#DID THAT THAT WHAT YOU DID MATTERED THAT IT MEANT SOMETHING AND IT MADE A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[amexizlov]

TWST characters reaction when your mental state getting more worse after every Overblot Incidents (Housewardens version)

Vices Housewarden version

1st years version

2nd years (except Vice Housewarden) version

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle thought he could rationalize it — he told himself rules were meant to be upheld, order must be kept.

But when he saw ___ flinch ever so slightly at his raised voice, or how they stood stiffly during Heartslabyul meetings, he realized the damage was deeper than he wanted to admit.

Late at night, alone in his room, Riddle gripped the edge of his desk, trembling.

“I… I was supposed to be better. I promised myself I wouldn’t become like my mother… Yet I hurt them too, didn’t I?”

No matter how much he tried to follow the rules, he had already broken something far more fragile - ___’s trust.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was never good at apologies, but the guilt gnawed at him all the same.

He saw the way ___ avoided the Savannaclaw training grounds now, or how they tensed whenever he got too close.

During one practice match, he spotted ___ sitting alone by the fence, blank-eyed, and something ugly twisted in his gut.

“Tch… All that power, all that pride — and what did I do with it? Scared the one person who actually believed in me.”

Leona would never say it out loud, but he started approaching you more carefully — voice lower, posture softer — silently begging for forgiveness he thought he didn’t deserve.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul’s guilt was poisonous.

Every time he saw ___’s weary eyes, or how they hesitated to set foot in Mostro Lounge, he felt the walls closing in.

In the mirror, he barely recognized himself — just a coward who made pacts with people desperate for help.

“I promised myself I was different from them… that I was better. But in the end, I used ___ like everyone else did.”

He started leaving quiet gifts — a favorite pastry here, a carefully written apology letter there — too afraid to face ___ directly, yet desperate to show he cared.

Kalim Al-Asim

Even though Kalim hadn’t Overblotted, the sadness weighed on him like a heavy chain.

He noticed how ___ laughed less now, how they flinched at sudden movements, how they looked haunted.

Kalim sat alone on his flying carpet one evening, watching the sunset with glassy eyes.

“I couldn’t protect them. I didn’t even realize how bad things were… And because of Scarabia’s chaos, they got hurt too.”

He swore to himself — no more reckless smiles, no more naive ignorance. He had to be there for ___ properly now — to listen, to understand, to stay.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil saw it in the mirror of your soul — the exhaustion, the deep hurt he had helped carve into you.

When he caught you hastily covering up dark circles or forcing a smile in the hallways, his heart sank.

He locked himself in his dressing room after a shoot, staring at his reflection.

“Perfection means nothing if I’ve made someone I care for feel so worthless.”

He began treating you more gently, offering genuine compliments instead of critiques, allowing your raw emotions rather than demanding polish.

A silent vow: “I will help you rebuild yourself… because I was the one who helped tear you down.”

Idia Shroud

Idia knew better than anyone how fast a mind could spiral into darkness.

When he Overblotted, he thought he was the only broken one — he never imagined he would drag ___ down too.

Now, he caught glimpses of them — standing alone, shadows swallowing their figure — and it felt like knives under his skin.

“I did this… I made them afraid of the world. Afraid of me.”

Idia retreated into his room, building small games, holograms, and gentle distractions, hoping maybe — just maybe — he could give ___ some tiny fragments of happiness back.

He left them anonymously at their door. Never brave enough to face them yet… but never abandoning them either

Malleus Draconia

Malleus felt the weight heavier than any crown.

He hadn’t meant to frighten ___. He only wanted to be understood, to be loved… but in his rage and loneliness, he had unleashed terror upon the very one he cherished most.

When he saw ___ shrink away from lightning or loud noises, his ancient heart cracked further.

“I have become the very nightmare I once vowed to protect them from.”

He began visiting only in dreams at first — appearing softly at the edge of your sleep, casting blessings of peace and safety.

Every day, awake or asleep, he prayed silently: “Let them find it in their heart to forgive me… even if I can never forgive myself.”

[larluce]

Ooooh, I love this!

Well, first I would justify WHY Merlin got pregnant. I know mpreg generally doesn't care about logic, but I personally prefer it when fics don't use the excuse "Merlin has magic" as the only explanation for being able to bare children.

So in my mind, the story would go like this: Arthur discovers Merlin's magic and they’ve been distanced from one another since then. Merlin still serves Arthur, but there's no banter between them anymore. For once Merlin acts like the perfect servant, just does as he's told and speaks when asked. And Arthur hates it.

Arthur is still hurting for the lies and the betrayal, but he also misses Merlin deeply. Arthur is so distraught, he ends up getting drunk in a tavern like he never did before and Merlin is the one who has to get him out of there. Due to this they have a heart to heart conversation. There are yells, there are tears and finally forgiveness. Their relationship begins to heal from then, slowly but surely.

Is in the process of healing when that night happens. They made it a rutine to speak alone at night in Arthur's chambers to talk things through, the good and the bad of the things Merlin has done. They always had a bit of wine to endure heavy conversations, but that night they drink a bit too much, so it happens. First a kiss, then 2 kisses, and then suddenly, their clothes are gone and they are making love. The next day, when they wake up naked next to each other in Arthur's bed, they decide to act like nothing happened.

What they didn't know, is that that night was a special one, when the planets aligned with the full moon. The druids from more than one comunnity were doing a ritual, praying to the goddess of fertility and to Emrys, the god of magic itself, that magic may be reborn in Camelot again and flourish.

And that’s how Merlin ended up pregnant with Arthur's baby.

So yes, when Merlin first tells Arthur, he doesn't react well due to that talk he had with his father about what happened to his mother, distrusting Merlin again, but also because they hadn't completely restore their relationship by that point.

Merlin is hurt that Arthur thinks he planned this, that Merlin tricked him into getting him pregnant. He doesn’t even know how it happened! But no matter what he says, Arthur doesn’t believe him.

Merlin thought they were making progress, but it seems he was wrong. His word, his loyalty to Arthur, everything he's done meant nothing to his prince after all. And this knowlegde destroys him.

So Merlin decides to do something drastic: abort. He prepares himself the potion to do it and with tears in his eyes he drinks it.

When Arthur goes to Gaius's chambers to look for Merlin after realising how cruel he had been for accussing Merlin of something so horrible, he finds the worst image he could have seen: Merlin lying on the floor, unconcious and with a growing stain of blood between his legs. Arthur loses it, picks Merlin up and calls for help, desperate. Gaius, fortunately, arrives in time and treats Merlin the best he can and stables him. When Gaius figures out what Merlin tried to do and tells Arthur, the prince can't feel more guilty and devasted.

