced him to watch all the HSM movies, he made you play some video games with him. After some debating, he had decided that the two of you would play ‘It Takes Two’. He claimed it was a great way to “create moral” and “bond” with each other. The only thing you had gathered was that you and Lando would make a terrible team no matter what you two were doing. 

Sports? Someone would break the other's nose by accident. Video games? A controller was going to get broken. 

You had also learned that the both of you liked to taunt and poke fun at each other in a way that would make others concerned. 

-=+=-

“Don’t you think it’s romantic? Dying for each other?” Lando said, leaning his head back to look at you and smiling cheekily. 

“I’d rather kill you myself, thanks.” you say, rolling your eyes and making Lando let out a chuckle. The chuckle then leads to a coughing fit. This in turn made you laugh and now then the both of you were having a coughing fit. 

Through coughs and grasps for air, Lando said “Karma, bitch.”

Some gaslighting from you may have followed after you’d hit Lando in the face with a pillow. 

“Lando, I swear. The pillow just levitated on its own and hit your face.”

-=+=-

You were sitting in the kitchen, working on your laptop when Lando came in and wandered over to the fridge. You watched as he opened the fridge, analyzed its contents for approximately 2 seconds before closing it and turning to look at you, “Heyyyy, y/n.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you respond “Heyyy, Lan.”

“So, uhm. Do you wanna go to the market with me? I need something for quick meals and snacks and I could use some company.” 

“You could use some company or are you still scared of the pigeons outside the market door?” you question. 

“Hey! Those beasts are out for blood! I swear on my future dog's life, TWO of them came for my head last time I went.” 

“Sure, big man. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” you say as you stand and walk over to pat his shoulder, “You’re driving though. These narrow roads make me wanna swerve into oncoming traffic.”

“Deal.” Lando says as he follows you out the apartment door. 

-=+=-

Lando had already parked the car and the two of you were walking to the doors of the market. You watched Lando try to “sneakily” tiptoe through the market doors, keeping an eye out for any potential threats (pigeons…). 

He was just halfway through the door when a customer in the store had accidentally dropped a box of cereal. Lando tripped and nearly fell before catching himself and trying to brush off the fact that as a grown man, he was terrified of birds. 

“Smooth.” you tease “Smooooth.”

Lando grabs a basket and walks quickly further into the store. Think it's to say he was at least a little embarrassed by what had just happened. By the time you managed to catch up to him, he was already at the opposite end of the store, browsing the tampons.

“Lan?”

“Yeah?” he says as he turns his attention back to you. 

“Is it that time of the month or something?”

“Nah. Just… looking…observing.”

“Right. I’ll just go and grab some crisps.” you say, pointing somewhere behind him. 

“Oh sick! I’ll go with you.” he says, skipping down the aisles. 

As the two of you debated between some of the options of crisps, the song being played in the market had changed and you’re confident that everyone had heard the gasp that escaped Lando’s mouth when he heard the opening notes of ‘You Are the Music in Me’. 

Before you could even register what was happening, Lando had dropped the basket on the floor and grabbed an abandoned whisk off a shelf, using it as a makeshift microphone for his performance. When it was Gabriella’s turn to sing, Lando turned the “microphone” to you, raising an eyebrow in anticipation. 

Reluctantly, you sang your bit, making a smile erupt on Lando’s face. Half-way through the song, Lando was running and jumping up and down the aisle, dancing and lip syncing to the song. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics. You were also laughing at the realization that he was so embarrassed of being startled by cereal that he ran through the store to hide, but now he’s openly performing in the middle of the store, not caring who could be watching and judging. 

God, I’m in love… shit. 

No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. 

No way you were in love with Lando Norris. You were never going to live this down. Some people in your family will be $1,000 richer. They will comment on this for the rest of your lives. You will have lost. They will have won. This was forever going to be something they would use against you. 

Fuck. 

After a minute, Lando had noticed the sudden change in your emotions. One second, you were laughing and smiling brightly at him and with him. The next, your face had dropped and turned to stone. Did he do something? Were you embarrassed? Of him?

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Lando questioned, concern drawing his features. 

Too embarrassed to be truthful, you tried to think quickly and faked being agitated. 

“Yeah, you happened. Dumbfuck.” you say as you trudge past the man. 

Lando’s heart dropped. What did he do wrong? You’re clearly upset but he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know how to fix it. 

He watched your back drift away and out the door of the market, standing with his feet planted in one spot, unable to move and chase after you to make sure you were okay. 

-=+=-

What the fuck did I just do? You thought as you leaned against Lando’s car, rubbing your hands down your face in frustration. 

This is insane. How are you in love with him? You mean,  it’s not that there’s anything wrong with Lando and liking him. But why did you have to be in love with him? Why must you be cursed with eternal mocking and teasing from yours and his family? 

And what were you gonna tell him? You were happy one second then mad the next. You almost yelled at him and ended up pushing past him, hitting his shoulder with yours pretty roughly. You crashed out in the middle of a grocery store…

Before you could come up with a game plan on how to explain this to Lando, or atleast come up with a good lie, Lando was already walking to you and unlocking the car. All he did was spare a quick look at you before getting in the car with the groceries. For the split second your eyes met his, you couldn’t decipher how he was feeling or what he was thinking. It was almost as if there was nothing there. 

When you opened the car door and dropped into your seat, he didn’t say a word. He barely paid you any mind. The whole drive back to the apartment was filled with an uncomfortable silence. His eyes trained on the road, never once moving off the road. If you were in the car any longer, you’re sure you would’ve suffocated under the weight of uncertainty. 

-=+=-

You walked into the apartment with Lando carrying the groceries, tailing you. Not only was the car ride spent in eerie quietness, but so was the walk to the apartment from the car. 

You heard as the front door clicked shut, standing by the kitchen counter and fiddling with your hands and tempted to pick at your nails, a bad habit you’ve had for years. 

Lando put the groceries onto the counter and flicked his eyes to your hands for a second “Stop picking at your nails. S’not good for you.”

Thank god. He spoke. So he’s not upset with you?

You watched as the man leaned his hands against the counter before speaking “So, you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” he says calmly. 

“Hm? Nothing’s wrong.” your voice pitched higher than normal. 

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I’m not the smartest person but I’m not stupid either, y/n.” 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

“Okay, so tell me what’s wrong. Everything was fine and then all of a sudden your face and mood had dropped. Not only that but you stormed out of the store after telling me that I happened?” he says, trying not to take his frustration out on you. Though you think he should for the way you had behaved. 

“I- I’m fine, Lan.”

“Stop lying. Please. I don’t like lies, especially not from you cause I can tell when you’re lying. You’re a terrible liar.”

Your jaw drops, “Am not!”

“Please. Remember when you ate that last spring roll and you tried to convince me that a squirrel came in through the window and stole it?”

“Okay, well. I see your point.”

“Exactly” he breathes out “So, what’s wrong? Why are you lying to me?”

With a deep breath and a ‘yolo’ you confess “I think I like you.”

“Why do you sound distressed?”

“Because this is distressing.” you rasp. 

“Why?!”

“Lan, you know our families and their incessant need to butt into our lives and force us together. If they found out, I would never live it down. My whole life, I’ve had to fight the allegations. But now?! Now they will forever taunt us with this information. Also I feel the need to point out that some people will be $1,000 richer because of this. Do you really want to give them that? Do you, Lando? Do You?” you ask, furrowing your eyebrows. 

“Well, I mean… would it be that bad?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I think it would be okay? Like, I don’t think it’s a bad idea. And so what if they tease us for this? It just means that they maybe did some voodoo or paid an etsy witch… or we really are meant for eachother.” Lando says, his voice getting softer the more he spoke, as if he was afraid. Afraid of your reaction, what you would say, how you would feel. 

“I- I mean. There’s nothing wrong with it? I guess it’s just unexpected. And things like that make me panic. I think I blew this really out of proportion.” you wince. 

“Ya think?” Lando laughs “You stormed out the market and almost caused a scene.”

“Yeah… I also didn’t get my favorite ice cream and I’ve been craving it for ages.” 

“Oh, well… I actually got it for you. I remember you saying you’d been craving it and wanted to get you some. It was one of the reasons I asked you to come with me to the market. I also ended up getting it cause I thought it would be brownie points for if I had actually done something wrong. I also got brownies… for extra brownie points.” he, totally nonchalantly, winks at you. 

Maybe this won’t be so bad. You’ll be his and he’ll be yours and it will be simple. You truly did feel a lot for him, which was scary. But it’ll be worth it. It will also be worth all the teasing from your families and friends. When you’re with him, you still get butterflies and that in itself makes up for the lost time. And you won’t lie, you’d missed all those years spent apart. Now you’ve got each other and that’s all that matters. From kids to teenagers to adults, everything changed except for one thing, the love you had for the other.

[unicornpopcorn14]

Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt during the Lovecraft fight has always been so interesting to me...

Because it's the kind of worry you'd never expect from a character as gruff as Chuuya, who had displayed nothing but hostility towards Dazai so far. Usually, characters that are labelled as "angry" or "anger issues" (which Chuuya is much more complex than that but you get my point) act more as a tsundere type of way when the one they "don't care about" gets hurt. And show their care in very, very subtle ways (ex. their eyes widen, their mouth parts and closes again, etc) before putting up their front once more.

Chuuya, however, is open, and vocal about it. His worry is clear not only to us, but to Dazai himself, the one he shouldn't be displaying the concern to (as per the cliche). Shouldn't it be some sort of secret that Chuuya does care? Isn't that what skk's dynamic has been shaping up to be until now?

I'm telling you- the way my mind blanked when Chuuya just casually.... showed concern not once, but twice, was a sight to see.

Besides, the context makes it much more confusing, because Dazai isn't some rookie, and Chuuya knows that more than anybody. He was the youngest executive in Port Mafia's history, of course he can handle a hit or two. Of course he'd seen him handle a hit or two, sometimes without batting an eye.

Heck, Chuuya himself was hurling Dazai like a ragdoll in their reunion, which was their last meeting. And you could argue that he was going easy on him, but Dazai has mostly withstood the same damage (as far as I could see), and Chuuya was as bitter as ever.

So that kind of contradicts both what we knew of Chuuya so far, and how their dynamic was shaped to be. I mean, that just makes Chuuya a hypocrite, yeah? What makes him care now, all of a sudden? What makes him care at all?

Well, to me, this backasswards reaction implies one (or more) of the following:

- Dazai rarely got physically hurt during their partnership and thus this is an unexpected thing for him to see (during a mission).

- The four years of separation made Chuuya unsure of how much Dazai can withstand physically now. Also the fact that he isn't in the mafia anymore, aka fighting enemy organizations on the weekly, would naturally make Dazai lose his touch in a way, what prompts Chuuya's reaction.

- Dazai getting taken off guard took him off guard which led to panic. Especially since the situation was (momentarily) out of their depth. Seriously wtf even was Lovecraft?

- During the dungeon scene Dazai was an enemy, while in the Lovecraft fight he was as an ally. The difference might be significant to Chuuya.

- This has always been Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt regardless of the situation.

- "Only I can hurt him like that" ahh logic

- Asagiri was still experimenting with their dynamic and thus there are some inconsistencies.

This scenario didn't play out again (after their reunion) for me to exactly determine which one is more plausible, but it is 100% canon for Chuuya to shamelessly show his concern and run to Dazai to check on him before properly dealing with their opponent, which I find to be such an appealing layer to their dynamic, and a good spin on the type of character he gets stereotyped as.

Bonus: Dazai also becomes a softy when Chuuya's hurt, especially post corruption. Dead Apple alone displays that multiple times.

All in all, Skk are doing a terrible job at maintaining their 'hostile' and 'antagonistic' relationship post their reunion. Freaks.

[anmwrites]

Stubborn

Xaden Riorson x Reader

Hi friends! I was originally planning on posting one of my already written fics, but since this was requested I made it first priority! I hope I did the request justice (and didn't miss anything when I proofing it). Forewarning, I feel like I absolutely suck at ending stories, so I apologize if the ending is terrible >:( This was written as a FMC as well, but please change to whatever makes you feel comfortable when reading.

Warnings: Cursing, slight sexual innuendos (?), and faint mentions of childhood trauma.

Other Notes: Xaden being more fluffy, maybe, than usual; reader being moody and not really knowing why she's upset (I think I put some of myself into that oop); pretty rusty at this so I hope it doesn't suck lol.

I also want to go ahead and say that I take trigger warnings very seriously as someone who has struggled with mental health, so for future fics please let me know if I miss anything. This one felt a little lighter than some fics I've written in the past, but I don't want to hurt anyone in any way. Please always take caution even though I will list any warnings. Your mental health matters!

On that note, I hope everyone enjoys and finds a little escape with our favorite shadow wielder! (Disclaimer: I do not own any photos below)

To say the adjustment to training with and well, in general, to having fliers around was easy is a lie. A complete. Fucking. Lie. The only thing both riders and fliers had in common were the amount of fights they caused with one another. That was it. 

Y/N tried. She really, really tried to make the best of a shitty situation, but she was almost at her breaking point. Especially with Xaden’s ex roaming the halls. She was one bad comment away from Sgaeyl biting her head off for snapping at him. 

“He’s not into her anymore,” Violet said, snapping Y/N out of her thoughts as she stared, more like glared, at the short-haired bitch from across the dining hall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/N snipped back. “Yes, you do. You are this close to starting a fight with her. Don’t be like Ridoc, you’re a lot more level headed than him,” she said, pinching her fingers together to show a miniscule amount of space. “Hey! It was one fight,” Ridoc exclaimed from across the table. 

“One fight too many,” Violet mumbled rolling her eyes at their spastic friend. “I’m fine,” Y/N huffed. The entire squad gave her a knowing look. She rolled her eyes, “Whatever, I’ll see you losers in class.” Ridoc gave her a cheerful smile as she stood, everyone else grumbling their goodbyes. 

A silk-like touch wrapped around her ankles as she made her way out of the dining hall. Y/N didn’t have to look to know Xaden sent his shadows trailing after her, a silent inquiry as to where she was going. She just shook her foot, not wanting to think nor speak to her boyfriend. As if Zihnal himself had a personal vendetta against her, though, a rough hand grabbed her arm. 

Y/N turned to find Xaden staring down at her, a hint of concern written in those beautiful eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Kill time before our next class,” Y/N shrugged, refusing to look at him. Truth be told, ever since she found out Cat was Xaden’s ex, she really tried to avoid him, a nasty feeling permanently making its home in her stomach. 

“Well, I gathered as much,” Xaden rolled his eyes, releasing her arm. “I can come with,” he suggested, his tone much softer than what the entire riders quadrant would ever hear. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said flatly. Xaden made a face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” “You’ve been saying that for the past two weeks now. Yet I barely get to see you, and you’re avoiding me.” Y/N just shrugged, “I’m busy.” Xaden scoffed, a darker expression replacing his concerned features. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing at her waist before running his hand along the curve of her body. She felt her breath sweep out of her. “Don’t you miss this?” He leaned in, whispering in her ear. He planted a feather-light kiss on the shell of it, sending heat rushing through her body. 

Y/N almost forgot why she was so mad. Until a nasally voice cut through the air. “Xaden!” she practically shrieked. Y/N cleared her throat, taking a step back out of his embrace. “I’ll see you later,” she mumbled before melting into the crowd. A furious expression graced Xaden’s face as he watched Y/N retreat before turning to face Cat. “What do you want?” he snapped. She sauntered over with a flirtatious smile. “Trouble in paradise?” she drawled. Xaden just crossed his arms. Cat flashed him a saccharine smile, “You know, I can always make you feel better. I do know how to make you feel better.” She smirked, and tried to reach her hand out to touch his face. Xaden shot a hand out, forcefully gripping her wrist. “You don’t get to fucking touch me anymore,” he snarled. Her swaggering facade fell slightly as she squirmed to try and get out of his grasp. 

“Fine,” she snapped. He released her. “You’ll come crawling back to me once you get bored with that one.” Xaden glared at her. “I don’t do sloppy seconds,” he spit before turning on his heel and leaving her. 

__

Maybe you should just talk to him, Nordys, Y/N’s black scorpion tail huffed as they lounged in one of the many fields within the nesting grounds around Aretia. That’s not happening. Nordys’ head swiveled in her direction, coming eye level to her. His green eyes narrowed into slits. You’re being childish. He is your mate. 

One, ew he’s not my mate. He’s my boyfriend. And two, what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey Xaden, I fucking hate your ex-girlfriend. She makes my life and my squadmates’ lives a living hell. Drags up very painful memories from my childhood. Can I please incinerate her?’ Nordys let out a chortle which was eerily similar to a laugh. Yes. Essentially that. He is the wingleader. And I would be happy to oblige by incinerating her and her mount. Y/N smiled softly at the thought, leaning against his side. At least someone understood. 

Tairn just said he would turn a blind eye to it as well. Sgaeyl agreed too. We would have free reign to kill them all, Nordys continued. That’s a shock considering they won’t let Andarna do it. 

Andarna is a petulant adolescent. She must learn patience and discipline. At least that’s what Tairn told me. 

Y/N sighed. I just don’t know what I’d say to him. I’m not mad at him. He’s entitled to have ex’s. I would be shocked if he didn’t. It’s just…I really hate her.  

You are ten times the human she is. You do not need to worry about your position as Xaden’s mate. Y/N groaned, Stop calling him that. Boyfriend, he is my boyfriend. We’ve talked about this. And I’m not worried about my position with Xaden. It’s just…well, I’ve told you before. My mother chased after rich men her entire life. They basically used her for her body and left her in the gutter. 

I will call him as I see fit and you are not your mother. You are a rider, Nordys huffed, before laying his head down and closing his eyes. You need to go to class now, he said after a moment. Y/N groaned again. He was right. She was going to be late, and Professor Emetterio would have her head. Fine. Have fun doing whatever it is you do, Y/N grumbled, gathering her things. Nordys let out a hot breath in her face before launching himself into the sky leaving Y/N to trek to class. 