Arthur: (tears rolling down his eyes, holding Merlin's hand while he lies still unconcious on bed) The baby... Is the baby...?

Gaius: Merlin may have wanted to abort, but his magic didn't. It protected the baby, so it's still alive, but...

Arthur: What?

Gaius: Now his pregnancy is more delicate than ever. Merlin will have to stay in bed and do minimal effort during all his pregnancy and...(his voice breaks) he might not survive childbirth.

Arthur: (breaks down crying)

Merlin: (opens his eyes weakly) Arthur.

Arthur: Merlin! (Leans and holds his hand more tightly)

Merlin: (smiles weakly) It’s okay, Arthur. I got rid of it. You won't have to worry about it anymore.

Arthur: (cries harder)

Arthur apologises over and over again and of course Merlin forgives him, because is Merlin, but the damage is done that's something Arthur will never forgive himself.

Time passes. Arthur visits Merlin everyday during his pregnancy and takes care of him. As Merlin's belly grows, so does his hapiness, but also his fear. He loves this baby with all his being already and the idea of being a father, but the possibility of losing Merlin during childbirth is terrifying. He can't lose Merlin. Is this how his father felt when his mother was pregnant with him?

Is when he compares himself to his father that Arthur realises he loves Merlin. He's been in love with his manservant this whole time. Arthur never felt more stupid.

Then. I don't know. I guess Uther would find out at some point and try to kill Merlin and "that evil creature" he has on his belly. And chaos would ensue.

I saw this meme and the first thing that came to my mind was that I need a fanfic based on this meme. Not just an casual Mpreg merthur story but one were Uther has an actual serious talk about dangers of magic with Arthur and as a example he tells the story of how he's mother got pregnant and died because of magic. He's warns Arthur so that he won't make a similar mistake of trusting magic just like in the meme AND then few weeks later he discovers that he got his manservant pregnant because of one time fucking they did when drunk and went to pretending they were just friends. Imagine the consequences omg.

Like Artur feeling betrayed by Merlin, realising he disappointed his father, Merlin being scared for his life, being accused of tricking Arthur and getting pregnant because of his evil sorcerer plan, hiding it from everyone, not knowing that he could actually get pregnant in the first place he is horrified.

I think it would be interesting if Arthur knew that Merlin has magic before it, fully trusting that he is a goodhearted person, keeping his secret safe. Then he has that talk with Uther and after that Merlin tell him about the pregnancy and Arthur's mind goes back to this talk. He 'realises' that he had been tricked by a sorcerer and Merlin beags him, swears this was an accident.

The potential for heavy angst is immaculate...

[angelholic1]

Jealousy ⋆˙⟡

⤷ Your boyfriend and a news reporter come off as close and he doesn't think it's a problem

pairing : sae itoshi x fem reader 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ

warning(s) : ooc? not edited, angst? a bit of smut, slight dubcon?

You sat on the bed, legs tucked to your chest, back pressed hard against the cold wall like it could shield you from the heavy ache gnawing at your stomach. The house was silent except for the occasional tick of the clock. Every second Sae wasn’t here made your mind spiral worse.

You'd seen it, the video spreading online. The reporter had been shameless, practically clinging to him during the interview, smiling too brightly, too intimately. and Sae... Sae hadn’t exactly stopped her. He hadn't done anything inappropriate, you knew that but he hadn't pushed her away either.

The sound of keys in the door snapped you out of your thoughts. Your whole body tensed.

Sae stepped inside, kicking his shoes off carelessly, tossing his gym bag by the door like he always did. His hair was messy, his jacket slung lazily over one shoulder, but his eyes, his sharp teal eyes went straight to you.

He stared for a long second, taking in your stiff posture, the way you refused to meet his gaze.

"Tch," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "You’re still pissed. Over that?"

You said nothing because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure what would come out. Anger, hurt, or something regretful.

Sae sighed, moving closer until he stood right at the edge of the bed. "It was an interview," he said flatly. "It’s her job. I didn’t even look at her."

You swallowed thickly, nails digging crescents into your palms. "Could’ve fooled me," you muttered under your breath.

The words hit their mark.

Sae’s jaw clenched. He dropped his jacket onto the floor and stepped between your curled-up legs without warning, caging you in against the wall. His hands planted on either side of your head.

"You’re overreacting," he said, voice low, almost cold. 

"You don’t trust me?"

You jerked your chin away, refusing to look at him.

For a second, it was dead silent between you, a thick, suffocating pause.

Then, Sae grabbed your chin, not rough but firm, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"I don't give a damn about anyone else," he said. His thumb brushed slowly across your bottom lip. "Only you."

Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

You tried to pull back, tried to turn your face away again but Sae followed you, leaning in closer, closer, until his forehead brushed yours.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't soft. It wasn’t tender. It was a kiss meant to overwhelm,  slow, deliberate, forcing you to feel him, to taste him. You whined in protest, trying to twist your head away, but Sae’s hand cradled the back of your neck, keeping you pinned against him.

He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding past your parted lips, ignoring the way your hands weakly pushed at his chest.

You didn’t want this. You didn’t. Not like this, not when you were still furious, still hurt.

But Sae kissed you like he could erase all of it, the anger, the doubt, the ugly jealousy eating you alive.

Your body betrayed you first. your hands stopped pushing and started clutching at his shirt, clinging without even realizing it.

When he felt your grip tighten, something low and satisfied rumbled from his chest. Sae pushed you back against the bed, following you down without breaking the kiss, his weight heavy and grounding on top of you.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your lips, voice rough. "Doesn’t matter who looks. You’re the only one I want. I promise"

You whimpered softly, the last of your resistance crumbling under the heat of his mouth, the press of his hips against yours.

He kissed you harder then biting at your lower lip until you gasped, then sliding his tongue back into your mouth like he owned it, like he owned you.

One hand slipped under your shirt, skimming hot up your ribs, making you shiver against him. You turned your head to the side, trying to catch your breath but Sae just kissed down your jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin there, breathing hard.

"You can be mad all you want," he muttered, voice dark and wrecked. "Still gonna remind you who you belong to."

Your thighs parted before you even realized it, letting him settle between them.

You hated yourself for how easily you melted, for how much you needed him even when you wanted to slap him, scream at him.

But Sae just kept kissing you, deeper, rougher. until you stopped thinking at all, lost in the way he touched you, the way he claimed you like no one else ever could.Your back arched instinctively as Sae's hand slid higher under your shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just under your breast. His mouth was relentless trailing wet, bruising kisses down your neck, sucking a mark into your collarbone.

You whined, a soft pathetic sound you tried to swallow down.

He heard it anyway. He always heard everything.

"You don’t sound so mad now, just say you forgive me" Sae muttered against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His hand finally pushed your shirt up past your ribs, bunching the fabric high enough to expose your chest to the cool air.

You tried to twist away, shame prickling at the edges of your mind but Sae was faster. His body pinned yours down, his knee sliding between your thighs, spreading you open.

"You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?" he murmured.

You hated the way your body reacted, the way your hips bucked up slightly against him, searching for friction you didn’t want to admit you needed.

His mouth found your breast, tongue flicking lazily over your nipple before he closed his lips around it, sucking just hard enough to make your whole body jolt.

Your fingers tangled helplessly in his hair, tugging, not to pull him closer, but not really trying to push him away either.

Sae laughed low in his throat, a rough, dangerous sound. "You keep fighting, but you’re dripping," he said, voice dark with amusement. "You want me to stop? Huh?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, throat tight. You should say yes. You should shove him off. You should hold onto your anger.

But when his hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your thin shorts  you whimpered again, pressing into his touch without even meaning to.

Sae grinned against your skin.

"That's what I thought, can’t even speak, huh? " he whispered.

His fingers worked you expertly, teasing, rubbing slow circles that had your thighs shaking around him. Your hands clawed at his jacket, pulling him closer, desperate and embarrassed all at once.

When he slipped his hand inside your shorts, skin to skin, you gasped loudly, back arching.

"I shouldn’t even be giving you anything for how you’re acting," he said, almost in awe, like it physically pained him to hold back.

He kissed you again, not sweet, not gentle, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough. You whimpered against his mouth, hips grinding helplessly into his hand.

"Say it," he muttered, nipping at your lips. "Tell me you’re sorry."

You shook your head weakly, still clinging to that last scrap of stubborn pride.

Sae slid two fingers inside you without warning, making you choke on a cry. He swallowed it with another bruising kiss, thrusting his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right until you were squirming underneath him, clenching around him.

"Say it," he ordered again, voice rough, possessive.

You bit your lip hard, trying to hold it in but when his thumb brushed your clit and he fucked his fingers into you faster, your body betrayed you.

"I—I'm s-sorry," you gasped out, tears burning the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. "Sae—!"

That was all he needed.

He pulled his fingers out, dragging your shorts and panties fully down, roughly, discarding them onto the floor.

You barely had time to breathe before he was freeing himself from his sweats, shoving them down just enough.

He lined himself up, pressing the thick head of his cock against your dripping entrance. You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

Sae paused just for a second  forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy.

"I’ll go slow," he rasped, voice strained. "I’ll take care of you. Even if you’re mad."

And then he pushed inside, slow, deep, stretching you inch by inch until you were gasping against his mouth.

He stayed buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, kissing your temple, your cheeks, your lips soft and rough all at once, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to wreck you or worship you.

"I don’t want anyone else," he said, hips grinding slow and deep. "I'm yours, you're mine."

And as much as you hated him in that moment hated how easy it was for him to tear down at you and your emotions, you clung to him, sobbing his name, letting him fuck every last bit of anger out of you.

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong pt. 2

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you fix everything

warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and drinking

a/n: i also made another ending where she moves on with oscar :) bc cheating is NOT OKAY!!!

prev || alt ending

the knock on your hotel room door is quieter this time—deliberate. you know who it is before you even open it.

lando stands there, his shoulders slumped, looking smaller than usual. his hair is still wild, like he hasn't slept properly, his eyes red and puffy from a long night of regret. he looks like a man who knows he’s lost something precious, and doesn’t know how to get it back.

he meets your gaze with a softness you haven’t seen in days, maybe weeks. the guilt is evident in the way his eyes flicker down to your hands, clenched at your sides. he opens his mouth to speak but falters, struggling to find the right words. he looks like he's barely holding it together.

“please,” he says finally, his voice low and shaky. “can we just… talk?”

you stand there, still as stone. every part of you wants to slam the door in his face, but there's something in his expression—something you can’t ignore. something that, despite everything, still makes you ache for him.

you step back, just a little, and let him in.

he closes the door softly behind him. the silence between you is suffocating. the room feels too small for all the words neither of you know how to say.

after a few moments, he speaks again, his voice hoarse.

“i fucked up,” lando says, not looking at you but staring down at his hands. “i shouldn’t have kissed her. i shouldn’t have even been in that position. i was drunk, but that’s no excuse. it was a mistake.”

you hold your ground, crossing your arms over your chest. “you kissed her like you meant it, lando. you didn’t stop, didn’t even care to look around. it was more than just a mistake.”

his head snaps up at that, eyes wide and frantic. “i didn’t see you. i didn’t know you were there. i wasn’t even thinking about you in that moment. but that’s not… that’s not the excuse, i know.” his voice cracks on the last part, and he takes a step toward you. “i didn’t want to hurt you. god, i never wanted to hurt you.”

“then why did you do it?” the words come out sharper than you intended, the frustration spilling over. “if it wasn’t about her, then why did you kiss her at all? why wasn’t i enough?”

lando winces like you’ve slapped him, and for a moment, it almost feels like he’s not even there—just a stranger who’s been caught in his own lie. but then he steps closer, desperation in his eyes.

“i don’t know. i really don’t. i just… i was overwhelmed, okay? the win, the pressure, everything happening so fast… i lost myself in it. i thought it was all just some dumb distraction.” he shakes his head, voice barely a whisper now. “but when i saw you there, i saw you and it… it was like the world stopped. i realized what i’d done. and i just—fuck, i don’t know how to fix it. i don’t know how to fix what i broke.”

you’re silent for a moment. the pain is so deep it feels like it’s suffocating you, and yet you can see the raw sincerity in his eyes. you want to believe him. you want to reach for him and feel the way you used to, but the ache inside of you is too loud.

“why didn’t you reach out to me sooner?” you ask, voice quieter now, the edge of anger giving way to hurt. “i waited for you, lando. i was here, hoping… waiting. but you were too busy with everything else. you didn’t even think about me. and then, last night? that was the final straw. you didn’t just forget me, you replaced me. and i don’t know if i can come back from that.”

the words sting, but it’s the truth, and as much as you don’t want to say them, you need to. you need him to hear how much this has cut you, how much it’s hurt to watch him so easily slip into someone else’s arms when you thought you were the one who mattered most.

“i don’t want to replace you,” he says urgently, his voice breaking. “i never wanted that. and i know i’ve been selfish, distant, and it’s not fair to you. you’ve always been there for me, and i’ve taken that for granted. i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

he takes another step toward you, and this time, you don’t move away. you just stand there, eyes locked with his.