__

Y/N’s moment of peace was ruined the moment she stepped into combat training. The fliers were gathered on one side of the mat while the riders stood on the opposite side. “I see immersion into our current living situations are going well,” Emetterio mumbled mostly to himself. Professor Devera just let out a quiet laugh from where she stood beside her colleague. Xaden was standing near the door, pointedly staring at Y/N while she was doing everything she could not to meet his hard gaze. 

“Well, since everyone wants to fight everyone outside of this class, we will be pairing riders with fliers,” Emetterio’s voice boomed through the room. There was an audible groan from both sides. 

“Good, now then!” He continued. Y/N zoned out as everyone began pairing off while he called names. Only when her name and her opponent was called did she really pay attention. Her blood ran cold as Cat stared back at her with a dark grin on her face. 

“You’ve got this,” Violet whispered from her right. Rhiannon nodded in agreement from her left. “You’ve been trained by Xaden himself. You’re one of our strongest fighters,” Ridoc came up behind her, clapping her on the back. Y/N just gave them a look before stepping on the mat. “Begin,” Emetterio called. 

Cat smirked and she began dancing around on her feet. “It’s about time we got paired together,” Cat commented. Y/N snorted, watching her closely. Timing was everything. Xaden taught her that. Study your opponent and assess their weak side if possible. Especially when you go to the mat during class. His voice rang clear in her head from all those late nights spent training. 

“Let’s make it interesting,” Cat continued on, “Winner gets Xaden?” Y/N glared back at her, “He’s not some trophy.” She let out a sultry laugh, “You’re right. He isn’t. He’d be one for you, but not for me. You see, we’re royalty, him and I. So it’s just the perfect match.” 

Y/N let out an inhumane snarl before lunging at her. To her utter shock, Cat maneuvered out of her way resulting in Y/N punching the air. She swung around and landed a sweep to Y/N’s legs, knocking her on her face. Fury rippled through her as she swung around trying to knock Cat off her feet with a swift kick, but to her surprise, yet again, Cat took the hit and rolled right back into her stance exactly…exactly like Xaden. 

Her cackle was like nails on a chalkboard. Y/N pushed herself up quickly, going through the next steps just like Xaden showed her, but Cat didn’t miss a beat, moving just like how Xaden would when they trained. 

Y/N froze for just a second, as she watched for the fifth time, as Cat moved just like him. Her moment cost her, and next thing she knew, a fist met her face. Y/N stumbled towards the edge of the mat where Violet and Ridoc caught her and kept her from falling over. “S-she was taught by Xaden. Every single one of his moves. She knows them,” Y/N panted. “It doesn’t matter. Focus,” Vi encouraged. While Y/N thought no one noticed, she was really wrong. Cat got under her skin. Everyone could see it. 

“Finish it,” Ridoc snarled at her, his hard stare on Cat, who was still laughing. “Ready to tap out yet?” she goaded. Seeing red, Y/N shoved herself off of Violet and Ridoc. Faster than she had ever been, she lunged for Cat. Her fist met flesh with the satisfying crunch of Cat’s nose. 

Cat snarled before whipping back up, slugging Y/N in the face again. “You bitch!” she hissed. Y/N laughed, the coppery tang of blood filling her mouth. “You broke my nose,” Cat snarled. “Sucks to suck,” Y/N smirked. “Argh!” Cat exploded, reaching in her belt and ripping out a dagger. 

Y/N had moments to react. She went straight for the onyx hilted blade at her side, barely blocking Cat’s attack before she could leave a permanent scar across her face. She felt a faint sting on her cheek, but that was the least of her worries because Cat lunged at her again. Rage built within Y/N. She began striking back, dodging every one of her blows. She was fairly certain Cat was using her abilities on her to rile her up, but she didn’t care. Part of this anger was all Y/N’s.

She could barely hear Emetterio yelling at them to drop the weapons. Barely hear her squadmates and the fliers edging on the fight. It was turning sloppy. Both began ripping at each other’s hair, trying to cut one another. Until strong arms wrapped around her center, yanking Y/N off of Cat, who’s entire face was bloody. 

“You won,” a soft voice caressed her ear. “Sweetheart, you won. You proved your point,” Xaden’s shadows wrapped lovingly around her struggling form. Y/N was still seeing red. Cat was shrieking profanities at her as her friends were trying to hold her back. “You fucking whore!” Cat screamed, “He’ll come crawling back after he gets sick of fucking your pathetic ass–” “Cat!” Xaden’s voice boomed. 

Y/N snarled and went to lunge again, but Xaden whirled on her, body blocking her with his chest. “Darling, calm down,” he said. “Look at me!” Two hands gripped her face tightly and she felt the fight slowly slip away. Her eyes met his beautiful gold-flecked onyx eyes. “There you go. Calm down. It’s alright, you won,” he was breathing heavily. Nothing but pride filled his face. 

The high wore off and she finally took a moment to breathe. Y/N glanced around and saw Violet and Rhiannon give her a grimace, but they looked happy nonetheless. Ridoc looked like he just had a blast, and everyone else began whispering excitedly as Emetterio dismissed them. 

She looked back to Xaden who was still staring at her intently. “You were fantastic,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen you move that fast. Albeit it got sloppy there at the end, but still.” That ugly feeling resumed its place within her as the reality of what just happened sunk in. “She fought like you,” Y/N whispered. Xaden tensed. “She fucking fought like you because you trained her,” Y/N hissed, stepping out of his grip. 

“Y/N,” Xaden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She just shook her head and turned on her heel, storming out. 

“Y/N wait!” his voice followed her out as she stormed through the halls. Y/N nearly made it to her room before Xaden caught her arm. “What is going on with you?” he asked, with an exasperated look. “You fucking trained her Xaden!” she shrieked. Emotion began pouring out of her. “It’s one thing that I have to pretend to be civil with your ex when all she does is spew shit out about how she’s royalty and that I’m just a side-piece! And now I find out you taught her how to fight?” 

“So what if I taught her how to fight?” Xaden snarled, his temper flaring. He could not, for the love of Amari, figure out what the big deal was. “I-I, just don’t know,” Y/N muttered, exhaustion finally sweeping in. She could feel her cheeks dampen as tears rolled freely down her face. Embarrassment coursing through her. She didn’t even know when she started crying. 

Xaden threw his hands up in the air, still clearly frustrated. “You don’t know? You don’t know? I have been trying to talk to you for two weeks now! How many times do I have to tell you that I am in love with you? So deeply in love with you!” he shouted. Y/N just stared at him.

“Are you mad at me? Jealous? What is wrong!” he asked. Y/N opened her mouth and then closed it. Was she mad at him? “No,” she exhaled, “I’m not mad at you. I, I just don’t know why I’m so upset. I mean there’s a very large possibility that Cat has been manipulating my emotions, but I’ve just had this horrible feeling sitting in my gut ever since I found out about your history with her,” she concluded.  “You have nothing to be worried about,” Xaden sighed. “That feeling, my dear, is called jealousy.” 

Y/N just shook her head. In all reality, she really didn’t want to talk about it with him. He knew what her past was, but just because he said it didn’t bother him didn’t mean it never bothered her. 

She pushed open her door planning on slamming it in his face, but he caught it and followed her in. “Just talk to me. Please, baby, just talk to me,” he said quietly, resting his hand on her cheek and wiping a stray tear away. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s just…you were going to marry her. Marry her, Xaden. She’s practically a princess where she comes from. She was practically your first for everything. And she struts around here like she’s still going to be married to you, calling me a whore and all of the other names in the book. Constantly reminding me,” Y/N let out a shaky breath and opened her eyes, "reminding me of where I came from that I so desperately want to forget.” 

Xaden studied her for a moment, his features visibly softening. “You aren’t your mother,” he said quietly. Y/N scoffed. “You really aren’t. You didn’t end up like her.” “What? Fawning over rich, powerful men who only cared when she spread her legs open for them?” Y/N mumbled.

“Is that how you think of us?” Xaden questioned. “No? Yes? I don’t know. It’s just with her here, it’s what it felt like,” Y/N whispered. Xaden let out a breath before wrapping her in his arms. “It’s not,” he murmured into her hair, “It’s more than that. I love you for you. For your light, intelligence, your stubbornness…absolutely everything. She may have been my first but you will be my last. My heart has always belonged to you and will always belong to you in this life and the next.” 

Y/N felt a wave of calm and reassurance wash over her. She melted deeper into his embrace, breathing his all too familiar scent. “I love you too,” Y/N grumbled into his chest, “And I’m sorry for not talking to you sooner.” Xaden chuckled, pulling away slightly. “It’s fine my sweet girl,” he gave her one of his smiles only she was allowed to see. 

“Now can I kiss you or are you going to bite my head off?” He smirked. Y/N rolled her eyes, gripping his face and pulling it down to hers. Xaden’s lips met hers in a fervor. The taste of him all consuming. Kissing Xaden was like a dream, but this? After two weeks of walking on eggshells? Well, Y/N was practically floating. 

His tongue swiped her bottom lip, asking for permission. Y/N happily obliged, parting her lips to give him access. His hands roamed freely all over her body sending lightning cascading down her spine. She let out a soft groan as he deepened the kiss, both of them moving in tandem backwards towards the bed. Y/N hardly registered her legs bumping into it before she fell backwards. The soft duvet fluffed up around her as Xaden followed in suit until he was settled in between her legs. He leaned in bearing more of his weight down and – 

“Oof,” she grunted, a zap of pain shooting up her back. Xaden froze, pushing up off her. “I’m fine,” she whined, staring up at him. “You took a nasty beating,” he commented, pushing fully up and off of her. Y/N just let out another pathetic whine, missing the feel of his lips and body on hers. 

Xaden just chuckled and held out his hands. “Not until you’re cleaned up and feeling better,” he tutted. “Up.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but grabbed his hands. He did have a point. Her whole body had begun aching. “Fine,” she huffed. “But as soon as I’m all patched up, can we go back to kissing?” He let out a glorious laugh, “Yes, love. We can go back to kissing.”

____________

See, I told you my endings are always lame. I'm so sorry. Will also start building a Masterlist soon too.

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ boxer!jungkook (2) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist closed

boxer jk x neuro doctor oc

post match vibes

warning: mentions of stitches, needle, and blood

note: 2/5 parts for this mini series! thanks for the love w pt1! mwah

//

jungkook sits on the edge of the ever-so-familiar hospital bed.

his legs are spread, hands draped over his knees, and he fights the urge to shut his eyes as the overhead light casts sharp shadows over the planes of his face.

he can feel it—his blood dripping down the sides of his face. the fresh cut on his forehead stark against his skin and the throbbing almost makes him feel like shit. jungkook takes a deep breath and stays still as you prep the needle. though the sterile scent of disinfectant settles between you, jungkook is doing his absolute best to memorize the way you smell.

you smell so freaking good.

"i thought you said you were good at boxing."

your voice is light, but the weight of it presses against his ribs. he grins, dimples threatening to form despite the sting above his brow.

"i am."

"so i'm stitching you up because?"

his gaze flickers to you, dark and intent. "i've been lacking the motivation."

"to win?"

"to focus,” he confesses. “how long has it been, doc? 3 months? shit. haven’t been myself since then. every day i hoped someone would beat the shit out of me so i could have an excuse to see you.”

"so you got yourself beaten up just to see me? is that supposed to impress me?" you ask him unamused.

he shakes his head. "no, but my dedication to seeing you again is."

"do you ever take no for an answer?"

"did you even really say no to me, though?"

the air stills.

then, you exhale through your nose. pretending to be unimpressed at him before pressing the needle to his skin. as you wait for his reaction, you run through different comebacks.

but you're out of time. in fact, you barely had any.

jungkook doesn’t flinch.

it truly does impress you because this shot is a bitch. yet, you notice how his fingers curl into a fist against the sheets.

"it's okay if it hurts," you murmur. "it's not supposed to be painless."

his jaw flexes. 

"i can handle hits. stitches? easy."

"i never said you couldn't handle it. i said it's okay if it hurts."

jungkook isn’t sure what it is… but silence drapes over the room. like a heavy mist or early moving fog.

it’s thick and weighted. 

jungkook swallows. his throat feels dry. his mind races. 

all his life, pain has been an afterthought—background noise to the only thing that’s ever mattered; winning. to jungkook, if he isn’t bruised, battered, and bleeding by the end of a fight, he hasn’t fought hard enough. pain isn’t something to be acknowledged and dwelled on. it’s a consequence. a transaction. 

but now, here you are… speaking about it so simply and coated in acceptance and warmth. then, there’s also your motherfucking gaze. 

so soft. 

so kind. 

so present. 

all of these things mixed together make his stomach twist. he doesn’t know how to act. he does’t know what to say. he doesn’t know what to feel.

he wonders if this is what pain really feels like—not the kind he’s trained to endure, but the kind that sneaks up on you, curling around your ribs when you least expect it. he wonders if it’s because he’s spent so long numbing himself to it… or if it’s because, for the first time, he’s realized something worse than losing a fight…

losing the chance to keep seeing you.

because holy fuck. 

where have you been his entire life? 

seriously.

jungkook clears his throat, stretching out his fingers, forcing the tension from his knuckles. "so, doc," he starts, a smirk playing at his lips, "do you date doctors?"

you blink. "pardon me?"

"you don’t date patients, right? well, everyone is a patient at some point, but not everyone is a doctor. so, do you only date doctors?"

you almost laugh. 

almost.

"you just got seven stitches on your forehead and you're concerned about whether or not i date doctors?"

jungkook shrugs before dropping the most nonchalant information about himself; "i have a degree in nutrition, you know. used to specialize in sports nutrition. just wanted to give boxing a shot—"

"wow. i didn't know that. that’s really cool." you say, genuinely intrigued, "what school did you go to—"

"i won't quit boxing... at least, not yet... but if i ever do, just know that i can be a doctor too… if that’s who you date and shit."

“and shit?”

“and shit.”

this time, you do laugh. 

it’s so pretty. 

the sound of it and the sight of it—mesmerizing. 

it catches jungkook off guard. his eyes flickering over your face, lingering a second too long. he looks at you… he really looks at you and it’s like he just won the best thing in the world. like he’s a kid who won BINGO in his class for the first time and got to choose the scented eraser as his prize. 

he watches you and thinks; to have you is to win. 

you’re the only victory he wants. 

as he shifts forward to hop off the bed, your hands move on instinct, catching him before he can fully rise. your fingers press lightly against the firm muscle of his forearm, his skin warm beneath your touch. he stills at the contact, his gaze flicking down to where your hands steady him, then back up to your face.

for a beat, neither of you move.

the air shifts—thickens—his breath slowing as he watches you, unreadable. your pulse kicks up, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. but then jungkook smirks, lazy and knowing, the tension splintering just as quickly as it built.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice lower now, laced with something teasing, something else. "if you keep holding onto me like that, i might start thinking you care."

"you shouldn’t be jumping off like that so fast—"

"okay. whatever you say. hey, look at me," he says, voice quieter now, more deliberate. your fingers still against his arm. "i'm not bad looking, right? i have an education. i follow my passion, and it's going well—"

"again," you interject, "i just gave you seven stitches."

"again," he repeats, "i just needed a reason to see you."

"you requested me and refused to be treated by namjoon," you point out.

"exactly," jungkook smirks.

you bite your bottom lip, catching yourself before you react. suddenly, you’re aware of how close you are—his warmth pressing into your space, the scent of sweat and antiseptic clinging to him. his eyes are locked on yours, waiting, watching.

"___—"

"doctor ___," you correct, stepping back, straightening your coat, severing whatever was hanging between you.

"doctor ___..." he tests the words on his tongue, then nods. "i’d really appreciate it if you could reconsider the whole... only dating a doctor thing. honestly? i don’t mind school. i just don’t want to go back and be old by the time i get to your level… but if that’s really the only way you’ll go out with me—"

rolling your eyes, you brush off your coat, turning toward the door—just like last time. pushing it open, you pause before you step through. taking one final glance at him, you titl your head ever so slightly. 

jungkook mirrors you. 

"no, mr. jeon," you say, voice laced with amusement. "i do not just date doctors. in fact, i avoid dating them."

then, the door swings shut behind you.

jungkook exhales, pressing his tongue against his cheek, shaking his head as he lets out a breathless chuckle.

hope. 

that’s what this feels like.

he’s had victories before, ones that have left him bruised and battered, ones that have left him undefeated. but this? this is something else entirely. something he’s willing to lose for. something he knows, in the deepest part of his chest, he can’t afford to.

not this time.

not when it’s you.

[bunni-v1]

MORE JEALOUS PURE VANILLA COOKIE OMGGGG he'd totally be a jealous person despite his kindness

kinda imagining that in the stage during the push and pull he was doing, trying to push you away, you become quite close to some other cookies in the kingdom, specifically the creme Republic (clotted cream and financier) and he just gets.... uncomfortable when you two are FINALLY together because you're so friendly with clotted cream and his bodyguard.... like, hello.........

his eyes narrow slightly, and it just makes him feel so unpleasant, knowing that clotted cream cookie can easily strike up conversation with you and randomly tell him something you like—it makes his dough seethe slightly, whether he wants to admit it or not. or how financier and some random vanilla kingdom npcs mention a fact about you he coincidentally doesn't know because he was busy going through it and pushing you away before; OUGHHHHHH

i like to think white lily is involved in this in some way? he can't fully get over her and sometimes he tends to get passive about your very real concerns about how he looks at her as though he has something to say, i wonder how he would react if he finds you actually a bit insecure or unsure whether he'd pick you over her......... since he still cares deeply about his once first love, no?

anyways. yes. jealous PV is a concept that sticks heavily in my mind rn

-🃏

Jealousy Looks Ugly on You

🍓Hi pookiebear, I'm so sorry for 100% butchering the Creme Republic. I refuse to play that shit, even for that stupid blonde twink. Note, this takes place significantly after the events of Beast Yeast, so White Lily is technically visiting as a diplomat from the Faerie kingdom, and pv has already had his character development lol. Assumptions are made, and there is heavily implied past PureLily.