“i don’t know if i can forgive you right now,” you admit, and his face falls, but you don’t look away. “but i’m willing to try. i need you to show me that i matter. that we matter. i can’t just go back to the way things were before. you can’t just say sorry and expect it to fix everything.”

lando nods, his lips trembling slightly. “i’ll do whatever it takes. i’ll make it right. i’ll prove to you that you matter. that we matter. i can’t promise i won’t mess up again, but i can promise i’ll fight for us.”

you take a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle between you. the tension is still thick, but there’s something else now, too—a fragile thread of hope.

“i’m not sure how we get back to where we were,” you say softly. “but i’m willing to try too.”

lando looks at you, eyes searching for any hint of doubt, and then he nods. “we’ll figure it out. together. i’ll make sure you know you’re the only one i want.”

the silence between you both is different now. it’s still heavy, but there’s an understanding, an unspoken promise that things won’t be easy, but maybe—just maybe—they can make it through this.

and as he steps closer, hesitating just for a moment, you feel your walls start to crack.

when he reaches for you, it’s gentle, almost hesitant. but when your arms wrap around him, when you bury your face in his chest, you feel it. that spark—the one that’s always been there. and maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of rebuilding what was broken.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @oddends, @mimisweetz, @theselilwonders, @superlegend216, @shigarika, @executioner-s, @fastandcurious16, @landofotographyy, @star73807-blog, @staple-your-mouth, @milkysoop, @ashopeworld, @ilovemeni, @shininfate, (i hope i got everyone!)

[pankowcrumbs]

You Owe Me, Sweetheart X Eddie Munson

18+

Plot: Eddie helps you and now you owe him a favour of his choice.

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

I’d been standing at the edge of the car park for a good five minutes, clutching my books to my chest like they might somehow shield me from the situation I’d stupidly landed myself in.

The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across Hawkins High. Most people had cleared out already, the corridors quieting down to a dull hum.

And there he was Eddie Munson. Perched on the bonnet of his van like he didn’t have a care in the world, cigarette dangling from his lips, boots scuffed, a battered notebook balanced on his knee.

Everyone knew Eddie’s reputation. The Freak. The Dealer. The Outcast.

But that wasn’t what I saw.

I saw the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he played guitar with a kind of raw passion that made my heart stutter, the way he spoke like he meant every word, no matter how outrageous.

And God, I saw the way his rings glinted on his fingers big, strong hands, veined arms poking out of a torn Hellfire Club shirt.

I’d had a crush on Eddie Munson for longer than I cared to admit.

And now, thanks to a frankly horrific twist of fate involving a botched science project, a missing lab partner, and an unforgiving deadline, I needed him.

I shifted from foot to foot, anxiety gnawing at my gut.

He hadn’t noticed me yet or if he had, he was doing a bloody good job of pretending otherwise.

I could still back out. I could still turn around, figure something else out.

But then his head lifted, slow and deliberate, and his dark eyes locked onto mine.

A smirk tugged at his mouth, cocky and knowing.

Like he could read every panicked thought racing through my brain.

"Well, well," he drawled, flicking the cigarette away with a casual snap of his fingers. "If it isn't little Miss Good Girl herself."

I flushed, heat crawling up my neck.

"I..." I cleared my throat, hating how wobbly it sounded. "I need your help."

He leaned back on his hands, stretching out long legs, rings catching the last bit of sunlight. He looked so at ease it made me dizzy.

"If you need somethin’, darlin’," he said, voice slow and syrupy, "all you gotta do is ask."

My knees nearly gave out.

The way he said it rough, teasing, commanding like it wasn’t even a question but a foregone conclusion.

I squeezed my books tighter.

"It’s for the science fair," I rushed out, words tripping over themselves. "My partner bailed on me and I heard you’re good with electronics and I just..."

He raised an eyebrow, cutting off my nervous rambling with a lazy grin.

"You want me to help you build your project?"

I nodded, cheeks burning.

He tapped his chin, pretending to consider. "Hmm. What’s in it for me?"

I blinked, panic spiking. "I could pay you?"

He chuckled, a low rumble that did wicked things to my insides.

"Don’t want your money, sweetheart," he said. "Tell you what. You owe me a favour."

"A favour?"

"Yeah." His grin widened. "Could be anything. A ride somewhere. Help with homework. Carrying my gear. Whatever I feel like cashin' in."

The way he said it casual, almost lazy made my heart skip a traitorous beat.

I should have been wary. I should have said no.

But instead, I found myself nodding.

"Alright," I whispered. "A favour."

His eyes lit up, mischief and something darker flickering behind them.

"Deal," he said, hopping off the bonnet with a thud. He sauntered towards me, stopping way too close, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of smoke and leather clinging to him.

"Lead the way, princess," he murmured, voice curling around my brain like smoke. "Let’s get to work."

Eddie’s van was a mess papers, guitar picks, cassette tapes everywhere but somehow it suited him.

He insisted on blasting Black Sabbath as he soldered wires together, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, muscles flexing under his ratty T-shirt.

I sat on the floor, trying not to stare, trying not to let my mind wander.

It was hopeless.

Every time he made a snarky comment, every time he shot me a grin over his shoulder, every time he brushed past me, my heart threatened to break free of my ribs.

I was utterly, pathetically, hopelessly infatuated.

And he knew it.

I caught him smirking to himself more than once, like he could feel the tension crackling between us, like he was revelling in it.

At one point, he crouched down beside me to explain a connection, our knees bumping.

He pointed to the circuit board, his hand brushing mine, slow and deliberate.

"You’re shaking, sweetheart," he murmured, voice practically sinful. "You nervous? I don’t bite."

Not unless you ask me to, I thought wildly, biting the inside of my cheek.

"I’m fine," I squeaked instead.

He chuckled, dark and delighted.

"Liar."

By the time we finished, it was nearly dark.

The project looked... incredible. Way better than anything I could have pulled off alone.

I stared at it in awe, hands trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline.

Eddie stood back, arms crossed, watching me.

"So," he said. "Was I worth the risk?"

I blinked up at him.

"What?"

He shrugged, casual. "You didn’t want to ask me, right? Thought I’d laugh in your face. Tell you to piss off."

I swallowed hard. "I never thought you were a freak."

His eyes softened, just a fraction, and my chest squeezed.

"Yeah?" he said, voice almost gentle.

I nodded. "Yeah."

For a moment, the air between us felt heavy, charged.

He took a step closer, eyes never leaving mine.

"You ever need anything again, darlin’," he murmured, voice low and rough, "you come to me. Understand?"

I nodded again, helpless.

"Good girl," he said, and the praise hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath.

Before I could recover, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Then he stepped back, smirking.

"I’ll be cashin’ in that favour soon, sweetheart," he said, backing towards his van. "Don’t you forget it."

I watched him drive away, heart hammering against my ribs, knees weak.

And I knew deep in my bones that whatever favour Eddie Munson wanted, I was absolutely, hopelessly doomed to say yes.

It had been three days since Eddie Munson helped me with my science project. Three days of me replaying every word, every smirk, every brush of his fingers through my hair like some hopeless sap.

And three days of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I thought, maybe stupidly, that he’d forget. Maybe he was just winding me up about that "favour."

But when I opened my locker Friday morning, a scrap of notebook paper fluttered out and landed at my feet.

‘You owe me, sweetheart. Meet me behind the gym after last bell. Don’t be late. -Eddie’

I stared at it, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Behind the gym? What the hell was he planning?

I spent all day jumping at shadows. By the time the final bell rang, my palms were sweaty, my stomach a mess of nerves.

He was already there when I arrived lounging against the brick wall, battered leather jacket slung over one shoulder, chain on his jeans catching the sunlight.

When he spotted me, his grin lit up his whole face.

"There she is," he said, voice warm and teasing. "Was startin’ to think you’d chickened out."

"As if," I muttered, crossing my arms to hide how bloody shaky I felt.

He pushed off the wall and sauntered towards me, lazy and loose-limbed.

"Ready to cash in that favour, princess?"

I swallowed. "What exactly does it involve?"

He pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Hmm. Let’s call it... a not-date."

"A what?"

He laughed, grabbing my wrist gentle, but firm enough that my breath hitched and tugging me after him.

"You’ll see," he said. "Come on. You’re burnin’ daylight."

Turned out, Eddie’s idea of a "not-date" was driving half an hour out of town in his rattling van, windows down, music blaring.

He didn’t say where we were going. Didn’t even give me a chance to protest.

He just kept throwing me these sideways glances, smirking every time he caught me sneaking a look at him.

Which, honestly, was often.

How could I not? The way the wind ruffled his curls, the way he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music it was like something out of a dream.

Eventually, he pulled off onto a dirt road, tires kicking up dust.

"You’re not gonna murder me and leave me in a ditch, are you?" I joked, only half teasing.

He shot me a wicked grin. "Depends. You scream a lot?"

I made a strangled sound, and he laughed like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

We finally stopped at a little clearing tall grass, wildflowers, the whole lot. At the edge was a battered old blanket spread out under a tree.

My mouth dropped open.

"You set this up?"

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. "Thought you deserved a break after all that sciencing."

He grabbed a cooler from the back of the van and sauntered over to the blanket, plonking himself down with a dramatic sigh.

"Well?" he said, patting the space beside him. "You gonna stand there gawkin' all day, or you gonna come enjoy my five-star hospitality?"

I couldn’t help it I laughed. Really laughed.

And before I knew it, I was sinking down beside him, the late afternoon sun warm on my skin.

He’d packed sandwiches slightly squashed, but somehow charming and two cans of warm soft drink.

We talked about everything and nothing music, books, how shit Hawkins was and I found myself relaxing more with every passing minute.

Eddie was easy to talk to. Eddie was dangerous.

Because the more I laughed at his ridiculous jokes, the more I caught him looking at me like I hung the bloody moon, the deeper I sank.

And somewhere between arguing about the best Metallica album and watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, the air shifted.

I caught him watching me properly watching me and my stomach twisted itself into knots.

"What?" I said, half laughing, half terrified.

He shrugged, but there was something serious under the easy smile.

"You’re not what I expected," he said.

I blinked. "You expected me to be a bitch?"

He snorted. "Nah. Expected you to be... I dunno. Too good for the likes of me."

My heart cracked right down the middle.

"You’re not a freak, Eddie," I said, voice fierce.

He smiled, slow and soft, and God help me, I wanted to kiss him.

Maybe he saw it on my face. Maybe he was feeling the exact same thing.

Because a second later, he leaned in achingly slow, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.

I didn’t.

His lips brushed mine, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

But when I sighed into him when I fisted my hands in the worn denim of his jacket he groaned low in his throat and kissed me properly.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

It wasn’t neat or perfect, but it was real.

He cradled the back of my head in one hand, the other gripping my waist, pulling me against him like he couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of space.

When we finally broke apart, gasping, he rested his forehead against mine.

"Still not a date," he whispered, breathless.

I laughed, giddy and dizzy and completely lost.

"Definitely not a date," I agreed, voice shaking.

But we both knew we were lying.

The sun dipped lower, casting everything in gold.

We lay tangled together on the blanket, Eddie tracing lazy circles on my hip with calloused fingers, making my whole body shiver.

His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, skimming over bare skin light, teasing touches that left me aching.

I turned my head, catching his gaze.

He looked so wrecked hair wild, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen from kissing.

"Can I?" he started, voice rough.

I answered by tugging him down to me, desperate for more.

His hand slid higher, cupping my breast through the thin fabric of my bra, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak.

I gasped into his mouth, arching into him.

He kissed down my jaw, my throat, scattering rough, reverent kisses that made my toes curl.

"You’re so fuckin’ soft," he murmured against my skin, like he was drunk on it.

He kissed lower, pulling my shirt up to mouth at my stomach, each kiss making my muscles jump.

I buried my fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and he growled low in his throat.

He kissed along the waistband of my jeans, teeth scraping lightly, and I whimpered.

"Eddie," I whispered, desperate and shaking.

He lifted his head, eyes dark and burning.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice a low rasp.

I shook my head, pulling him back up to kiss me again, harder this time.

Clothes were pushed aside, touches growing more frantic, and when he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t hurried or rough it was slow, deep, aching.

Like he was trying to memorise every second. Like he needed it as much as I did.

Afterwards, we lay tangled together, breathing hard, Eddie’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare back.

"You still think this wasn’t a date?" I mumbled against his chest, too blissed out to move.

He chuckled, low and smug.

"Nah, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to my hair. "This was definitely a date."

I smiled, tucking myself closer against him.

For once, I didn’t care about reputations or gossip or any of the bullshit waiting for us back in Hawkins.

All that mattered was Eddie warm, solid, real holding me like he never wanted to let go.

Keeping things quiet sounded easy in theory.

In reality?

It was bloody impossible.

Especially when Eddie Munson was involved.

It started small. Little things.

The way he'd find me in the corridors between classes, brushing his fingers over mine when nobody was looking.