Tw: Poor communication; jealousy; implications at the very end; grammar/spelling errors

Info: Pure Vanilla x Reader; Implied past purelily; angst (not really though); fluff

Patience is a virtue that few cookies can claim to have. It's something that doesn't come easy to most, and Pure Vanilla Cookie has never judged anyone for being unable to hold themselves back from frustration. Except... himself of course.

He was exceptionally patient, to the point most gawked at him for his gentleness and understanding in certain situations. He held himself to a higher standard, and very few things brought out irritation in him. So... why exactly was the sight of Clotted Cream Cookie making his dough run so hot right now?

It wasn't as though Clotted Cream was doing anything offensive, quite the opposite actually. He was having a pleasant conversation, all warm smiles and... gentle touches. With who? Oh. Just the object of Pure Vanilla's deepest affections, the cookie he'd only recently been able to call his other half, his dearly beloved you.

Clotted Cream seems to speak to you with such familiarity, such warmth like perhaps he too harbors some kind of affection for you. Pure Vanilla's eyebrow twitches when he leans in to whisper something in your ear, and you laugh like it's the funniest thing you've ever heard. It nearly pulls a frown out of him, but his calm smile remains steadfast, not wanting you to notice and worry over him.

Still, his eyes narrow when Clotted Cream pats you on your shoulder good-naturedly. The former cookie locking eyes with him and smiling before sending you back to his side like he hadn't earned Pure Vanilla's ire only seconds ago. You are oblivious, as you always are, as he wants you to be. He only smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you just a little closer than he normally does.

"Did you enjoy your time with Clotted Cream Cookie, my love?" He asks sweetly, though he doesn't really want to know.

You give him a beaming smile, "As always. He knows how to make boring proceedings fun."

"Ah," he hopes you don't notice how he tenses, "What were you talking about just now, it seemed funny."

"Just an inside joke," you smile fondly as you remember, "it's only funny if you were there, or else I'd let you in on it too."

"That's alright," he hums, though his fingers press a little harder into your side as you walk, "I'm just happy to see you happy."

It's not a lie, either. He does love seeing your smile, but not when it's caused by another cookie. Not when it's treated like some kind of secret he's not meant to see. He tries to remind himself that there's no need to be so immature, but his dough is already warm and his mind spiraling. It took him so very long to come to terms with his feelings for you, he missed out on so much. Where he wasn't, other cookies were, and those cookies took his place in experiences that should've been his. Took smiles that should've been his. Moments he should've shared with you.

You place your hand where he holds you at your waist, turning to give him a warm smile. It warms his heart to know you're caring for him in your own way, but he doesn't want to make you worry. To ease your mind, he presses a kiss to your forehead, offering his own smile up to you. You were with him now, there was no need to worry any longer.

·┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆·

Pure Vanilla enjoyed quiet moments with you, especially ones like this. In the garden, surrounded by the white lilies there was nothing more peaceful than that. Your fingers run along their delicate petals as you hum a little tune to yourself, and he enjoys the sight with unbridled delight. His favorite cookie surrounded by his favorite flowers, what a blessing it is on his soul.

There are times where he wishes that every day could be like this. Just you and him in company, taking things nice and slow, soaking in the environment. You turn a little to sneak a glance at him, smiling to yourself when you notice his staring. The shyness cute on your face, something he loves to draw out of you.

Yes moments like these are exactly what he lives fo—

“Y/n Cookie? Are you around?” The familiar voice of Financier Cookie calls amongst the sea of flowers.

You perk up, standing from your spot with a wide smile, “I’m over here with the lilies!”

She comes into view around the corner, normally stern expression softening at the sight of you. Pure Vanilla does not like the look on her face. Still, he holds his tongue, there was no reason to be upset. She was a friend.

“Clotted Cream requests your presence,” She announces, and when you frown she shakes her head, “Nothing serious, he wishes to continue your conversation from yesterday. He’s in he quarters as usual.”

You brighten up, “Oh! I suppose we never did finish talking— ah, but… Pure Vanilla and I were spending some time together.”

He does not frown, though he really wants to. He knows that he could just say no, that you would remain by his side if he asked… but he can’t possibly take up your time when you are wanted elsewhere. It would be unfair to do so over such petty jealousy.

“We see each other every day,” He assures with that same gentle smile, “Go and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

You frown a little, “Are you sure?”

Of course he isn’t, “Positive. I’ll see you tonight.”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at him worriedly, but ultimately wander off to find Clotted Cream. Financier stays back for a moment, watching you with an odd look on her face. The consideration is enough to pique his interest, so he raises his question.

“Is something the matter…?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” She shakes her head, “I would tell you immediately if there was anything to be concerned with.”

“Then why do you look so perplexed?” He asks again.

She seems to consider if telling him the truth is worth it or not. Mulling her options over for a few seconds before sighing, “It’s just a bit… odd to see them here.”

He frowns, “Whatever do you mean? Is there something wrong with the gardens?”

She shakes her head, sighing off some kind of weight, “Well, they’ve told me a few times in passing that they’re… not a fan of while lillie’s. The smell irritates them, if I’m remembering correctly, so it’s surprising to find them surrounded by them.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware…” He mutters, grip tightening on his staff.

She gives him a small reassuring smile, but it does anything but help, “I’m sure they just forgot to mention it, that’s all.”

“Of course, thank you Financier Cookie,” He hummed with as much sincerity he could muster.

She smiles tightly at him, and then leaves him alone with his thoughts. And think he does, far too much. Not only are you so close with so many cookies, not only did you leave him for Clotted Cream today, but now he learns you don’t even care for his favorite flower? You hadn’t ever mentioned it to him, but you had to other cookies. Wouldn’t something this important be worth talking about with him?

He takes a deep breath, leveling himself out once again. He couldn’t get ahead of himself, knowing that you would never do anything to hurt him purposefully. He couldn’t stop the ache, though. There was so much he did not know about you, so many things he had to learn that other cookies got to hear without asking.

How much time would it take for him to know you the way they did? He burned with jealousy at how easy it was for other cookies to know you, to see you and talk to you with no effort. Each time you were around he felt himself falling apart at the seams, grasping at any little sprinkle of attention you gave him. He could never be so casual with you, not with the effect you had on him, and it made him so jealous to know other cookies had it so easy.

He sighs again, setting his hat down. Not even the lilies were bringing him comfort now, his mood soured yet again. All he could do was sit and seethe until you returned to his side, imagining what you and Clotted Cream might be talking about that was so important to pluck you from his side.

·┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆·

It is days of this cycle, which he refuses to break, even when given the chance to a million times. He just can’t find it in himself to step in, not when you seem so happy. Besides, it’s not as though he never sees you. He gets to have you to himself for most of the day, and especially at night.

Still, the annoyance grows in his chest little by little. Without realizing it he distanced himself from you, not wanting to overstep, he decides giving you space is for the best. Yet, he doesn’t realize just how much space he has given you. You begin to miss him, but he always has an excuse for you to go and visit with other cookies.

It feels like he does not want you around, even though he misses you dearly. The conundrum reaches a head when White Lily comes to visit. Being the Faerie Queen now, it was rare she took the time to see her old friend. So when the news of her traveling reached his ears, he cleared all his time to be with her.

You had not seen him since she had arrived, unless you were in your shared room. Even then, you hardly spoke more than a few words. There was an awkwardness there that hadn’t existed only a few days prior, it made your stomach ache. But how could you bring up your concerns when he merely brushed them away, always finding some way to make peace with the situation.

You did not hate White Lily Cookie, she couldn’t not control Pure Vanilla. But the sickness in your dough when you see them together does not go away with any soothing. He talks to her with such ease and knowing, in a way he never did with you. And when he looks at her there is a deep affection that never existed for you.

It makes you hurt. You could never be her, not in a million years. Perhaps that was why he was so distant recently, because he had missed her. Perhaps he wished that you were White Lily Cookie instead.

Despite him seeming oblivious, he was anything but. He was fully aware of the distance he had made between the two of you, and yet… he didn’t know how to fix it. His people pleasing ways had come around to stab him in the back, and he had no idea how to heal the wound inflicted by his own foolish actions.

Not until White Lily’s keen eyes picked up in the tension. She had always been able to read him well, it was why he was so fond of her. She knew him like no other cookie did, and he her. Which is exactly why she was the one to notice how worried he’d seemed.

“You’re tense,” She said simply, taking her seat next to him in the pagoda.

He sighs, “Is it obvious.”

“To me,” She smiles, “Tell me what’s on your mind, friend. It’s rare to see you so worried.”

He frowns at her, all the tension and fear from the week flooding him now that she was confronting it, “I am afraid I may be ruining my relationship.”

She blinks at him, tilting her head, “How would you be doing that?”

After a moments hesitation he lists the ways he has been dealing with the situation. The worry that he will never be close enough to you. The annoyance in his chest when other cookies are chummy with you. The distance he has created to avoid those feeling only making them worse. She smiles through the whole thing, knowingly.

“So… you’re jealous?” She chuckles, leaning forward with a teasing smile.

“I… suppose I am,” He admits, “It’s not as though the feeling is new, but it’s never been so strong…”

She laughs at him again, “Because you are in love, silly. Of course it’s stronger, have you talked to them about it.”

“Well…”

“Pure Vanilla.” She scolds, “Goodness, when will you ever learn. You can’t people please all the time, it’s not good for your health.”

He sighs, nodding along in agreement, “I know, I just don’t know how to bring it up so I deflect. And I’ve been avoiding them since you arrived, I can tell they feel horrible, but I fear I’ve gone too far.”

She hushes him, grabbing his hand in her own, “It’s never too late if the intent is there. I’m sure they’ll understand if you just talk to them. I would.”

“Thank you White Lily,” He smiles genuinely for the first time since she arrived, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She smiles warmly at him, squeezing his hand tightly. She always had a way to ease his worries with her words. It was just how well she knew him, she knew just what he needed as always.

A throat clears to the side of them, drawing their attention to it. White Lily reacts first, pulling her hands away from him and offering you a smile.

“Am I interrupting?” You ask, mousy with voice shaking.

“Of course not,” She assures, “We were just talking about you, actually!”

Your expression relaxes a bit, inching forward as if one of them might deny you entry, “Nothing bad I hope…”

“Never,” Pure Vanilla speaks with such warmth that you almost forget how much you’d missed him this whole time, “Please come join us.”

So you do, and you sit and talk with them, and things are nearly normal. Pure Vanilla is back to his usual affectionate self, like nothing ever happened. But you catch the way he and White Lily exchange glances, the way banter comes to them more easily than it ever has to you. They just understood each other in a way you never have, and you couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. Especially not after he’d pushed you away so much.

Eventually, White Lily leaves with the excuse of needing rest. Yet, you know it’s to give the two of you space. She’s always been observant and understanding, and you’re grateful for her consideration. When it is just you and Pure Vanilla again, you feel the tension begin to creep back between you. The thick wall of awkwardness wedging between you, and you fear for a moment that this is how it will be forever now. Then, he takes your hands in his, leaning over the table to get closer to you.

“I have to apologize,” He begins, “I have been unfair to you, and we have both suffered because of my actions.”

“Pure Vanilla—“ You want to ease his worries for some reason, tell him it’s alright, but he doesn’t allow you to.

“It took me a very long time to let you in, and because of that I fell short on sharing important moments with you. I’ve found myself… envious of other cookies who take up your time, and I’ve been immature in how I handle it,” He admits, stroking the backs of your hands, “I’ve put too much distance between us, and I can see how much it pains you. I’m so sorry for how I’ve acted, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”

It takes you a moment of awkward blinking to take in all he said, and while his genuineness is sweet, you can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your stomach. It’s ridiculous when you think about it. He was jealous so he avoided you, and at the same time you were just as jealous of White Lily Cookie. It was silly, and so easily solved, yet neither of you were willing to upset the other. He seems to find the humor in it all too, laughing heartily at your side.

You laugh until your sides hurt and tears are streaming from your eyes. Leaning your full weight on him so you don’t collapse to the floor. When you finally calm, you find it in yourself to admit to your own plight.

“I would be harsh on you, but I’m just as guilty of jealousy.” You sigh, squeezing his fingers in yours.

“What do you have to be jealous of?” He asks, and you almost can’t believe he doesn’t know. It’s so obvious to everyone else around him that he still adores White Lily, everyone but him it seems.

You shake your head in disbelief, “Gosh, you’re so oblivious. You really don’t know how you look at her, do you?”

He shakes his head with a deep frown.

“When you look at White Lily, I can see how much you still love her. I know you would never hurt me or betray me like that, but it does hurt when I see how you treat her. I feel like… maybe you’ll never look at me like that.” You admit, voice small and shaky the longer you go. It was hard to come to terms with how much it hurt, and worse to say out loud to him. He could reject you, pretend your feelings aren’t real.

Instead, he tucks a finger under you chin and forces your eyes on him, “I already do… I just get so embarrassed when you’re looking that I hide it from you.”

He pulls you a little closer, “I still love White Lily, but not in the same way that I love you. You are my whole world, my love. I would never leave you, not for anyone, and I’m sorry I made you worry for even a moment.”

You smile softly at him, leaning into his touch, “Next time, I think we should both just talk about it? All this dodging each other is silly.”

“I agree,” He chuckles, “I much prefer talking to you than not.”

“Very good,” You hum, sliding your arms around his shoulders, “Shall we make it up to each other then?”

His hand tug you closer by your waist, “I think that would be very nice, yes.”

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part three - you help steve and penelope look for cinderella 11k

a/n - this actually took me ages oh my god. but to those asking about cinderella here you go! CW lost pet (happy ending i promise)

── .✦

The clock hanging in the hall clicks annoyingly loud. Tick, tick, tick, like a bad song stuck in your head. You watch the minute hand cross another line. It hasn’t been adjusted since the time changed last week. Similarly, the calendar below it has yet to be flipped. 

It’s November now, but more importantly, it’s Friday. It’s quickly cementing itself as your favorite day of the week. Friday’s mean lunch in Steve’s office and trading weekend plans and hearing about the kind of mischief Penelope’s been up to at home. 

But it’s a quarter past eight and Steve hasn’t arrived yet. He’s never been late, or even absent since you started volunteering. It’s odd, but everyone has their days you suppose. Still, a dull twinge blooms in your chest. Working without him might as well be a form of punishment. 

Someone had shoved a vacuum in your hands while they try and figure out if he’s coming. It’s boring work, not the kind Steve would give you. And when he has to give you boring work, he at least makes it fun. Turns most things into games or competitions. Like last week, he bet you any candy from the vending machine that he could sort donations faster than you. You bought him a Reeses, of course, but if anyone asks, you let him win on purpose. 

You hear Steve before you see him. He’s not loud, but his voice is distinct against any others. By now, you could pick him from a crowd by voice alone. You find him in the threshold between his supervisor's office and the hall. He lingers halfway out, toying with the door handle like he can’t decide if he should go inside. 

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” you overhear. “Was about to send a search party for you, Harrington.” The man cackles at his own joke, tone devoid of any edge. 

Steve laughs strangely. A laugh you aren’t sure you’ve ever heard from him before. He spills a string of apologies for his tardiness, but his boss waves him off and sends him to work. 

When he backpedals out of the doorway, you chide, “Tsk. Tsk. You’re late, Harrington.” 

Steve spooks easily. He hates to admit it but it makes him an easy target for office pranks which you do take full advantage of now that you’re friends. But you aren’t even trying to scare him this time. 

He visibly tenses at your voice, eyes snapping to yours. They’re as intense as you’ve ever seen the lovely shade of brown, yet dulled with the toll of exhaustion. The next thing you notice is his hair. It’s combed back behind his ears and by the looks of it has no product. 

“Hey,” he tries, stopping halfway to clear his throat. 

As if his appearance isn’t alarming enough, the lack of a comeback is triple worrisome. You try– and fail– to contain your concern. “What happened?” 

He deflates in one big sigh. Any attempt at a facade vanished. It’s impossible to lie to you when you look so concerned. 

“I’m the worst dad ever,” he declares, skimming your arm as he sidesteps past you. 

You catch up to his long stride with practiced eloquence. “Uh-oh. What’d you do?” 

“Cinderella’s gone missing.” 

“Missing?” 

He nods.

“But she’s an outside cat, right? She’s probably, I dunno, chasing birds or slumped over a can of tuna at a neighbor's house.” 

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s been four days. Four. She’s usually around at least once a day, if not, every other. I can’t even remember the last time–”

“Wait, wait. This makes you the worst dad, how exactly?” 

He forces his key into the lock of his office door, jostling the handle in frustration. “Because Penelope’s begged me since forever to let her be an inside cat and I always say no. She wouldn’t have got lost if she was inside.” 

You flick on the light and hum, understanding more than agreeing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Steve, but I think you’re exaggerating.” 

He plants his bag on the desk and unzips it. “This is serious. She loves that cat more than me, I swear.” 

“Okay, first of all, not true. Second of all, this is serious and it sucks but it doesn’t make you a bad dad. You know that right?” 

“Besides the point,” he passes you a heavy pile of paper. “Will you help me hang these up?”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to. He already knows you’ll say yes. 

Black ink across the top page reads, “MISSING CAT”. There are two patchy images of Cinderella, one of which you’ve never seen and the other underexposed beyond recognition. Steve’s name, phone number, and address are listed at the bottom too. You flick through the stack, finding each version of Cinderella has been coated in a thick layer of brown crayon. 

“Penelope insisted on coloring all of them so people know what color she is.” 