The way I'd catch him staring at me during lunch, this soft, stupid smile on his face, like he couldn't help himself.

The way he'd mouth something utterly filthy across the room something that turned my face scarlet and made me nearly choke on my sandwich then wink like the cocky bastard he was.

We were awful at hiding it.

Like, truly pathetic.

It didn’t help that Eddie was absolutely no help whatsoever. If anything, he enjoyed the risk of getting caught.

He’d catch me in the library, brush past just a bit too close, then smirk when I dropped my pen.

He’d mouth "Later, sweetheart" as he sauntered past my desk in science, leaving me a flustered, stammering mess.

And he always looked so bloody pleased with himself afterwards.

The rumours started before the week was out.

I heard snippets in the girls' toilets.

"Did you see the way Munson looked at her?" "Swear I saw them sneaking off together behind the gym." "She could do better, surely?"

It should've made me nervous.

Instead, every whisper made me feel a little giddy, a little more reckless.

Because for once, I didn't care what people thought.

I liked Eddie Munson. And he somehow, unbelievably liked me right back.

I should've known he wouldn't let it lie.

It was a Tuesday, halfway through lunch, when he did it.

I was sitting with some of my friends, pretending not to watch Eddie across the room even though he was making it impossible by looking over every thirty bloody seconds.

I was mid-sip of my drink when suddenly, bang the screech of a chair dragging across the floor made me jump.

Everyone turned to look.

And there was Eddie standing on the lunch table like a man possessed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I nearly died on the spot.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, loud enough to shake the rafters:

"Alright, Hawkins High! Since you’re all so bloody nosy" (I buried my face in my hands.) "let me clear a few things up, yeah?"

A few people laughed. Others were just gawping, forks halfway to their mouths.

"I am head over heels for Y/N," Eddie declared, voice ringing out, proud and utterly shameless. "Completely, stupidly, hopelessly in love with her."

The cafeteria exploded.

Cheers, whistles, people banging on tables.

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

But then he looked at me properly looked all soft eyes and secret smiles, and something in my chest just melted.

"Y/N," he said, over the noise. "Come up here, sweetheart."

I shook my head furiously, laughing.

"No way!"

"C’mon," he coaxed, reaching out a hand. "Don’t leave me hangin’."

People started chanting.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Before I could lose my nerve, I scrambled up not very gracefully onto the table, gripping his hand tight.

He pulled me close, grinning like a lunatic.

"You ready to really give ‘em somethin’ to talk about?" he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

Right there, in front of everyone.

It wasn’t a quick peck, either. It was full-on, dizzy, toe-curling, I never want to stop kissing.

The cafeteria went mental.

Wolf-whistles, clapping, someone actually started banging a tray like a drum.

When we finally broke apart, breathing hard, Eddie was beaming.

"We’re so bloody busted," I panted, half laughing, half terrified.

And right on cue

"MR MUNSON! MISS Y/L/N!" A furious shout from across the room.

Mr. Clarke, the science teacher, red-faced and charging towards us.

Eddie grabbed my hand, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

"Run!"

We leapt down from the table nearly sending the lunches on it flying and tore out of the cafeteria, hand in hand, both of us laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

"GET BACK HERE!" Clarke bellowed behind us.

"Not a chance!" Eddie yelled back, cackling like a madman.

We sprinted down the corridor, past the lockers, past the stunned faces of other students peeking out of classrooms.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins.

We finally burst through the side doors into the sunlight, collapsing against the wall, gasping for air.

Eddie looked at me, flushed and breathless and utterly beautiful.

"You’re mad," I wheezed, still laughing.

He grinned, wide and wicked. "Yeah, but you love it."

And bloody hell, I really, really did.

I grabbed his jacket, pulled him down, and kissed him again fierce and giddy and completely, utterly in love.

From inside, we could still hear Clarke shouting.

"Think he’s gonna kill us?" I murmured against his lips.

Eddie just laughed, wrapping his arms tight around me.

"Totally worth it, sweetheart," he said.

And I believed him.

Every bloody word.

[zaynessbeloved]

Creative block

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

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

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

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

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

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

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

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

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So close—I'm so close—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© zaynessbeloved 2025

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

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

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[lapdogchase]

i like[1] this website because a joke post u made in 3 seconds[2] vaguely complaining about something that does not matter[3] will get 15k notes in a matter of days and then people will misinterpret it in wild & unpredictable & cynical ways possible. Like before responding in a hostile manner to a post maybe stop[4] and go "is it possible that op did not set out to make a post commenting in a serious manner about a serious problem"[5] "is it possible that op did not sit down before posting to ensure that there is no possible way their[6] post could be read in a bad light"[7] "am i picking up on an implication that is actually there or are my own life experiences informing my view of this post in a way that may not be accurate"[8] etc. like would it kill[9] people to be a little less quick to lash out when it is fully possible they may be misunderstanding something[10]

---

[1] this is sarcasm, i do not like when people do this.

[2] this is an exaggeration, it often takes more than three seconds to type a post.

[3] sometimes a post may be complaining about something that Does matter. this post is not claiming that most or all posts are about something that does not matter. likewise, the idea that something "doesn't matter" has been used to downplay the struggles of marginalized communities, and some things online do, in fact, matter. this post, however, is about shit that does not matter

[4] OP is not insisting you do this. there is no manipulation, coercion, or violation of consent; you are not forced to do anything you don't want to to. you are not being silenced or censored.

[5] the original poster may have meant to make a silly post about a serious issue, or a silly post about a silly issue. oftentimes, posts are not meant to be all-encompassing thesis statements on broad social issues addressing all the possible pitfalls of a certain argument as well as what lends credence to it

[6] the use of the neutral pronoun "they" in this sentence is due to its reference to a hypothetical person or group of people rather than any specific individual who may or may not use they/them pronouns. it is not an attempt to actively misgender or degender anybody. for further clarity, OP is fully supportive of trans and nonbinary people and is in fact a member of the trans community

[7] while OP has ocd, it seems an unnecessary addition to this post, but he has noticed a trend of general anxiety-related behaviors being attributed to ocd when that is not necessarily the cause of such behaviors. he therefore finds it worth saying that people without ocd who have been on tumblr for a long time are also prone to this behavior, as being misinterpreted is incredibly common online, and does not necessarily indicate the presence of obsessive-compulsive disorder. i.e., sometimes people just worry about stuff

[8] accurate meaning, here, accurate to the intent of the original poster. it is not meant to state that a person's emotions about a post are "wrong" or that they are misinterpreting their own feelings. additionally, it is reasonable that a person's experiences would influence their view of the world; it is equally reasonable to expect them to think before being aggressive towards strangers online

[9] this is a turn of phrase, not meant to state that any lives will actually be ended by this action. this footnote is also not meant to imply anything negative about those who experience anxiety around the concept of death

[10] OP is relinquishing himself from the responsibility[11] of this post[12]. if it gains sentience and runs off to colorado to rob a bank and go on a killing spree that is not his fault

[11] whether or not a person can truly be relinquished from the consequences of any of their actions is a matter of debate irrelevant to this post

[12] OP is aware that this post opens him up to receiving many identical and increasingly unfunny comments intentionally misconstruing his words or intentions. he is nicely asking you not to do that because it's very exhausting

[parasolladyansy]

Hello, I hope you’re having a wonderful day/afternoon/night! I love your art style. It’s so cute >w<

Could you give any tips for beginner artists both in drawing for characters and Pokemon?

Hi-ho! I can try ouo;

⬆️ Made in 2010 - the oldest Pokémon drawing I have on file (though I have much older ones on paper!)

First tip I’d say is to practice! ✍🏻

I’ve been drawing since I was very little, & that included Pokémon fanart. There was a point where I was drawing every single day for years - I have all these journals where instead of writing through my thoughts & feelings, I just filled it to the brim with drawings & even little comics!

They don’t need to be perfect, or better than anyone’s - they just have to be yours. 🩵

⬆️ Made in 2016 - I started trying for a softer look with a lighter, blue line-art instead of the thick black one.

Getting into the more technical art stuff I learned in college, drawing just about anything becomes easier when we break them down into shapes.

Humans, Pokémon, or even shadows, ripples, & water patterns can be broken down into basic shapes that you build up with added details. Like here: we can see circles, ovals, semi-circles, & all kinds of angular shapes.

Take a look at the Pokédex, & try seeing the different shapes that make up each Pokémon. Even the most complex Pokémon in the ‘dex becomes less daunting when we break them down into manageable shapes. Same for human characters.

⬆️ Made in 2023 - from Sword x Shield

Another (less technical) tip I have is study other artists you like to help you find your style!

When I made the step to go line-less, I took a lot from my love for Impressionism (eg. Monet), & was also very much inspired by K. O’Neil’s Tea Dragon books, especially in Sword x Shield.

I think it’s safe to say just about every single artist to pick up a pencil was influenced by someone. The “father of manga” himself, Osamu Tezuka, was inspired by early Disney animations - if you look closely, you can see it in his earlier work. It goes both ways, as we see Disney emulate Tezuka (to the point of plagiarism >_> Lion King)

On that note, try not to feel bad if your style starts off looking too much like the original artist’s - I think that’s natural. After all, we artists emulate what we see, what we like, & how we see those things.

What matters is building on it, finding those personal touches to make it yours. ^_^ Like with Pokémon, you can go by the original art Ken Sugimori & the other official artists, or take your own spin on it (exaggerate features, play with color, etc).

⬆️ Made in 2024 - a little less than a year ago & I already draw Sora a little differently!

I think art is a journey, & you can only stand to improve over time & practice. I’m still refining my work, & sometimes that means crumpling it up & starting again.

Maybe the most important tip I have is: don’t give up.

There were a lot of people who wanted me to quit drawing. I’ve had my doodle ripped up by a teacher, told I wouldn’t amount to anything, told that no matter what I did someone will always be better than me.

Even through all that, I never gave it up, because it’s something I love. I could happily draw all day (though sometimes I have slow periods, like where I’m at right now), & drawing helped me get through the darkest times as well as celebrate when things were good. ^_^

So don’t give up. Take breaks if you need it, but don’t give up if it’s something you love & gives you life. 🩵

—

Ha…I realize that’s probably a lot deeper than what you meant to ask. I said I’d “try” lol 😂 I hope this helps you all the same 😅

[hotchnerkersa]

You’re so Jealous Hotchner / Aaron Hotchner

Fem!Oc!reader X Aaron Hotchner

— SUMMARY—. The Moment Derek saw you in the break room crying over Hotch for what seam like the 100th time this month , you had bright idea to make or try to make Hotch jealous by pretending to date Derek to get Hotch attention.. Derek agreed to help you .

Warnings — angst hurt comfort, Derek helps reader make Hotch jealous , Derek sticks up for reader , JJ is mentioned she talks to reader Wc : 1.2k

Author notes : your thoughts in comments in reblogs are appreciated , I need a different setup layout … I wanted these two to build up there relationship so there could be part two .

Not proofread I missed writing in wanted to write something and here we are . 

..🍓..

───── 🍓….You and Derek were across the bullpen, caught up in your own world—laughing, leaning in close, your shoulders brushing against his as something he said made you giggle. You didn’t notice the conference room door open or the rest of the team filing out. You and Derek had already slipped away the second Hotch dismissed everyone, not even pretending to hide it.

JJ lingered in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. She shook her head, her mouth tightening before she turned to Hotch.

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?” she muttered, her voice sharp but quiet enough not to draw attention.

Hotch didn’t say a word, but JJ kept going, her words low and cutting.

“She’s only doing this because you let her down. She’s with Derek because you said no.”

She grabbed her files, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked into the bullpen. Her eyes found you again—Derek’s arm hanging easily around your shoulders, your smile soft and unguarded, like nothing else in the world mattered. Derek leaned closer, whispering something that made you laugh again, your head tipping toward him.

Hotch didn’t move, didn’t speak, but JJ saw it—the tight clench of his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides. Derek got under his skin, and she knew it.

“Derek,” you whispered, voice low, meant only for him, “it’s been a few weeks... you think he’s noticed?”

“Oh yeah, babygirl,” he said with that knowing smirk. “He’s noticed for sure.”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping for a second before you looked back at Hotch .

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure. Hit me,” Derek said, his usual teasing softening around the edges.

“Why did you decide to help me?”

“Well, babygirl, to be honest, Hotch doesn’t do well with his emotions. He doesn’t open up much.” Derek shifted a little, voice dropping lower. “As for me helping you... I saw the opportunity to get him jealous. Maybe have him fight for you.”

Later, you found your way into the break room while Derek went to see Garcia about something. You were pouring yourself a cup of coffee when JJ slipped in, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

"This thing you’ve got going on with Derek," she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the counter.

“Is it serious?

You couldn’t help but giggle, stirring your coffee slowly.

"What’s so funny?" JJ asked, raising a brow.

You smiled, lifting the cup to your lips. "It’s a tough one to chew. You gotta have an open mind." You hesitated, then nodded toward the door. "Actually... lock it for a minute?"

JJ gave you a curious look but did as you asked, turning the lock before sitting down. "Okay," she said, settling back. "Go on."