Steve doesn’t have time for the pity party of a look you show him. If you cry, he’ll cry. And he’s cried enough in the last few days. 

You accompany Steve to the bulletin board outside his office. Unspokenly, you accept the very important job of paper-passer while he’s in charge of the stapler. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly, thumb catching on yours as he takes the page you’re holding out. 

“Don’t worry, Steve. She’ll come home. Cats just like their space sometimes.” You aren’t totally sure if that’s true about cats, but it sounds like the right thing to say. 

He mutters something under his breath. Not mean, just doubtful. 

It’s unusual to be the one filling the conversation. Steve’s good at talking, a Chatty Cathy as he often calls Penelope. But you try your best to fill his shoes. 

“How’s Penelope dealing with it?” 

“Awfully.” He chuckles dryly. “She’s on strike for just about everything right now. Refused to go to sleep, refused to eat breakfast, refused to get in the car this morning.” 

You nod and hand him another sheet. 

“I’d bet by lunch I’ll have to go pick her up. She was hysterical at drop-off.” 

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You have a funny urge to tack on something other than his name. Dummy or boss are typical but ill-fitting. And honey or sweetheart would probably cross a line, though, they’re nice to consider. 

He sighs, kneading his eye sockets. “I’m sorry. I’m being… I know you’re trying to help.” 

“You’re allowed to feel frustrated you know.” 

“I know. You’re just– thanks.”

“I’m banning that word from our conversations. You say it too much,” you tease. 

He gives you a look, neither happy nor sad. “Cause you’re always helping me, dummy.” 

You grin, largely at the nickname. 

Every board in the building is covered with posters and every person is notified of Cinderella’s disappearance in half the time it would normally take you and Steve. He’s not in any rush, just in his head. And after that, you dissolve into separate work, never far but still apart. 

By noon Steve’s on his third cup of coffee. But no amount of caffeine or sugar will erase the heavy bags under his eyes. Finding Cinderella might be the only cure. 

So there’s no debate in your mind when you offer, “I can come over and help look tonight?” 

Steve holds a finger up, gaze trained on an address book with his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder. “Hi, Miss Crawford?” He pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. It’s rare that he wears them in front of you. Cute, nonetheless. “Yes, it’s Steve,” he says. 

There’s high-pitched rambling on the other end, not clear enough to discern anything other than an old-timey affection for Steve. You aren’t sure of the nature of Steve’s relationship with the woman, but he appears equally fond, even through the somber hues of his story. 

She offers no valuable insight as to Cinderella’s whereabouts but promises to keep an eye out, making her… strike seven. Steve’s determined to phone every person he knows and then every local in the phone book in the span of his thirty-minute lunch break. You joked about stealing his office neighbor’s phone to help, but Steve insisted you didn’t. 

When he docks the receiver you repeat yourself. 

“Sorry. You really don’t have to.”

“I know, but I can… If you want. It’s up to you.” 

“I– okay,” he sighs. “Only if you really don’t mind. It would be really helpful honestly.” 

“After work then?”

“Uhh, sure. I just have to pick up Penelope when I get off.” 

“Sounds good.” You grin and stir your food idly with a fork. It eventually goes cold in your lap. You’re more preoccupied with what you’ll wear tonight and what to bring Penelope to cheer her up. Candy’s probably your best bet. You know she’s already run out of Skittles from Halloween. 

Steve’s lips twitch happily as he dials another number. 

That’s about the happiest you see him. The rest of the day is a blur, mostly busywork as Steve is consistently ushered away by someone for something not even in his job description. For the first time possibly ever, he leaves on time. And he doesn’t say goodbye. He’s clearly having an awful day so you pretend it doesn’t sting, but the walk to your car is painfully silent. 

At home, you change quickly, pop something frozen in the microwave, and retrace your steps back to the car in record time. The drive to Steve’s is unfortunately not very long. It doesn’t give you much time to mull over every possible scenario like your brain desires. But you’ll survive. 

It still feels unfamiliar, pulling into his driveway. Less so than the first time, but still. You notice things you hadn’t before. The long crack like lightning in the pavement, the tinkle of a wind chime against the breeze, and the stepping stone with a ‘P’ carved in it. Halloween was the last time you were here. A couple of weeks has never felt like such a lifetime. Steve’s been busy parenting and working late and all. You don’t blame him. Sometimes you wonder how he ever made time for you in the first place with his schedule. 

On the front steps, Penelope plucks a weed and adds it to her bouquet. Her cheek is squished against the top of her knee and she’s curled over herself like a pillbug. Brown eyes flick up as you near. One blink, then two. The epitome of indifference. 

“Hi, Penelope.” 

“Hi,” she says. She sounds uncharacteristically small. And she is small, but her voice is anything but. You know her to be bold, unapologetic. But not today. 

You squat, toe to toe with her little Mary Janes, and wave a pack of Skittles. “Look what I brought,” you sing. 

The slightest lift of her frown before she restores the pout for good. “For me?”

“All for you.” 

She takes the candy and tucks it under her arm. 

“Wanna help me look for your dad?” 

It’s not a bribe, though her presence does tend to balm your Steve-induced nerves. So you are a little disappointed when she shakes her head. But disappointment wanes into sympathy and sympathy to determination. Determination to help her find Cinderella as soon as possible. 

You palm her shoulder as you stand. The front door is ajar, the breeze eating any warmth in the foyer. It’s eerily quiet inside. 

“Steve?” 

“One second!” he calls back, muffled from upstairs. 

The entryway is messier than you remember it. Shoes in a jumbled heap behind the door, Steve’s unzipped backpack slumped against the baseboards, and winter gloves and hats knocked haphazardly onto the tile. You bend to pick up a knit beanie as Steve hurdles down the stairs. 

He struggles to squeeze into a raincoat over the thick sweater he wore to work. “Hey,” he smiles softly, gaze sweeping across your clothes. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Do you want a heavier coat? Radio said it’s supposed to storm tonight.” 

“Oh,” you peer down at your denim jacket. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Steve tilts his head, passing you a bundle of crumpled pink cloth. “Give this to Penelope? I’ll grab you one.” He doesn’t allow you to argue before turning around, but he stops halfway up the stairs, leaning over the railing to say, “Tell her to grab her boots too.”

You find the boots in the pile by the door and bring them to Penelope outside. She stares at you helplessly with one shoe halfway on the wrong foot. 

“Need help?”

“Yes please.” 

You take her ankle and prop her foot against yours. It takes a few tries and lots of wiggling but you slide the boot on and lace the purple strings all the way up. The second round is easier but you still wonder whether kids shoes are supposed to be this difficult. 

The door groans behind you and a warm hand cups your shoulder. “Did you eat?” Steve asks. “I can make you something before we go.”  

You rise to face him. The sky’s overcast, muting his tan complexion, making him look even more spent than he had earlier. “I ate. But thank you,” you smile, hoping to encourage one back. 

He doesn’t but he unfolds the coat he’s carrying, shaking the arms free so it’s easier for you to slip on. “See if this fits.”

It’s not your typical size, but the extra weight is nice. Traces of pine and juniper linger, like it’s been taken on a hike recently. And you’re instantly warmer, a comfort that extends beyond the garment alone. 

“Nice,” he nods, taking it upon himself to even out the hood strings for you. His fingernail skips across the zipper teeth and for a second, you think he’ll zip it up too. 

“Daddy, are we going now?” 

Steve spins on his heel, shuffling for his keys at the door. “Yes, baby. What did we talk about?” 

Penelope kicks a load of gravel into the grass. “Ummm, I dunno.” 

“No running off. If I can’t see you, we go home. Capeesh?” 

When he jogs down the steps to her side, she sighs. “Capeesh.” 

“Ready?” He pats her head, “Got your detective hat on?” 

She peers up then, a flush of fresh purpose, and nods. 

“Alright, Detective. Let’s roll.” 

Steve’s yard is embraced by dense woods on every side but the road. He leads you to the tree line where a trail has been carved smooth with frequent use. Bark stretches tall and needle branches weave a canopy of orange above. 

“Katie said I need to think more like a cat.” Penelope cranes her head up, “Do you think Cinderella went in the trees?”

“Maybe,” Steve mumbles, focused on jamming his nail under the metal tab of a can of cat food. 

“So maybe I should climb up to check?”

“Not these ones, babe. Too tall.”

“But what if she’s in one? Like, a really, really tall one.” 

“I think she’d pick a shorter one so she could get down,” you supply. “It would probably hurt her nails going all the way up there too.” 

She hums. You drift into a steady rhythm of whistling and calling Cinderella’s name. Penelope waves a toy ball with a little bell inside while you rattle the jar of treats. 

Penelope orbits off course slowly and when she hops out of sight Steve calls, “What did I say Nell?” 

“No running away!” 

He shakes his head at you, “This kid’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

You grin, turning back to him when you spot Penelope. Steve has a lovely side profile. You try to memorize the shape without tripping over any twigs as you walk. “How was she at school?” 

“Sad, they said. She cried at nap. Refused to sleep at all.” 

You coo. 

“But she ate all her lunch, so that’s good.”

You hum in agreement. 

Penelope crouches to examine the inside of a log. Her pigtails flip as she tips her head upside down. 

“Did you find something?” you ask. 

Penelope pulls something dark out, a dopey smile rounding her cheeks. “A slug.” 

Steve scrunches his nose but quickly slackens it in a poor attempt to conceal his disgust. Thankfully, you don’t have to be a good actor to fool a four-year-old. “Nice, honey.” 

“I think he’s dead.”

“Why don’t you put him back? He’s probably hibernating.” 

“Hiding? Why?”

“No, hi-ber-nat-ing. It’s when the animals go to sleep during the winter.” 

She squints, “For the whole winter?” 

“Yeah, think so.”

“How do they do that?” 

“Umm, I don’t know.” Steve glances at you for help but you only shrug. “They just do.” 

One of the joys of parenthood you’ve discovered through Penelope is the plethora of questions that you have absolutely no idea how to answer. 

Penelope replants the slug in its home, making a point to clarify, “Cinderella wasn’t in there.” 

The trail dips steadily downward, covered with a mess of broken branches, scattered pinecones, and crunchy leaves that crackle beneath your feet. Steve’s leading the way, rambling about something or other and you’d swear you’re listening if he asked. But truthfully, your eyes trace the fit of his jeans shamelessly. He has a nice ass, it’s hard not to notice! 

Your foot snags on something hard– a root, a branch, you aren’t totally sure– and it all happens so fast. You yelp and pitch forward, knees and hands slamming into the dirt with the full force of your weight. 

Steve whirls around and assesses the damage, quickly determines there are no injuries severe enough to warrant a hospital visit, and then he fucking cackles. 

You scoff, burying your own amusement as Penelope mimics him. Some example Dad is setting. At least he offers to help you up, Penelope just watches your embarrassment unfold.  

“Don’t laugh!” You yank his hand, harsh enough that he stumbles forward onto your toe. “Ow– Steve!”

“That’s what you get!” He hauls you up, grip faltering with each peel of laughter. 

You twist around yourself, sweeping your backside. “Do I have leaves on my butt?” 

He looks for as long as he deems appropriate which is not very long at all. “Just dirt and a ton of bugs.” 

“Shut up,” you smack his bicep. 

Penelope points, “That is not nice!”

“Yeah, keep your hands to yourself,” Steve teases. 

You trap a retort behind clenched teeth and look to Penelope. “Sorry.” 

“Uhh. You’re supposed to apologize to me.” 

You skip past him to Penelope’s side. “I’m helping Penelope look right now. Maybe later.” 

Steve knows you won’t see it but he hopes you feel him sticking up his middle finger. 

Penelope trudges along, the corners of her mouth drawn tight in quiet sadness. She fills the silence before you find the words.

“Do you think she’ll come home?” she asks earnestly. 

“I do, Pen. I think she’s probably just hiding.” 

“Like hide and seek?”

“Yeah.” 

She considers your words carefully. “But why?”

“I dunno. Cats are just silly like that.” 

She smiles. “Like dinosaurs?” 

You smile back. “Exactly.” 

The trees taper off, merging with the cracked sidewalk lining a cul de sac. Penelope’s ponytails are swept off her shoulders as a car whizzes by.  

You cuff her smaller fingers in your own just as Steve tells her to hold someone’s hand. 

He stops at her other side, surveying the neighborhood. It’s the type you’d imagine families live in. Basketball hoops, sidewalk chalk, bikes thrown against the lawns. 

“I’m gonna go talk to some neighbors. Will you hang some posters?” Steve asks you. “We should hurry. I think it’s going to rain soon.” 

“Can I go?” 

Steve’s eyes trail from Penelope back up to you curiously. 

“Yeah, I’ve got her.” You squeeze her hand, reassuring yourself more than anyone. 

“Okay. Penelope, be a good listener. Don’t go on the road by yourself. I’ll be just over there.” He points to a house with yellow siding and starts across the road. 

You turn Penelope by the shoulders and unzip her bag, taking the stapler in one hand and the stack of paper in the other. 

“Can you carry these?” you ask, thrusting the posters toward her. 

You straighten out the stapler and pick a sheet off the top before she braces them against her chest. “You know, this reminds me of when we first met.” 

“Because I helped you hang up stuff?”

“Mhmm.” You line the page up against a tree, nailing each corner to be sure it sticks. 

Eventually, you're passed a different poster, a painting. It’s a charming tangle of shapes and a riot of brown and orange. At the top, "MISSING" is written with two backward S’s in a crooked slope.

“Did you paint this?”

“Yes, at school.” 

“Wow. Did you write this too?” 

“Yep. My teacher helped me.” 

“Very good!” You tack it to a telephone pole and pivot to face her, brimming with pride. 

She’s not nearly as happy as you are about it. Her lips thin as she stares at her work and she hesitates before asking,“Do you think we’re bad detectives?” 

Your chest aches so sudden and fierce like you’ve been punched. You crouch, rubbing the soft fleece at her elbow. “No. No, honey. We aren’t bad detectives. Detective work just takes time. We have a lot of ground to cover.” 

Her frown wobbles, lashes shining. “It’s taking so long,” she whines. 

“I know, Pen. Cinderella didn’t leave us many clues, huh?” You swipe a tear before it reaches her mouth. You want to promise her that Cinderella will come home but your gut won’t let you. You don’t know if she really will. “Let’s go check on your Dad. See if the neighbors have seen her. Hmm?” 

She nods and you give her your best loving squeeze. 

Steve’s halfway up the steps of someone’s porch, mid-conversation with a young woman. Her frown deepens as you and Penelope approach, unlike the baby on her hip who smiles at you. 

Steve glances over before continuing. “Well, please call, if you do happen to see her.” 

“Absolutely. I hope you find her.” 

“Thanks,” he waves, descending the stairs to stand beside you.  

“No luck?” you ask, peering up at the clouds. They’re getting moodier by the minute and it’s started to sprinkle. 

His hand settles around Penelope’s skull like a claw, he shakes her frown away but not easily. “Not yet. We’ll keep looking.” 

Penelope walks a few feet ahead of you and Steve. Every few mailboxes you and Steve stick another poster up. Penelope doesn’t stop to wait, but she’s thorough in her searching, checking under cars and in drain pipes. Enough to even out the distance that grows each turn. 

You’re faced away, unclogging the jam in the stapler when Penelope gasps. 

“Nell! Wait!” Steve shouts as you turn. By then she’s already halfway up someone’s lawn.  

Steve jogs after her and you jog after Steve. Penelope’s made it to the sideyard when you catch up, stretching onto tiptoes and squinting through a rotted hole in the fence. 

“Penelope,” Steve sighs.

“I saw her Daddy! She jumped over the fence!”

“Are you sure?” His hand curls over the top of the fence but his eyes can’t reach. 

“Yes, I promise! We have to go over!” 

He scrapes through his hair, judging the wood planks. They’re at least a head taller than Steve, but there’s a thin lip dividing each in half. If he angles his foot right, he could use it to boost himself over. 

He shakes his head. He might've hopped a fence or two as a teenager, but he's grown now. “We have to ask. It’s someone’s yard.” 

Penelope wails, yanking his arm repeatedly. “No! Daddy! What if she’s gone? We have to hurry!” 

“Just go,” you wave, already backing up toward the house. “I’ll go knock. See if they’re home.” 

Steve winces at himself for what he’s about to do. But one glance at Penelope’s worried little face is all the courage he needs. He tests his grip, the sole of a shoe scraping wood for a scary second before catching on the trim. With one leg on either side, he pauses to look at Penelope. “Stay there,” he says, before leaping into the grass. 

He scans the backyard. There’s a swing set, a raised garden bed, a kiddie pool, and lots and lots of toys. It reminds him of his own yard. Steve takes a handful of hesitant steps, gaze flicking across each window for any horrified faces. He’s thankful not to see any. 

Then, a meow—faint, but unmistakable. His heart lurches, his head whipping up to the nearest tree even faster. His eyes comb through branch after branch, then again when he comes up empty. But a second meow and he’s never been more sure. He wedges his heel into a groove, hugging the trunk for balance. His nails dig uncomfortably into the bark as he pulls himself up. 

And there! Right where he swears he looked, a strip of golden-orange fur, blending seamlessly with the leaves… Except, Cinderella isn’t orange, she’s brown. Steve’s shoe slips, sending his chin hard into a thick branch on his way to the ground. The cat hisses equally if not more upset than Steve about the situation. He groans, glaring at the tree as he picks himself up. 

“Did you find her? Was it her?” Penelope yells, still peeping through the hole in the fence. 

Steve waits until he vaults back over to answer. “No, princess. Not her.” 

“Your chin,” you point out, but your words are eaten by Penelope’s shouting. 

“It was her! I know it was! I saw!” 

“It wasn’t, Nell. Promise. That cat was orange.”

“But it was! I saw her!” Penelope crumbles into hysterics, batting her fists against Steve’s thighs like they’re punching bags.  

Steve scoops her up, clamping her arms between their chests. 

“Daddy, we have to go back! I saw her!” Several gasps slice through her sentence and tears pour down her face in even streams. 

Steve shushes her gently, fanning her hood across her head as it starts to rain. You follow him up to the road and then down the street. Penelope’s relentless, squirming and screaming in his ear. It’s the first of her temper tantrums you’ve seen in person, though you’ve heard plenty about them, and you caught the beginning of one once through the phone. Steve’s more composed than you thought possible, waiting patiently until her sobs have dwindled into teary hiccups to set her down. 

“It’s not nice to hit. Even when we’re mad, you know that.”

She glares at him, more serious than you’ve ever seen. 

“Are you ready to go home?” 

Penelope’s face starts to wilt. She nearly cries again. 

“It’s too rainy. We have to go home soon or we’ll get sick.”

“Five more minutes,” she begs. 

“Okay.” He buttons her coat up to her chin. “Are you tired?” 

She shakes her head, though her eyes say otherwise. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” 

Penelope thinks long and hard. It’s a trick question. Of course she wants to be carried but God forbid Steve finds out she’s tired. 

He picks her up anyway. “You can still look from up here.” 

Penelope hooks her chin over his shoulder, cheek tipping to kiss the pad of his jacket. So much worry and too many days of poor sleep etched into each flap of her lashes. She looks utterly exhausted. And she really tries to stay awake– she needs to find Cinderella– but she lost that battle before it even started. The hiss of rain and the warm swing of Steve’s embrace send her straight to dreamland. 

Steve feels her arms slacken and slide down his back. He chances a glimpse at you to ask what he already knows but can’t. Not when you’re already watching Penelope with a type of love he believed was his alone to give. 

Alarm pulses when he registers the weight of your stare has shifted to him. The same velvet endearment skips across every feature on your face. It’s lovely and adorable but it terrifies the hell out of Steve. 

His cheeks burn and he smiles like a madman. He can’t help it. It sticks long after his eyes dart away. 

You drift into a comfortable quiet. The spray of rain is like white noise, making even you drowsy. Maybe Steve could carry you back too. It’s an amusing idea, enough to make you grin to yourself. You’re glad he doesn’t notice. He couldn't torture that information out of you. 

Halfway home, you hit a particularly steep incline in the forest, slick with the beginning sludge of mud. 

“Here,” Steve calls, boosting Penelope higher up his chest before casting his arm at you. 

You accept his hand, grateful for more reasons than one, and trace the wet shoeprints he leaves behind with your own. It’s a slow journey. Steve strains with the added weight on his front, but he doesn’t let go of you until you reach the top of the hill. 

You cross the threshold back into Steve’s yard as a bout of thunder splits the sky above. Penelope shakes awake and peels herself off Steve. She blinks unhappily, cheeks stamped with red lines mirroring his coat folds. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes, fixing her hood after it falls. 

“Cinderella,” she whimpers. 

“We’ll look again tomorrow.” 

She sniffles, voice so frail, hollow with sleep. “No. I–” 

Another wave of thunder startles her to panicked tears. Steve picks up the pace to the front door, shuffling through his pocket for the keys. He’s well-versed in unlocking the door one-handed– between groceries, backpacks, Penelope– he always has something to carry. But he’s thankful when you take the keys and do it for him. 

You scoot inside last, joining the choir of shoe squealing on the tile. 

Steve sets Penelope on the floor and kneels to unlace her boots. She wrestles with her coat zipper until Steve intervenes with much gentler hands. 

“We looked really good while you were asleep,” you promise while shedding your own coat. 

Her miserable expression doesn’t falter. 

Steve smears her tear tracks one cheek at a time. “Stay for a bit? Until the storm passes.”

You bend to collect Penelope’s coat off the floor and hang it next to yours. “Okay,” you say when you realize his words were directed at you. 

“I’m gonna give her a quick bath. Do you need anything? Water? Towel?” 

“Oh, no. I’m good. Thanks.” 

“Okay. We’ll be upstairs. Please, help yourself to whatever. Seriously.” 

When Steve disappears from view, you mosey into the living room, searching for something to keep your hands busy. And it’s not hard to find. There’s a pile of laundry that looks like it’s been trampled through more than a few times. Clothes stretch from one end of the couch to the other. You push them into a pile and get comfortable, folding each item with more care than you would your own. 

Four neat stacks later and Steve spots you from the stairs. “Please don’t do that,” he says. 

You clear your smirk as he nears. “Do what?” 

“You know what,” he snatches a sock from your grasp. It’s one of his, longer and duller than the others. “Sorry, I know it’s a mess.” 

“You know I don’t care, Steve.” 

He gazes down at you in pretend petulance. “Well, I do.” With a dramatic flick of his finger, he sends the sock sailing back into the hamper on the floor.  

“If it makes you feel better, I have a pile of clothes covering half my bed right now.”

 “Mmm. It doesn’t,” he decides. “But I came down because Penelope’s very kindly requested that you come read to her before she goes to bed. If you want to.” 

“Of course I want to.” Your lips bend into a funny little line, happy and curious and doubtful all dressed in one. “She really asked for me?” 

“Yeah,” he says in the same cadence he would duh. He offers his palm, drags you up easily. “Why’s that so hard to believe?” 

“I dunno.” A toothy smile slips onto your face before you can stop it. But your lips close as soon as you stand, pressed closer to him than you expected to be. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, breaking away. “Come on.” 

He seemed nervous– the way he laughed, how his hands retracted like he was burned– but maybe you’re overthinking it. You forget about the interaction by the time you reach Penelope’s room. 

Several books are fanned around Penelope where she stands, like fallen petals from the stem of a flower. Her shelf has been mostly stripped. What isn’t on the floor has been scooped into a flimsy stack in her arms. 

Steve knocks on the door frame, “Ready?” 

Penelope turns and two books slide off the top of her tower. You can’t see her mouth but you can tell by her eyes that there’s a smile behind that copy of Goodnight Moon. 

“You can pick three, missy,” he says. 

“Five?” 

“Four.” 

“Four and a half?”

“Three.”

“No,” she giggles, definitely delirious. “Four.”

“Okay.” He kneels at her feet, reshelving unchosen books two or three at a time. 

It’s not an easy decision, but Penelope decides on her four and promptly thrusts them into your hands. You follow her to bed where she packs herself against the wall, politely leaving the rest of the twin mattress for you. 

“Wait!” she shouts when you open the first book, “The lights!” 

“I’m working on it,” Steve grumbles, standing to flip the light switch by the door. The room is swallowed in black apart from the nightlight glowing to life across the room. 

Penelope stretches across you to snatch something off her nightstand. A flashlight, you realize, as she clicks the switch. She trains the light on the page and beams at you with equal vibrance. 

The first story is the shortest and the second not much longer, but the third takes time. Time you get to notice the heat of her breath as she yawns into your arm and time to appreciate the weight of her head limp against your shoulder. 

You don’t have to look up to know Steve is still tidying. Every second counts when you’re a single parent. But you steal a glance in between each page anyway. Find him chucking clothes in the hamper and dumping an armload of stuffed animals onto the foot of the bed. They’ll be kicked to the floor by morning and yet he straightens them up anyhow. 

He concludes his rounds by the final pages of the fourth book, taking a seat on the floor just in time to hear you whisper, “The end.” 

Penelope bats her dark eyes up at you. She knows you’ll say yes before she even asks. “One more?” 

“No,” Steve interjects. “No more tonight, babe.”

“Pleaseee!” 

“No, you already hustled me into four. We usually only read two.” 

“Pretty please!” she adds, puppy dog eyes bouncing from Steve to you. 

Oh the cruelty. To defy Steve or disappoint Penelope. Both are terrible choices but only one of the pair currently has a heartbreaking little pout. 

“I’ll read one more really really short book if you promise to go to sleep after?” 

Her head bobs eagerly as she kicks the blankets off, springing to her feet.

Steve’s head flops against the sheets, hair like satin ribbons shining from root to end. You consider if it’s as soft as you assume and if you’ll ever have the chance to find out. 

“Supposed to be on my side,” he whispers through a gooey grin. 

“Am I?” 

He tuts, craning up to find Penelope. “Don’t take all of those back out. I just cleaned them up.”

She exchanges the two in her hand for a thick chapter book. 

“No ma’am,” Steve says as she turns. “Short one, ‘member?”

Penelope huffs and lugs herself back to the bookcase. She plucks a thinner paperback and uses Steve’s calf as a stool to launch herself back in bed. He doesn’t complain but he pinches her side in revenge. 

The book mirrors the length of tonight’s first, yet it takes double the time for your own selfish reasons. You linger on each word, emphasize each sound, and savor every second. Penelope is nestled against your hip as you read the final sentence, sleepy and oblivious that you’ve turned the last page. 

Steve pulls himself up to perch on the edge of the bed, mindful not to sit on anyone’s legs. He runs the back of his hand across her face, giving her nose an extra tap. Enough times and it’ll put her to sleep. 

“Can you say thanks, Nell? And goodnight.” 

She squirms away from his touch, pushing into your thigh. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“Pen, remember our deal.” You squeeze her shoulder gently. “You promised, hmm?”

You swallow the urge to smile when she juts her lip out and frowns. The drama never ends with this one but you love it. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper. Your hand glides over the shape of her arm beneath the blanket. “I had fun reading to you.” 

She avoids your gaze, picking a loose string from her blanket. If she sees you grinning, she’ll end up grinning too. She can’t have that, she’s protesting. “Night.” 

Steve shakes his head dismissively at you, grinning fondly himself. “I’ll be down in a second,” he explains. 

You stand, slotting the book back in its home on the shelf and steal one last glimpse of them on your way out. A trail of nightlights guides you to the stairs like beacons. You end up in the kitchen, hands braced on the sink, eyes drifting around the backyard through the window.

There’s a patio with chairs and string lights. In the grass, a trampoline, a sandbox, and a toddler-sized picnic bench, all draped in purple moonlight and sparkling with rain. It’s easy to imagine life here. Birthday parties and cookouts and lazy Sunday afternoons. 

The swish of sock against tile knocks you from the fantasy. You locate Steve’s reflection in the glass.

“You better not be doing my dishes.” 

Your lips flex instinctually at his voice. “I thought about it.” 

He leans back against the counter, hip a hand’s width from yours. Strips of hair sag across his forehead like a botched set of bangs. Your height difference and the angle only accentuate how silly he looks. 

“What?” Steve smiles. 

You huff through your own. “Nothin’.” 

“Why are you laughing then?” 

“I’m not. Just…” you reach for his face but the courage fades halfway. You wave obtusely instead. “This hair,” you finish. 

He flattens the piece down, then another, combing more and more over his face like a real pair of bangs until the ends graze the ball of his nose. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Oh, it’s awful, Steve. Put it back.” 

“I dunno. Thinking of changing it up anyway.”

You shake your head, peeling your eyes away from him. “Stupid.” 

Stupidly gorgeous, you decide. He’s a mess, no doubt; rumpled and sweaty, and still, stupidly, impossibly gorgeous. 

He rakes his hair back where it belongs, “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Your gaze remains on the window but you watch Steve in your peripherals. “I’m the perfect amount of good to you.” 

“Well, agree to disagree. But, thank you for coming over to help look. Really I–”

You face him fully then. “Steve, you don’t have to thank me.” 

“No, I do. Really, you’re… you’re great and it’s been nice, you know, having help. Even just having company. It hasn't been easy making friends the last few years.”

Your brain stalls at his choice of words. You spout the first thing that comes to mind. “That’s what friends are for, right?” The words sting like acid on your tongue but you smile anyway. You’re pretty sure your heart just split itself in half on the way to the friend zone. 

He hums, pushing off the counter toward the fridge. “Let me return the favor, please. I’ll make you whatever you want. Spaghetti, PB ‘n J, uhh, pre-packaged salad?”

“I’m good, Steve. I ate earlier. And you don’t need to return the favor.” 

He sets a jar of jelly on the counter. “Your loss. Penelope says I make the best PB ‘n J’s.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” 

You settle at the kitchen table and watch him work unapologetically. His focus is entirely on a one-sided debate about the perfect peanut butter-to-jelly ratio, leaving him oblivious to your ogling.

He plops down in the chair across from yours when he’s finished. “Sure you don’t want some? You can have half of mine.” 

“Steve.” 

“Okay,” he sings and takes a bite. 

You watch the slow drip of water from the eaves. The rain has subsided enough that you could go, but neither of you suggest it. Your mind is elsewhere. Stuck on friends. 

“Hello? Anybody home?” Steve chuckles when you blink back to reality. “Did you hear me? I was–”

The trill of the phone interrupts. 

“I’m holding my thought. Don’t go anywhere.” Steve abandons his sandwich and crosses the room, pulling the phone from the counter. “Hello?... Uh-huh… Yes, yes.”

The sudden shift in his tone catches your attention. He sounds borderline ecstatic. 

“Okay. I’ll be right over. Thank you!” 

“Who was it?” you ask.

He snaps the receiver back into place. “A neighbor saw her just now.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes! Well, they’re pretty sure it’s her. It sounded like her, how they described. Are you able to stay here while I go check? I don’t wanna wake Penelope up.” 

You don’t even think about it when you insist, “Of course. Go!” 

“I’ll be right back. Thank you!” He squeezes your shoulder and jogs out of the kitchen. The sound of jangling keys fades with the closing of the front door and before you’ve processed it, you’re alone in Steve’s house. 

It’s a strange thing, being in Steve’s house without Steve. You’re not technically alone, Penelope is still tucked in bed upstairs, of course. But the silence is thick, suffocating even. So you’re admittedly glad when you hear tiny footsteps from upstairs. 

On the bottom step, Penelope freezes and her hand tightens around the railing, not expecting you to be there. “Where’s Daddy?” she mewls at you, bottom lip quivering against her words. 

“It’s okay. He went out to look some more, that’s all.” 

“I want Daddy,” she whines, breath hitching in between words. 

“He’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise.” 

A sob wracks her chest, tears escaping as she scrunches her eyes. Sniffles cut through a mush of sounds, woven between them, she pleads, “When?”

“Oh, honey. Come here.” You hoist her up against your chest instinctually. It feels like the right thing to do, and it must be– her arms wind underneath yours like puzzle pieces. “Real soon,” you reassure. 

You hope so anyway. Half for Penelope’s sake and half for yours. You’re afraid to overstep, to parent her in a way Steve wouldn’t approve of. You feel the echoes of his constant self-doubt in your own mind. But you’ll try your best until he returns. 

Penelope’s not heavy, but it is the first time you’ve carried another human down a set of stairs. It’s a slow descent with lots of maneuvering and readjusting limbs so you can see the steps ahead but she doesn’t seem to mind. By the time you make it to the sectional, your arms burn. Still, you’d do it ten times over just so she doesn’t have to walk herself.  

She sweeps her runny nose across your sleeve and her knee digs uncomfortably into your ribcage but you can’t find it in yourself to mind. She feels safe enough with you to do so. It’s a compliment more than anything. And the weight of her head against you is a type of soothing you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

Your fingertips trace the shape of her shoulder blades through her nightgown. “Did you have a bad dream?” you whisper. 

She draws similar lazy patterns on your arm, pausing to hum yes. 

You hum back. “‘M sorry, Pen. Wanna talk about it? Might help.”

She shakes her head, the slightest movement against your collar. 

“Okay, I got you. Don’t have to worry,” you whisper and pat her head. “I won’t let any more bad dreams get in here.” 

Steve’s gone long enough to fuel your nerves and keep your mind buzzing, though your eyes beg for the sweet release of sleep. Penelope’s not helping, like a warm, weighted blanket on your chest. She’s barely awake herself when he arrives, but you’re surprised she’s awake at all. You aren’t sure what time it is but it’s definitely late. 

Two clicks from the front door’s lock and a Steve-shaped shadow slides inside. He’s being particularly quiet, like when tries to sneak up on you at the rec center. Like a ninja, he always says. 

Penelope’s head shoots up to peer over the couch. “Daddy?”

Steve stops in his tracks, but his head snaps in your direction. When his eyes confirm his ears he starts toward the couch, waiting until he can sit to coo, “Hey, baby. Hey.” A hand scoops a piece of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing up sleepyhead?” 

Penelope splinters off of your chest but remains situated on your thighs. She offers several half-lidded blinks to Steve. “You didn’t find her?” 

He melts like her eyes are made of sunbeams, reaching up to thumb sleep from under her lashes. “No, baby. Someone thought they did but it wasn’t her. I went to make sure.” 

“Oh,” she says, not sad, just tired. Penelope slowly leans over to him like a bridge, wrapping her arms around his neck as he tows her into his lap. 

He looks at you then. A long look. An expression you're having a hard time untangling. His eyes flutter back down when Penelope yawns. “Have to go to bed, okay?” he whispers into her crown, planting a kiss while he’s there. 

“I wanna sleep in your room.”

“That’s fine but I’m not laying down yet. You still have to go to sleep.” 

She nods against his chin. 

“I’ll carry you up. Can you say goodnight?” 

Penelope turns so you can see one side of her face, the other glued to Steve’s sweater. 

“Goodnight,” you wave and smile softly. 

She only shudders out a sigh but manners aren’t on Steve’s mind, especially when he knows you wouldn’t care about that. His knees crack as he stands, hiking her up higher before he heads upstairs. 

You yank a blanket from the arm of the couch, missing the warmth Penelope lent you. It’s a risky move when you’re already fighting to keep your eyes open. 

But Steve’s back before you have time to fall asleep. He’s trampling down the steps with a confidence that Penelope’s out for good this time. And he flops onto the couch with the same heaviness, sighing like you’ve never heard. Pure frustration. It’s understandable. But odd off his lips. 

“You okay?” you ask, the same syrupy sweetness you’d used with Penelope.  

He turns to face you and he looks awfully sad. The rainwater clinging to the ends of his hair doesn’t help. But he nods anyway because he’s Steve. “It was a stupid raccoon.” 

“You’re kidding? They thought it was a cat?” 

“I should’ve known,” he scrubs his face. “Practically senile that lady.” 

“You’ll find her, Steve.” 

He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I don’t know anymore. I’m really starting to think worst-case scenarios.” 

You press your lips into a firm line. It’s a possibility you don’t want to consider. “Why don’t I go look a little longer? I’m off–”

“No, please,” he leans over to cradle the shell of your knee. “You’ve helped all night. I mean this in the nicest way possible, you look exhausted.”

“Way to treat a guest, Harrington,” you smirk, peeling his pointer finger off your leg to hook it under your own. 

He squeezes your finger like a trigger, shifting focus between your hands and face. “Go home, rest, please.” 

“You sure?”

“Hundred percent. Rain’s let up so the drive shouldn’t be too bad.” 

“Promise you’ll get some rest too?” 

He smiles despite the pang in his chest and the ache behind his eyes. You're the first to show him this kind of care in years. “I will. I promise.” He releases your finger, binding your pinky with his instead. 

There’s something unreal about the way you smile back at him. Like you’ve entranced him with a spell. Steve believes in a lot of things– superpowers, demogorgans, parallel dimensions– but this is the first time he’s ever believed in pinky promise magic. 

He shakes his head, “Come on.” 

You take his hand, groaning in sync as he helps you up. 

In the foyer, Steve unhooks the coat he’d lent you earlier. “Here.” And before you can contend, he adds, “Keep it. It’s an extra. I don’t need it.” 

You let him guide your arms into the sleeves. And the same deliriousness possesses you to spring in for a hug after. “It’ll be okay, Steve,” you murmur, lips skimming the embroidered design across his chest. 

He deflates for half a second before reciprocating. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You wait until he softens to pull away and open the door. 

The wind whips and howls blowing a wave of mist onto the other end of the porch. Steve scans the yard, then the road, both slick with rain. He asks himself if it’s a good enough reason to ask you to stay. But he decides it isn’t, not yet, at least. 

“Call me when you get home?” 

A wild smile splits your lips. “Okay,” you blink stupidly, too tired to care. 

“Careful!” he shouts as you run to your car. Steve leans against the doorframe, loitering until your headlights flash his house and your car rolls out of the driveway. 

It’s only sprinkling but streetlights are scarce near Steve’s place so you turn your high beams on, highlighting lawns on either side of the road. You drive slowly, inspecting one yard, then the one opposite, hopeful that Cinderella’s still out there. 

There’s a stop sign at the end of Steve’s street. A landmark you know to make a left at. But you decide to go right. I wanted to take the scenic route, you’ll say if Steve asks. You drive that road and the one beside it and another beside that. 

And it’s only a few turns away when you spot something sort of cat-shaped laid at the end of a driveway. 

“Please do not be a raccoon,” you mumble, squinting as you inch the car closer. The longer you look the more it makes sense– two ears, a wavy tail, it’s definitely a cat. “No way.” 

You put the car in park across from the house and study it. It bats its tail against the concrete, staring lazily back at your car. There’s just no way, not after all that looking. You find her after what, ten minutes of driving? It just can’t be her. 

You push your door open gingerly, slipping onto the asphalt one foot at a time. The cat perks up, ears twitching with each crunch under your shoes. You slink over slowly, crouching into an uncomfortable crab walk when she stands. Brown coat, no collar, just as she’s been described to you. But it’s hard to say. You’ve only seen one picture of her and it was out of focus. There’s no way to really know it’s her. 

Honking a few streets away slices the silence and your focus in one go. You flinch back a step which spooks the cat. She scampers up the driveway, weaving underneath a car to the other end of the yard. 

You stick as low to the ground as you can while skipping after her. You’d guess you look ridiculous, but at least Steve isn’t here to see. The car blocks the view and you lose her by the time you reach the other side. But there’s a swirl of shrubbery, good for hiding probably. You blindly grapple for branches, blinking rapidly, slowly adjusting to the growing darkness the farther you move from your car’s headlights.

And then the porch light flickers on, spotlighting you digging through a random person’s bushes.  

“Shit.” You freeze, hand choking a wreath of leaves, embarrassment flaring hot and red through your entire body. A minute passes, then two. Everything’s still. No cat, no angry homeowners, no police cars. You decide it’s safe. Must’ve been an automatic light. You hope, anyway. 

Upon further inspection, the bushes are empty, and from what you can see the porch is too. There are a few trees but it’s difficult to make out any cats through the dark web of branches. A sudden gust of wind shakes a handful of leaves loose. Your eyes track them across the yard as they tumble back toward the driveway. And there’s the damn cat, sitting on the roof of the car like it was there the whole time. 

“You better not set that alarm off, dude,” you grumble. 

She narrows her eyes and growls as you draw closer. Cinderella is irritable– this makes sense. Or it’s a totally random feral cat who is about to claw your eyes out. 

You’re within touching distance when you realize you have no plan. She very likely could claw your eyes out or give you rabies or something else awful. But you're in it now. You’re gonna get Penelope her cat back. So you shrug Steve’s coat off cautiously, eyes never leaving the cats. It’s raining again, you realize as it starts pelting your neck, trickling like ice down your shirt. But that’s the least of your worries right now. 

“Nice kitty,” you whisper, unfolding the jacket. 

She hisses as you lean in but before she can pounce or swipe you throw the jacket over her and scoop her off her feet. She goes stiff and growls low and throaty. 

You speed walk to your car, toeing the cracked door open and maneuvering carefully into your seat. The jacket peels open as you shut the door. She sees an opportunity and takes it, nosing her way through the hole and under your elbow. There’s a shine of teeth as she bats your face, dragging a sharp set of claws against your cheek. 

“No, no– shit! I swear if you don’t,” you argue, cramming her arms back in the fabric one at a time, tucking and tightening until she’s secure. 

She huffs through her nose, glaring menacingly at you from her swaddle. 

“Cinderella– if you’re even Cinderella– which you better be! You’re being a real jerk right now.”

She growls in response. Steve wasn’t lying about her attitude. 

You shift the car into gear one-handed and forgo a seatbelt. It’s a short ride and you’ve maxed out your risk-taking meter for the night. While it really is a short drive, it goes dreadfully slow. You’re cold and wet and you feel like you are driving with a bomb strapped to your chest. 

Getting out of the car is just as easy, as in not easy at all, as getting in. But you make it to Steve’s porch, surging the cat further up your chest so there are no last-minute getaways. You tap gently on the door with your toe, hoping not to disturb Penelope. 

The instant the door opens, you squeeze by Steve and release the cat onto the floor. She scampers ahead a few feet before stopping to turn around. “Tell me this is the right cat and I didn’t just kidnap some other kid’s pet.” 

He shoves the door closed. “Oh my God! Where the hell did you find her?” 

You exhale with one big slump of your shoulders, all the worry bleeding away. “Like, five minutes down the road. Just hanging out in someone’s driveway.” 

Steve gawks, crouching and coaxing her closer with an open palm. 

She considers his invitation before striding into his touch. 

He strokes her from head to tail and back. “I can’t believe you. I was about to make funeral arrangements.” 

Cinderella chirps happily. 

Steve twists to look up at you. For a second you think he might cry. Or kiss you. 

He promptly stands and cups your jaw and your stomach tumbles because he might actually kiss you. But he aims your cheek against the light instead and whispers, “You’re bleeding.” 

“Oh,” you tap around your cheek blindly, “It’s just a scratch.” 

“Here. Come here.”

You follow him to the bathroom where he pulls a towel from the closet and drapes it around your shoulders like a shawl. 

“You’re wet,” he says like you don’t already know. 

You tug the fraying ends taut across your chest and watch him dig through the medicine cabinet. “If only someone let me borrow their coat.” 

“If only,” he snickers, dumping the contents of the first aid kit in the sink. “I’m sorry Cinderella beat you up. She really has no manners.” He strips the plastic cover off a Barbie-themed bandaid and lines it up with your scratch, pressing, and smoothing it over your skin gingerly. 

“How hideous do I look? Scale of one to ten.” 

He shakes his head, smiling at you like an idiot. You make him smile like it’s your only job. And it sends his heart flying every time. He feels out of control around you. He hates feeling that way but somehow you make it easy. 

“You could never be hideous.” Steve chuckles, still in disbelief. “You're amazing.”

Any cold lingering on your face evaporates. “Don’t go soft on me, Harrington,” you tease. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline buzz of chasing Cinderella or the high of successfully catching her, but you feel like you could do anything. Like you could say anything to him. Your eyes trickle down to his lips. He’s close enough to kiss. Every nerve in your body dares you to do it. You don’t think he’d reject you. Maybe he’d even meet you halfway. 

A high-pitched scream severs the moment. 

Steve jerks away, alarmed and then quickly amused. “Penelope,” he grins. 

And right on cue, Penelope whizzes by the open door, squeals ricocheting down the hall. She chases Cinderella, who does not look happy to be chased, but Steve allows it. 

“Daddy! Cinderella’s back! Look!” She clips her shoulder on the stair post before disappearing into the kitchen 

He turns to you, beaming. He hopes you understand how amazing you are. He’d happily tell you again and again. 

Penelope races out, heaving through a smile with the jar of treats. She sprays the entire contents of it across the floor. Steve can’t even be mad. In fact, it’s the happiest he’s been all week. 

She lies down on her back, eyes skipping between you and Steve. “How did she get here?” 

“I saw her on my way home. She was just a few streets away.” 

“Wow. She’s really good at hide and seek,” Penelope decides. 

Cinderella prances over, using Penelope’s belly as a personal vault. Penelope splays her hand out, patting and petting to her heart's content as Cinderella munches on the treats. 

Steve squats, cupping a handful of them back into the jar. 

“No, Daddy! It’s her prize.”

“Her prize will make her sick if she eats it all.”

“Okay. I guess.” She giggles as Cinderella pushes a treat with her paw. 

Steve squeezes her knee where it wiggles, raising his eyebrows, “What do you say?”

Penelope turns to you with a wicked grin. She practically screams, “Thank you!”

“You're very welcome.”

Penelope pushes herself up and cocks her head. “Will you stay and play with us?” 

It’s entirely innocent and equally adorable. You appreciate Steve for being the bad guy. 

“Nuh-uh. You’re supposed to be in bed,” he reminds her. 

She whines and shoots him a mean look. But it doesn’t last. Cinderella is back. That’s all she really cares about right now. 

“You can play with Cinderella in the morning.” His eyes flicker between the two like they’re made of gold. “Maybe she’ll even sleep in your room.” 

Penelope’s eyes and mouth widen into three little O’s. “Really!” 

“Yes. She can stay inside from now on. But! You have to train her, be a good cat mom to her.” 

“I will, I will,” she nods so relentlessly her head might pop off. “I promise I’ll be the bestest cat mom ever in the whole entire world!” 

Steve chuckles, gaze dancing over to you. He looks at you like you’re made of gold too. That’s an intense realization. 

“I should head home,” you say. 

Steve nods, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. 

“Bye, Penelope! Bye, Cinderella!” 

Penelope shackles Cinderella’s arm and forces her into a rigid wave. “Bye-bye!” 

Steve follows you out to the front porch, snapping the door shut when Cinderella trots after him. 

“Good luck keeping her inside.”

“Yeah,” he shakes his head, hand dropping from the door handle. “I’m sure she’ll escape by morning.” 

Your gaze sweeps across the lawn. It’s only drizzling now, almost unnoticeably through the overcast veil of moonlight. 

“Oh, here,” you tug one end of the towel until it slides off your neck. 

Steve accepts it tentatively, “Maybe you should keep it. Case she gets out again.” 

“Yeah, guess I’d need something to catch her with, huh?”

His teeth seem to glow in the moonlight when he smiles. He slings the towel back over your head and smooths it across your shoulders. “I know I’ve said this like a million times today,” he trails off, rubbing the fabric up and down your arms. “But I’m gonna say it again.” He looks up, dreadfully serious. Your eyes lock like magnets, like he’s specially polarized yours to stay tethered to his. “First of all, thank you for everything, seriously.”

“It’s no problem, Steve, really.” 

“I know, I just,” his attention drifts away, tension seeping in through the silence. “I think you’re like the coolest person ever.” 

You shake your head and shift your weight from one foot to the other, desperately trying to shake out the scary feeling in your gut.

A warm hand clasps yours. “I mean it. You’re so amazing and are just a super genuine person and– and I care a lot about you.” 

Your pulse hammers so hard you wonder if he can hear it. The icy bite of rain clinging to your clothes turns hot. Hot enough to boil every drop of it off your skin. 

“I dunno, it’s just really hard to make friends as a single parent. You’ve been so kind. And I really appreciate that.” 

Your heart aches. Your eyes sting. That awful feeling triples. Friends, how could you forget? 

He drops your hand, knotting his own fingers together instead. Watching you, waiting for a response. 

You smile, brittle but convincing enough that he smiles back. “Well, that’s really sweet. I’m happy to help. And, for the record, I think you’re super cool too.” You punch his shoulder playfully. Because that’s what friends do. 

“Phew, that’s a relief. Was starting to think you were getting sick of us.”

You smile genuinely then. You don’t think it’s possible to ever get sick of them. “Ehh, I’m still warming up to Cinderella but Penelope’s my favorite, no offense.” 

“No, she’s pretty cool.” He nods, pausing to think. “You can come over tomorrow– if you aren’t busy. If you want to. We’ll probably go buy some cat stuff. I dunno, it’s cool if you can’t.”

“I’d love to, Steve.” 

He laughs in soft little layers. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“See you then.”

“See ya.”

You spin on your heel, scurrying down the porch steps faster than you probably should. Forget the rain, Steve’s what you're running from. His laugh and his dopey smile and his overly kind words. You’re too young to die of a heart attack, but surely your heart won’t last much more of this. 

When you tug the handle of your car door, he yells, “Don’t forget to call me!” 

You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling and flash him a thumbs-up before getting in. He’s such an idiot. Probably waking his neighbors up yelling like that. It’s probably unhealthy, the amount of emotions you’ve just experienced in the span of a few minutes. 

But already all you can think about is tomorrow. It seems like lightyears away, but you’d wait lightyears for Steve– even for just friends Steve– silly as it sounds.

[shegetsburned]

❝ sensory night ❞ w. gyōmei himejima ੈ✩‧₊˚

.nsfw.smut.

underrated character collab entry !!

• — synopsis. himejima carries you to bed when you’re sleepy and tipsy after a gathering. one thing leads to another when you help him explore his other senses. • — a/n. it’s hereeeee. here’s my piece for the underrated character collab hosted by @honeybleed! ty again for letting me be a part of this. always love writing for my man gyōmei. • — wc. 3,7k

how long has it been? five? six years? you hadn’t had this much time to relax for years. you and anyone included at this small gathering. some hashiras gathered on the terrace, and some slayers gathered inside. for once, you were all decompressing and having fun. including yourself. you had drank enough booze to see blurred whenever you tried to get up from where you were sitting, words meddling themselves into your mouth. 

the stone hashira was watching you, as much as he could. when himejima heard your shiny laughter from the other room, he knew you were safe, it’s when it stopped that his brows connected in concern. he had to go take a look. 

sliding the wooden door to the adjacent room where some of your colleagues were gathered, he felt the pressure of the floor change when your back met the mat. it wasn’t long before the slayers made way for himejima’s giant stature to come over and gently pick you up, wrapping his arm under your back and knees. you were sound asleep. pretty little snores escaping your mouth. a warm chuckle made its way out of his lips when he heard how peaceful you felt between his hands. “i think it’s time for bed, precious one.”

the others laughed in unison before agreeing that your time at this gathering was over. your bed was waiting for you. 

gyōmei had been watching over you for years now. and you were certainly grateful for his presence. the wisest and strongest hashira looking out for you? you couldn’t have been more safe. 

but it wasn’t all innocent and you knew it. 

he couldn’t quite discern your facial expression when he was dreamingly staring a little too long. or how gently his words landed in your ears when he reassured you after a mission. or your blushing figure when he was standing always so close to you. 

oh. you were so grateful.

tuk 

the flask you had been carrying between your fingers made contact with the floor when your weight was lifted by his strong hands. leading you to your chamber was an easy task for the hashira. nevertheless, he wasn’t sure if he should leave or stay by your side. would you need more help later when you awoke? would you still be tipsy and unable to stand? 

why was it harder to make a quick decision when it came to you than on the terrain?

deep in his thoughts, gyōmei hadn't realized you had just woken up, still in his arms. it’s your giggle that alerted him. a soft and sweet giggle that could’ve warmed his heart if it wasn’t already so full of love for you. 

“gyōmei.” your sleepy voice reached him as he walked into the corridor leading to your room. you still weren’t on first-name bases after all these years so hearing it coming from you made his heart skip a beat., but his face stayed composed, as strong as ever.

“gyōmei, gyōmei-” you insisted, lingering on his name. you couldn’t quite figure out why you were in his arms in the first place but it seemed to not bother you when you searched for contact, placing a hand on his cheek with an impudent smile. “gyōmei. look at you, gyōmei.” your left thumb trailed his jaw before you extended your whole right hand around his other cheek. “your face is so soft, gyōmei..” 

you jiggled with his cheek, pinching his skin but he did not flinch. he wasn’t bothered, wearing his usual stoic demeanour, as he kept his gaze straight towards the door that was coming to your left. “you’re tired, small one. you should sleep.” if you had his perfect sense of hearing, you could’ve heard his strong heart beat faster ever since you laid your fingers on his face. 

he opened the door, with you still comfortably tucked into his arms before delicately setting you down on the squishy bed. you whined, now cold without the warmth of his body as you only wore that kimono that was barely holding on around your shoulders, revealing parts of your cleavage.

his eyes flickered when he heard a ruffle coming from your sheets where he had left you. he was standing on two knees beside your bed now, and you could’ve sworn he was taller than anyone you knew even when in this position. 

“gyōmei.”

“yes. what is it?”

he was always so patient with you. so composed and polite. so, was the moment right? was it right for you to continue your sentence and express these buried feelings you had felt for so long? 

“don’t you sometimes wonder...” 

hesitation drawn in your eyes– it was a good thing he couldn’t see.

“don’t you sometimes wonder what i feel like?” 

your words were followed by your hands wrapping around his wrist, slowly lifting his arm towards your face. 

he let himself be handled with apprehension and silence when he realized you were leading his hand closer and closer to your mouth. there was no resistance on his part when you moved it further, landing on your face. 

his hand was warm, scarred and calloused but it felt so soft against your skin. he was hesitant at first, all of his senses aleterted when he felt your body shiver against his touch. it was the first time he could allow himself to touch you so intimately. his hand cupped your jaw before slowly making its way towards your mouth. he pressed his thumb against your lips. it was such a comfortable gesture when he started caressing your upper lip, slightly opening your mouth with its movement. 

you couldn’t help but stare at him. the concentrated gaze he wore when he tried to memorize every inch of your lips made you nervously exhale. your hands were still wrapped around his enormous forearm as he took the lead from you.

the idea that gyōmei had of you was constructed only by the sound your voice made, by the wind caressing his face whenever you moved and by the musical chant of your laughter reaching his ears. all of it was enough for him to favour you. 

he didn’t only favour you, he longed for you. longed for more. longed for touch. he wanted to memorize the shape of your figure, the taste of your skin, the weight of your body, the sound of your moans-

he wanted to explore all of his senses with you. and maybe this time you’d be able to help him.

you couldn’t help but realize that he was completely silent when he moved his thumb past your lips without resistance. feeling your tongue and teeth was a whole new experience for him. a slight pressure applied with your teeth made him nervously inhale, but all you could hear was a deep groan when your tongue made contact with his finger.

while he inspected the interior of your mouth, you kept drawing small circles with your thumb still tightly gripping his forearm. you wanted gyōmei to feel welcome and not hesitate to feel more parts of you. 

you showed him by releasing your teeth around his thumb and sucking on it. he could feel his heartbeat all the way to his hands when you started to move your mouth. it was all so new and all so sudden, he didn’t know how to react to your invitation. he felt like losing himself. he wanted to lose control. 

you took your time, imprinting your lips around his thumb before letting him go with a sloppy pop. now that gyōmei had a taste of your saliva on him, he wanted more. as soon as you stopped, thinking he’d be too hesitant to continue, the gentle giant raised himself on one knee, leaning his whole figure on top of you and wrapping his hand around the back of your head. it was his turn to get a taste.

he started at the beginning of your neck, covering it with kisses and bites. It was slow and measured. he made sure he could remember every spot by heart before moving on to the next. his lips made you quiver as you uncontrollably let your head fall back with your eyes closed so you could get the whole experience. timid moans that he could hear so clearly hurried him to move downward to your exposed chest. 

you had never seen gyōmei like this. so imprudent. so eager to explore every single one of his senses with you without minding the consequences. he was already too deep.

when he shifted downward, you could feel his hand run across your whole body, tightly gripping and touching your shoulders, your waist, your hips. his breathing made the most sound when he opened your kimono, meticulously unwrapping the decorative obi string that kept the tissues together without even thinking about it.

gyōmei was so skilled with his hands, you had just now realized, and you too were excited to see what more he could do. under his strong and passive exterior, you knew he’d surprise you with his hunger. 

he started attacking your belly with his mouth when your upper body was naked, moving his hands further up so that he’d reach your breasts. his hands were huge when they grazed your nipples. he used one of his palms, slightly rubbing his skin against your pointy nipple. feeling a new part of you made his heart skip a beat. you were so small and frail under him. he could cup both of your boobs with one hand, but he waited. he waited patiently until a small whimper came out of your lips to play with you. 

he couldn’t hide it, the sole purpose for his next move was to hear more of these sounds you made that reassembled the most beautiful melody.

one hand firmly grasping one of your breasts provoked another sound before he rubbed his thumb on the tip of your nipple. at his touch, gyōmei could feel your body tense under him while he continued to make circles, taking care of one of your nipples, while his mouth did the work on the other. again, he was deliberately steady and torturous. with his tongue now flat against your nipple, he spread his drool around it. it was wet and sweaty and he loved it. he loved how it made you feel and loved how lucky he was to be able to explore your body like this. when his lips squeezed the tip, you reached for his head, planting your fingers on his scalp. he was immovable but it was mostly for you, so that he wouldn’t leave this perfect spot. 

when he finished working on your breasts both with his hands and mouth, he placed a last kiss under your right boob before moving his whole weight again. at the sudden stop, you lifted your upper body to have a view of his next actions and when you realized he was heading between your legs, panic settled in. 

“g-gyōmei.” half-drunk you tried calling to him. 

“it’s alright, sweet one..” 

even when he was whispering you could hear the power in his voice. you could feel his hand clutch around one of your hips and his exposed chest graze your pelvis when he lowered himself even more. one of his hands always stayed put on your chest but the other ran from your hip to your thigh. “let me rediscover myself with you.” 

and you let him. you were at a loss for words under gyōmei. even now, nothing about him was stiff. he was as tranquil as all the other times you had seen him, but something differed and you could feel it by the way he took care of you. he was lustful and stimulated. his giant figure towering over you earlier had undoubtedly made you flustered. you never expected to be so overwhelmed by all the attention he could give, but here you were, squirming under his large hands when he separated your legs. 

the mix of your sweat and body odour agitated his nose. it made him feel euphoric. he had no problem guiding himself to your naked pussy with one finger trailing along your skin to the interior of your thigh until he could feel your pussy.  when he did, his thumb played with your lips. feeling every curve by dragging his finger delicately, until he was satisfied. 

he waited a couple of seconds at your entrance before inserting his index in. feeling the wetness of your folds tightening around his finger made him flinch but he went deeper when he heard you yelp. one finger was already enough for you, you thought. it almost filled you and you couldn’t comprehend how he was so huge inside of you. 

you tried to close your legs but were unsuccessful under his strong hold. there was no way you’d be able to control your reactions now. grasping the sheets with one hand and your kimono in the other, the only thing you could try to do was hold onto something. unfortunately, gyōmei hadn’t had enough of your sweet sounds and started exploring your insides, fingering your pussy so perfectly. his hot breath against your skin only made your pussy pulsate around him more.

he felt everything around his finger, from the gummy interior to the slimy fluid that drenched his finger. without wasting any more time, he moved around which provoked a sudden cry. you couldn’t believe gyōmei was actually going there. you couldn’t believe that he was between your legs, working his way through your folds while you couldn’t do anything but stare at the silent man. 

despite his quietude, the feeling was exhilarating and he wanted more. soon enough you felt another one of his fingers enter your fleshy folds, making its way past your inner lips and joining the index, moving along with it. it made your back arch with pleasure when his fingers filled you entirely. his large digits made their way in and out in unison, searching for the spot that would make you twitch out of delight.

gyōmei took his time when he felt his fingers squeeze every time he went past that ring of muscle. he could intelligibly feel and hear the effect he had on you which made his hand clench around your thigh. 

while his fingers took care of the inside, he shifted his thumb landing perfectly on your clit. you could’ve sworn he had done this before but his eagerness made you think otherwise. he could perceive your positioning so distinctly. he knew when you closed your eyes, when you tried to silence your moans with a hand on your mouth and when you placed the other on top of his, towards your inner thigh. he could also sense that you were already so close to finishing with how he worked his way against your clit and how he had stretched you out easily with two of his fingers. 

your body tensed up as you tried to restrain yourself from completely letting go of the little control you had over your own body. thighs clenching, with your hand tightly wrapped around gyōmei’s, but he had little to no regard for your current state. 

he only wanted you to let go. but these sensations you both felt needed to last so that they’d left an imprint- so that he’d remember it.

“himejima-san.. please.” you begged when you squeezed the hand he had planted between your legs. you felt yourself so close to cumming, but the sudden switch to proper naming frustrated him and you felt him get rougher with his fingers. he knew it would cause discomfort if he tried to insert another one of his digits, so he maximized the hold he had on you. 

when gyōmei finally felt your body twitch with anticipation, he completely stopped his movement and felt moans of complaint through his ears. your head peaked up, brows connected in confusion. “h-himejima? why did you-“ 

he still wore a concentrated gaze when he took his fingers out, letting your plump pussy wrap them one last time, feeling every little inch of your walls against his skin. slimy fluid covering him and dripping out of your swollen and demanding hole.

gyōmei’s euphoric-like state sent shivers down your spine. his mouth was slightly agape like an idea had just blossomed in his mind. nevertheless, you could see that he was still captivated by the unique feeling you had procured him. his fingers were still grazing your skin when you felt a low grunt coming from the man as his breath tickled your skin once more.

you called his name once more but a sudden movement interrupted your words.

gyōmei lowered himself even more onto the bed, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in a tight hold, easily moving your lower body along with him, until his mouth faced your empty pussy. 

when he was correctly positioned, he placed a trail of kisses along your right thigh, eventually sucking on the inner part and stopping towards your swollen lips as his warm breath landed on your skin.

“please. allow me, little one.”

his next words were followed by his hungry mouth against your wet cunt as you yelped out of surprise. flustered, with both hands on your mouth, you tried and muffled the next moans that were bound to come out, but gyōmei couldn’t allow it. he couldn’t allow you to silence the noises that made him feel all kinds of ways- that made him so hard. as a result, he extended one of his arms, effortlessly grabbing onto your wrists and pulling your hands down against your chest, before he continued to devour you any further.

it was when he parted your lips with his tongue that you let out your whimpers and it was like music to his ears. his mouth extended to the outside of your cunt, so he could easily suck on your nub before going back inside with his tongue. he had a large mouth that took such good care of you.

the taste couldn’t be described. this new mix of savour and odour was heavenly. it gave gyōmei a good idea of who you were and how you felt.  he was drinking out your soft and tired movements when you pushed your pelvis against his mouth. you let a long-ish moan when he lingered on your clit, a soft touch of teeth before completely engulfing it with his lips. sucking until he felt confident enough to shift to your spit-covered lips. 

to get a better grip, he pulled your legs further so they could rest on his broad shoulders. eating you out was like a dream come true. he could taste everything he had felt with his fingers minutes earlier. it awakened his senses and brought a whole new meaning to pleasure. his olfactory glands and taste buds were so stimulated that you felt deep groans and moans vibrating against your entrance that made you flutter. to hear such a composed and collected man lose his mind over you only pulled you closer to your orgasm.

a few minutes in and he had already explored every inch of your cunt, and you finally felt yourself coming. not wanting to make a mess and way too agitated to cum on gyōmei’s mouth, you tried to voice your concerns, tangling words mixed with pretty moans.

“g-gyōmei, w-wait-” 

he hummed against you, as if to approve. as if to tell you that you had the right to release yourself upon him. 

so when you gave up on containing yourself and with gyōmei’s encouragement you let out a long yelp, cumming all over his lips.

he drank you up, tightening his grip on your thighs while he enjoyed the sweet taste of your seed on his tongue. 

he stayed stationed between your legs for a while, properly sampling this new exquisite liquid and taking his time to savour it. he exhaled loudly before parting with your cunt, pressing soft kisses over your lips.

after a while, gyōmei finally decided to pull back completely, sucking at your inner thigh’s skin and taking in a final deep breath before lifting his gaze towards your face, with your sweet cum wetting his lips. he couldn’t see the state you were in, but could guess you’d be a mess.

sweating and trying to catch your breath, you had completely relaxed your body against him. your head lazily tilting back against the pillow, you had never felt more at peace. 

your orgasm had left your cunt pulsating, but the only thing you recognized was gyōmei’s fingers rubbing against your palm.

“thank you.” 

when you had enough strength to realize that he had thanked you, the sudden gratitude startled you. you lifted your upper body with one of your arms against the sheet while the other was still tightly gripped around his hand.

“you’re thanking me? himejima, why.. why are you thanking me?”

he raised his body with ease, all the way up so that he could stand above your naked figure, facing you. 

“sweet one. you taught me how to see without my eyes.” he murmured, as he moved his hand to wrap yours entirely.

“your touch, scent and sound have changed me. I have been waiting to explore these with you.”

his confession warmed your heart and you couldn’t help but stare at his face. he was still drunk on you but he spoke genuine words that made you uncontrollably blush. a cheeky smile appeared on your smile, fully surrendering to a hypnotic whirl of happiness.

that night, after a well-deserved break, gyōmei himejima had explored and reinvented the meaning of senses with your help; when you moaned into his ears, when he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, when he tasted every part of you and when your elated scent almost brought him to tears. 

although.. he did promise you he’d need more than one lesson to perfect his technique.

© shegetsburned 2024. Please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

[daenysx]

Maybe some James potter smut since it’s his birthday? (Idk if it’s still his bday where you are but whatever)

happy birthday to the loveliest boy ever ♡

-send me drabble requests!

james potter x fem!reader, smut

James tells you he's proud of you all the time.

Every time he does it, his words leave a gentle rush of waves in your stomach. Something crawling slowly, like he's gonna ruin you. He looks at you with widened eyes, a small smile curled up on his lips, and you are dying to kiss him.

He whispers it, the first time in three days, and your fingers on the keyboard slow down. His voice sends shivers down your spine and it's a delicious feeling how he can make your mind go blank with only a few words. You press your cheek on your shoulder, a lazy attempt to get back to your senses. James takes the opportunity to kiss your exposed neck.

"Jamie," you murmur. He knows what he's doing, never clueless when it comes to you. "I have to finish this."

"You've got an entire night ahead of you, angel," he mumbles. "Can I maybe have some of your attention?"

Fuck him for being so sweet. He plays his part well to distract you, craving your attention like he's been starved for it all day.

"I can help you with your work later," he offers when you stay silent. "If you take a break with me."

James has a pair of convincing eyes and when he watches you like he needs you, you can't keep doing your work properly. You turn your face to him, recognize the vulnerable look in his face.

"Are you okay?" you ask with concern. He nods.

"Just tired," he replies. "I, um, kinda had an argument with Tom today."

Tom is one of his closest friends on the team, a person who makes his long training sessions more bearable. They don't really argue, this might even be the first time. Your brows get together with worry.

"I'm sorry, Jamie," you say, standing up and leaving your laptop.

"That's okay, we'll probably fix things tomorrow," he says. Sunshine personified, your favorite person in this world. "I just don't want to think about it now."

You take his hand, lead him to bed. It's messy with the blankets thrown over four different colored pillows. A silent practice, how you get your body tangled with his. He lifts his leg to settle it down between your thighs and you press yourself without being embarrassed at all. No need for that, he keeps telling you.

"What were you whispering?" you decide to distract him with a lazy tease. "Before you took me away from my stuff?"

"I'd say you willingly left, but the details are not important, huh?"

He gets on top of you with half of his body, looks at you with hazy eyes. Gorgeous boy.

"And I was just talking about how good you are at what you're doing," he whispers and kisses your cheek. "With that frown on your face when you're upset with it. Or with you biting your lip in pride when you got something right."

"You were watching me."

"I'm always watching you."

You kiss him and he closes his eyes. It's been a long day. He got through it somehow, but being able to relax after a day like this is not easy. Even James Potter needs to be taken care of sometimes.

His fingers are wanting, stroking your waist eagerly. The kiss lasts for a few minutes, whispers of affection lingering in the air between you. Your hands play with his hair, big waves falling in your palms as you move.

You take off your shirt. Nothing happens too fast and it's a good thing. How could he rush this when he got it after wanting so much? Desire pooling in his belly, legs shaking and James swears he could moan when you rub yourself on his thigh.

His shirt's on the floor, too. Every piece of clothing on both of you gets lost and James kisses your inner thigh.

"Get under the blankets," James tells you. "It's cold in here."

You do as he says with his help, pulling his naked body under the soft fabric with you. "I'm feeling really warm," you tell him with a sneaky smile that usually belong to his part of teasing.

"Yeah?" he asks against your collarbones. "Can you show me where?"

You take his hand and drag it slowly to your belly. He does the rest of the job and moves his fingers to your wetness. Sticky sweet under his touch, lazy and wanting. You close your eyes and let him play with you.

James has long fingers and they are thick, but he makes sure they are warm enough every time he touches you. His thumb spends a few second with your clit and he uses others to spread the wetness all over you. You lift your hips when he presses just right, his eyes are glowing with something both exhausted and excited.

"Pretty," he whispers, his fingers find a nice rhytm. It's lazy and slow, a gentle touch on your body and he feels like he belongs here. Right here on the bed, under blankets and his hand never stops touching you. He keeps moving until he has you shaking with a tender wave of shiver.

"It's not gonna end," he murmurs on the side of your neck, his lips not kissing and letting you go mad. "I promise I'll keep going."

He sounds so in love, but so tired. You don't even try to stop yourself from accepting the rush his fingers bring, it's strong and you arch your back. Pleasure has you trembling, it's delicious, and you let out a songlike breath. You want to beg him to kiss your neck, he understands your shaky breaths and finally parts his lips against your pulse point.

His fingers keep moving the way you like. You can't see his face as he's kissing your neck, sucking a little bruise there, you hold the back of his head gently to look at him. A pair of lovesick eyes, his lips are swollen and cheeks warm with desire. You can almost feel him rubbing himself on the sheets, the thought of it is enough to let go.

"James," you whisper, desperate to touch him with your free hand. He stays still. "Don't do it yourself, I wanna help. Please, oh-"

He doesn't listen. He can't. His hands are busy and he can't breathe, he needs to come undone. Adjusting his hips, he gets some stimulation from the sheets, enough to make him moan. "I'm so tired, I need to come with you. I can't- can't wait, sweetheart, I'm sorry."

"Let me touch," you say in a demanding but soft voice. "Let me help."

James listens to you this time, he knows you'll do a better job. He comes up a bit higher in bed for you to reach him, you eagerly extend your hand to feel. It's not difficult to get him right there with you, the moment before the peak. He closes his eyes and puts his head on your chest, lazily sucking on your nipple to ground himself. He's moving his hips against your hand, a big breath ready on his chest.

You come with a moan. James thinks it's the prettiest sound ever. With the rush of the moment, you move your hand faster and he follows you. Your mind goes blank, the world gets blurry. James stays on your chest, his body feels heavier now that he's relaxed. You love seeing him like this, without the anxiety his day left behind.

"Need to clean us up," he mumbles. He's half asleep. "It's uncomfy."

You smile softly. He doesn't even have the energy to blink. "Stay for a while," you tell him, your hand in his hair to fix his waves. "We can do it later."

It's tempting and James is easily convinced. Your chest is the perfect pillow, his head moves as you take calm breaths. Rubbing the tired muscle between his shoulder and neck, you urge him to fall asleep. He forgets everything other than your touch.

[starboye]

pairing: jensen ackles x male reader

request: Could i request a Jensen Ackles x Male Reader; Where the reader is the personal assistant of Jensen, and for the past few weeks, Jensen has been more angry and gets pissed off easily. When reader overhears Jensen talking about maybe finding a new assistant, he realizes that his job is at stake and doesn't want to be away from his crush, so he decides to please Jensen in anyway possible. For weeks reader works overtime to do anything for Jensen, without any change, but one night, while picking up a half-drunk Jensen, he gets to know that Jensen is going through a divorce and needs someone to meet his bedroom needs. Reader jumps at the opportunity, and "sacrifices" himself to be Jensens personal whore.

warnings: SMUT, rough sex, degradtion, face slapping, cum denial, choking if you squint, kinda cheating, breeding, unprotected sex, daddy kink, pet names, bondage if you kinda look really hard, and something else

words: 1.9k

working for mr.ackles was no easy task, between his random rage outbursts, the overwhelming work, and the back aching overtime you were doing for him it was all to much but you stuck through the job if it meant that you got to see that fine ass man every day, you'd do anything for him, waiting hands and knees for his every order like a good boy.

if we're being real sometimes you'd stay up at night fucking yourself with a dildo imagining it was jensen fucking you with his thick cock as you moaned out his name but every morning you woke up to the same reality, and it was even more nerve racking when you over heard mr.ackles talking about firing you because you had been slacking off.

so the only logical thing you could do is start working overtime hoping that would be enough, night after night you stayed after hours helping him do work and try to take some of the stress off him but that was barely working so you had to find another way to keep your job and the lord must have heard your prayers.

the night you were working and getting stuff organized for mr.ackle you got a call from the local bar saying jensen said to call you since he got to drunk to drive home, you immediately hopped in your car and drove to the bar hoping he was okay, you pull up to the bar to see jensen sitting on the curb.

"mr.ackles are you okay" you ask lifting him up "yeah im... im fine" he slurs his words a bit due to the alcohol but you nonetheless get him in the car and soon begin driving "why didn't you call your wife sir" you question glancing at him to make sure he's okay "fuck that bitch" he curses "what do you mean" you ask with eyebrows furrowed "we're going through a tough situation right now it's nothing" he says.

you wanted to be civil about it but on the inside you were dancing with joy that that bitch- i mean his wife wasn't doing so well in the relationship "and i haven't been able to get off in weeks" jensen admits in his drunken state not even realizing what he said which gives you an idea.

"well if you ever need anything i'm here for you" you softly say moving your hand to rub jensens thigh, you see a slight tent rise in his pants "mmm y/n" jensen strains, feeling your hand rub on his thigh is the most contact he's gotten from someone in weeks "yes mr.ackles" you innocently say as if you didn't plan this all in a matter of seconds "fuck" jensen mutters under his breath trying to resist the urges too have your hand wrapped around his dick.

"oh my god are you okay mr.ackles" you ask faking any concern and pulling the car over to the curb before turning attention to him "will you..." he says but is to embarrassed to get the words out so he just moves your hand closer to the tent in his pants "oh no mr.ackles i couldn't do that" you keep up your innocent facade to reel jensen in further.

"cut the shit, i see the way you look at me during work and i know you've jerked off to the thought to me fucking you open every night, and shut up with the mr.ackles shit and call me jensen now are you gonna ride my dick or not" jensen snaps at you making you almost whimper at his agression "yes sir" you say stripping down to nothing, jenson taking off his pants and underwear along with his shirt.

you straddle his lap, and take his dick into your hand, stroking it slowly as you hold eye contact with him "yeah baby just like that" jensen breaths before pulling you into messily make out, his breath reeked of booze but you pushed through, fueled with the thought of finally being able to ride your boss.

"now ride me like the good little slut you are" jensen smirks as you shakily lift over him "c'mon you gotta have lube in here somewhere" he says rummaging through you car before finding a half empty bottle of lube in your glove box "half empty, you must get fucked a lot" jensen says before putting some on his fingers and smearing it on his dick and then on your hole and throwing the bottle in the backseat.

you lower yourself onto his dick slowly making jensen more and more frustrated "come on slut i dont got all night" he says grabbing your waist to push you all the way down on his cock, you moan out loudly "now doesn't that feel so much better, my dick all nuzzled in your hole" he says, his voice slick with cockiness, you look down to see the outline of his dick in your stomach making you whimper at the sight.

"yeah that's me in you, gonna ruin you from the inside and out" jensen says with a sick smile as he poke at the bulge and begin lifting and dropping you on his length over and over "jen- fuck... jensen" you whine "what" he asks, his attention set on the way you take his cock "slow down please" you ask throwing your head back.

"come on i thought this was your fantasy, to be getting your ass split by your bosses dick, you can take it" jensen says not stopping his motion into you "it's to big" you whimper feeling it spread and hit parts of you your dildo couldn't even get "well then do it for the sake of your job, if you can ride me till i cum then you keep your job, if you don't you're fired and you don't get to taste this sweet dick ever again" jensen smirked st your now scared expression.

he was putting your job on the line, but i mean you asked for this when you made advances towards him so now you have to get him to cum to keep this job and your boss "y-yes sir" you stutter lifting yourself off his cock and lowering onto him, his hands still holding your hips for support "mhm just like that, fuck yourself on daddys dick" jensen groans.

"you take me better than my wife ever did, that whiny bitch could barely take the tip but you... you can take all of me with no problem" he says thrusting upward into you a little "thank you daddy" you whine, feeling your knees go weak as you continue riding, you move you hand to your aching dick and start jerking off.

"ah ah who said you could jerk off" jensen tuts holding your hands behind your back with his own and slapping your ass "but i need to cum" you beg "looks like im gonna have to punish your slutty ass" jensen says and you feel your heart drop to your stomach knowing he wasn't gonna be light.

jensen wraps his hand around your throat and forces you too look at him while his other hand holds your hands in place before he begins thrusting up into you, the plaps filling the car as the windows become foggy from the sweat in the car, you moan out into the car as jensen assaults your hole brutally "daddy" you moan out at every drop.

"yeah you love the way i fuck you right, wanna feel this dick every day" jensen spits out roughly as his eyes fill with lust and hunger, you nod at his question "mhm" you whimper lowly tightening your hole around him "want my kids deep in your stomach huh" jensen asks "wanna make me a new daddy, walk around my house filled and good" and you moan at the mere thought of you getting fucked by him every day.

"yes daddy please fill me up with your cum, i want you in me all the time" you moan "im gonna fucking ruin your ass and make it all sloppy so no other guy can fuck you" jensen says through gritted teeth, and just right there you cum all over his chest, you look down at him with fear written in your eyes "please daddy im so so sorry i didn't mean to cum" you try to apologize but its to late "cumming when i didn't say you could, not only are you a whore but you're a disobedient whore" jensen says with a smirk.

jensen moves his hand from your throat and your head drops as his hand moves to slap your ass "count how many times i slap your ass okay" jensen says and you nod without a single thought in your mind from being fucked dumb, one slap on your ass "one" you weakly say and another "two and another "three" and another till you couldn't even remember what number you were on "which one was that y/n" jensen asks still fucking into your sloppy hole "five" you answer "wrong answer" he says and you could feel him go harder.

"so fucking dumb all over my dick, not a single thought behind those eyes you just wanna please me" jensen says noticing you almost faint "hey stay with awake we're not done yet" jensen says slapping you and grabbing you by the chin to lift your head, you couldn't even make out what was happening, everything was molding together and words were just sound in the back of your mind.

jensen had been abusing your hole for about an hour now and you were just praying that he'd cum and give you some rest, your eyes were rolling to the back of your head as he fucked you up, you tried to speak but the words would just be babbles "speak clearly for me baby" jensen would taunt watching you get dumber and dumber.

"you want daddy to cum in you, fill you up with his big dick" jensen asks in a teasing voice, you nod desperately at the question "okay then" jensen says taking his other hands from around your wrists and moving it to hold you waist still, he fucks up into you roughly making you see stars at this point, you couldn't even make out what was real or just apart of your imagination.

but that didn't matter as you felt the sweet feeling of relief wash over you as jensen came in you, you could feel your stomach getting more full as his cumm filled you "yeah take it take it all" jensen grunts still fucking you to ride out his high and push his cum further in you "does this mean i keep my job daddy" you ask weakly "yeah i gotta keep you around for this good hole" jensen mutters lifting you off his messy dick, the cum dripping from your loose hole.

jensen put you in the backseat and get in the drivers seat and drove you to the office because he didn't know where you lived and when he tried to ask you you'd reply with some unknown whines, you woke up to the sight of jensen working at his desk and you were in his over sized clothes "go home and wash up then come right back" jensen demanded like he didn't fuck you unconscious last night, but trust after that day you were his cum dump, he dumped load after load into you, and when he was mad you knew you were gonna get some good dick that day.

taglist: @mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat

[gojodickbig]

patching up neighbor!toji after he went on a shitty mission

conts: fluff.

wc: 1,9k.

divider from @uzmacchiato !!

the room was quiet, except for the faint hiss of toji’s breathing and the rustle of bandages as you worked. the smell of antiseptic filled the dimly lit room as you knelt in front of toji, his shirt somewhere on the floor, and his bare torso revealing a nasty gash along his side. his sharp eyes followed your every move, a flicker of amusement dancing in them despite the grim situation. he had been complaining ever since you started patching him up—about the bandages being too tight, the antiseptic being too cold, and how “unnecessary” this whole thing was. but you had long since learned that his grumbling didn’t mean much. he was always like this when you had to deal with him— always too proud, always too stubborn.

"if you don’t want my help patching you up, then why did you come here?” you asked, your patience wearing thin. his attitude was getting on your nerves.

“i just needed a place to crash for a moment. i couldn’t go into my apartment like this—my kid’s there,” he replied, his voice low and lazy. “i can patch myself up, y’know.”

“yeah, sure, like you wouldn’t have just slapped some duct tape on it and called it a day,” you shot back, glaring at him. “stay still,” you snapped, pressing a soaked cloth to his wound. He winced but didn’t flinch. “you’re lucky this didn’t hit anything vital. what were you even thinking?!” you paused. “this is why you keep getting hurt, toji. you’re reckless.”

“luck’s my middle name.” he chuckled at his own joke, a deep, gravelly sound that made your stomach twist in a way you tried to ignore. “and besides, reckless gets the job done, sweetheart, and i’m literally still breathing, aren’t i?”

“yeah, barely.” you ignored his pathetic attempt at humor and grabbed another strip of bandage, your hands moving quickly but carefully.

“thought i’d be fine, like always,” he replied with a shrug that made the bandages in your hand tremble. “told you, sweetheart, i don’t die that easy.”

you glared at him. “you can’t keep living like this. one of these days, you’re not going to walk away.” you huffed, rolling your eyes. “you’d be in a morgue if i wasn’t here. now stop acting invincible and stop moving.”

“is that what this is about?” he smirked, his head tilting. “you worried about me?”

you sighed, pressing the gauze against his side a little harder than necessary. “you make it impossible not to, showing up at my door in the middle of the night like this.” his cocky tone pricked your nerves, but the anger fizzled quickly under the weight of your own concern. “and someone has to worry about you. you clearly don’t.”

that wiped the smirk off his face, replaced by something quieter. your hands brushed his skin, and his muscles tensed under your touch.

“you’re too soft, you know,” he said after a moment, his voice dropping. “patching up someone like me when you should just ignore me.”

“you’re like a stray cat. you keep showing up whenever you’re in trouble. it’s not that easy to ignore you.”

he laughed at that, though the sound was rough and dry. “a cat, huh? thought you’d pick something tougher.”

“tough things don’t need saving,” you said simply, standing to grab another roll of bandages.

his grin faded, and for a moment, the room felt heavier. “and you think i do?” he raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes.

you paused, glancing at him. “if you didn’t, you wouldn’t keep coming back.”

his eyes lingered on you, unreadable as always, before he leaned back in his chair.

“you’re a strange one,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “most people know better than to get involved with me.”

“most people don’t live next door, and they don’t show up at my apartment in the middle of the night like this,” you replied, starting to wrap the bandage around his torso again.

he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “bad luck for you, then.”

your eyes shot up to his face, ready to argue, but the teasing edge in his voice was gone.

there was a slight silence between the two of you before he decided to speak again. “you’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

“you’ve got a funny way of showing gratitude,” you muttered, looking up at him.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he paused, running a hand through his messy black hair. “i meant,” he continued, his voice quieter, “you’re the only one who bothers. everyone else knows better.”

“knows better?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“they know i’m not worth it,” he replied, his tone quiet but still laced with that same cocky edge.

you froze, startled by the admission. toji fushiguro, the unshakable rogue, didn’t flinch at death, but here he was, baring something close to vulnerability.

“maybe you are worth it,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself.

he barked out a laugh, though it lacked its usual bite. “that’s cute. you think you can fix me?”

“who said i’m trying to fix you?” you shot back, your tone firm. “maybe i just care, toji. ever think of that?”

his smirk deepened, though his eyes softened slightly. “care, huh? that’s a dangerous thing, sweetheart.”

“why?” you asked, your voice quieter. “you can move now.”

he leaned forward, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “because when people care, they don’t think straight. they do stupid things.” his gaze dropped to the bandage, then back to you. “you’re already doing one by sticking around me.”

“then why do you let me?” you countered, your heart hammering. “why do you keep knocking at my door when you’re like this? why do you keep showing up when you’re hurt? if you don’t want me near you, then why is it always you who comes near me first?”

for the first time, toji didn’t have a quick answer. he let out a dry laugh. “i don’t know. i really don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “maybe i’m just selfish,” he muttered. “guess i like knowing someone’s dumb enough to stick around.”

you raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “that’s the closest thing to a thank you i’ll get, isn’t it?”

“don’t push your luck,” he said, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “i’m not the guy you want looking out for you.”

"maybe not,” you replied, standing and crossing your arms. “but i’m not going anywhere. deal with it.”

his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between you. “you’re for real a pain in the ass.”

“you keep saying that,” you looked at him with a teasing smile, “and yet, you keep coming here.”

he paused for a moment, looking at you with that familiar, unreadable expression. “yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice soft. then, he stood, grabbing his discarded shirt from the floor. “have a good night, sweetheart.”

with that, he gave you one last glance and walked out the door.

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[planet-dusk]

🏷️ lee minho x fem!reader. cw ; stepbrother!minho, perv!minho, dubcon, yandere themes, degradation, name calling: slut, pet names: bunny ( 444 w. )

minors dni. for mature audiences only !

there's many things minho can't stand. nosy people, cheap beer, his middle-aged boss wasting his time with another pointless request. but the worst of them all? it's the one thought that threatens to consume him whole whenever he hears you slip out of the house, scantily clad in the tiniest fucking dress he's ever laid his eyes on: the thought of anyone else touching you, his pretty little sister. of anyone touching what's his.

it's all your fault anyway. you turned him into this, made him obsessed with every inch of you until he could no longer keep his hands to himself. he had to have you. just once.

just once turned into twice, twice turned into endless forevers. you're his and his only, he's made sure of that: fucks you stupid on his fat cock whenever he gets the chance, adorable pouty protests long since gone and replaced with the sweetest moans he's ever dreamed of.

he's got his teeth on your shoulder, bites down just hard enough to make you shudder. minho has to hold himself back from drawing blood, from claiming you for anyone to see, including your parents. ever the concerned older brother, he'll keep you safe forever like he's promised himself. even if you'll beg him to let you go. after all he's the one who taught you how to beg.

you're tight and wet around him, perfect fucking pussy sucking him in with every thrust. he loves watching your nose scrunch and your eyelids flutter whenever he hits the spot just right. after hours of practice your body has become as familiar to him as his own.

"i can't believe it was this easy." it shouldn't have been this easy. you stare up at him in confusion. his adorable, pretty, dumb little bunny.

minho shakes his head. "all i had to do was fuck you a couple times and you come running to me," he chuckles, "'t was only a matter of time."

you're not looking at him now, embarrassed gaze downcast and pointed somewhere at his chest. "like a fucking slut," he adds, and laughs when you shudder again.

"my sweet little bun." he nips at your earlobe and forces his cock deeper, knowing you're close. "there's no hiding from me. i know you better than anyone, you know that, right?"

you don't answer, and minho grabs your chin to force you to look at him. "i know you need this, it's okay. tell me how much you hate me. how much my touch disgusts you,"

"say it," he orders, and he thinks he might burst into flames when you don't hesitate.

"i'm yours, minho, all yours."

© planet-dusk do not copy, translate or repost my works.