You started to pace back and forth, the words catching a little in your throat.

"I didn’t think I’d have to tell anyone," you admitted, pausing to glance at her. "But a few weeks ago, Derek found me crying over Hotch... right here in the break room."

JJ’s eyes softened, but she stayed quiet, letting you talk.

"And Derek... he decided to help me," you said, voice low. "Make Hotch jealous. Or... try to get his attention. Maybe have him fight for me."

JJ’s lips parted in surprise, but then she grinned. "That’s brilliant," she said.

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. "I thought you two actually—"

"No," you cut her off gently. "Derek’s wonderful. He’s been amazing. But... my heart?" You pressed a hand lightly against your chest. "It belongs to Hotch. I just... I just want him to see that."

JJ smiled gently, understanding in her eyes.

"So he’s just helping you," JJ said softly.

"Yeah," you said, nodding.

JJ tilted her head. "Do you know if it’s working?"

You hesitated. "I don't know... is it?"

JJ leaned back a little, thoughtful. "Earlier, I told him he was an idiot."

"You what?" you said, staring at her.

"I told him he was an idiot," JJ repeated, a small smirk pulling at her lips. "That the only reason you were with Derek was because he said no to you."

You opened your mouth, stunned, but before you could say anything, JJ added, quieter now, "But... I didn’t know he made you cry."

You froze, the coffee cup warming your hands, your chest tight. You didn’t realize it, but Hotch had been walking by — and he caught that last line.

"Yeah," you said quietly, glancing down. "I cried for a while. But Derek’s been there for me through this whole mess. I couldn’t thank him enough."

JJ reached out, squeezing your shoulder gently. "I’m glad he’s been there for you. You deserve to be happy."

"Thanks, JJ," you whispered. "Even though... I still want it to be with Hotch."

"I know," she said, giving your shoulder another squeeze. "I know."

You moved to the door, unlocking it slowly. As the latch clicked, Hotch stepped back, just barely caught. He must’ve been standing there, listening.

Spying, are we?" Derek’s voice called out, smirking as he spotted Hotch lingering just outside.

Hotch didn’t flinch. His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You make her happy?"

Derek's smirk faded, his voice serious now. "Man, don’t."

Hotch gave a slight nod. "Right," he said shortly, brushing past Derek without looking back.

"Wait, hold on a minute," Derek called after him, catching up. "You don’t get to do that, man."

You had just stepped into the hallway, the door swinging open behind you. You froze, hearing Derek’s voice rise.

"Look," Derek said, stepping in front of Hotch. "She cares about you. She’s in love with you."

"Derek—" you started, your arms folding across your chest, frustration bubbling up. "You call this helping?"

"I do, babygirl," Derek said, voice softening when he turned to you. "As much as I would love to be with you... I can’t. Not knowing your heart’s with him."

"He doesn’t want me," you said, voice cracking despite your best effort not to cry.

JJ stepped up beside you, giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"This is too much," you whispered, blinking fast. "Derek, please, can we just go get coffee like we planned? Please?"

Derek shook his head gently. "Not this time, babygirl. You need to talk to Hotch. Okay?"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding, and finally gave a small nod.

Before you could move, you felt a light tug at your wrist. You turned.

"Hotch—" you said, startled.

"Come with me," he said quietly, his voice steady, unreadable.

"Where are we going?" you asked, hesitating.

"My office," he said simply, his hand releasing yours as he started to walk.

You glanced over at Derek, silently pleading.

"Please... let’s just get coffee," you whispered.

Derek shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I’ve done my part. It’s your turn now."

You had no choice but to follow Hotch across the bullpen. The silence between you was thick, tense. Once inside, he closed the door with a soft click, the room feeling too small all of a sudden.

Hotch stood behind his desk, arms crossed, his face completely unreadable.

"So was this way of trying to make me Jealous... his idea?" he asked finally, voice low.

You shook your head, folding your arms tight across your chest. "No."

"It was yours?" he asked, something sharp flickering in his eyes.

"Yes," you said, your voice firm. "Why are you so shocked?"

You shifted, your arms folding tighter across your chest.

"Hotch, tell me something," you said, your voice low. "Why is it when you were the one telling me no... that we couldn’t happen, that it would be dangerous , that you couldn’t put me in your world , that I deserve better then you but to tell you the truth I’m already in your world , but you never asked me once what I wanted, and then another guy not just another guy Derek decides to pay attention to me... you get all defensive? Mad? Jealous?" Like I’m yours?

Hotch didn't flinch. His expression stayed unreadable, that same cool mask he always wore.

"Jealous?" he repeated, his voice flat. "I'm not jealous."

You gave a dry laugh, shaking your head. "Really? Then what was that in the hall?"

Hotch’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

"Derek came after me… Hotch , said . But you said something to him first , you say .

What was it, Hotch?"

He stayed silent for a second too long, and you knew you had him.

"I said..." he started slowly, voice tight, "he made you happy."

You waited, your heart hammering.

"He didn’t make you cry," Hotch finished quietly.

You blinked, stunned.

"And then," Hotch said, his voice turning clipped, "he told me not to say anything. So I walked off. He came after me for round two."

You dropped your gaze, your chest aching. Your arms wrapped tighter around yourself like a shield.

"You heard... that I cried over you?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Hotch said simply, his voice steady, but his eyes giving him away.

Hotch stepped closer, his presence quiet but commanding.

"You did all this to make me jealous," he said, voice low. "Or... to try to make me jealous."

You lifted your chin slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

"Just admit it," you said, a small, teasing smile tugging at your lips. "It worked."

Hotch's jaw tensed, his dark eyes locked on yours.

"If I said it worked," he asked carefully, "what happens next?"

Your hand, without you even realizing it, found his chest. Your fingers brushed the front of his shirt, lightly playing with the buttons.

"I'm still mad at you, Aaron," you said, voice soft but steady.

He froze, his eyes flickering with something you couldn't quite place.

"Aaron," he repeated, almost like he was tasting the word. "That’s the first time I’ve heard you say my name."

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks but didn’t pull away.

And ? “You asked …

"I love it," he said, barely above a whisper.

Hotch let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his posture stiff, but his eyes warmer now, less guarded.

I want you Aaron , all of you I don’t care how messy it can get you whisper I don’t want perfect I just — want me he interrupted you , you nodded …

What if I took you to get that coffee Hotch said , pulling you in , I’m still mad you whisper , that’s okay he says as his eyes never left yours . Okay coffee it is .

[tgrs10]

Claimed| HECTOR FORT³² [001]

MASTERLIST (N/A)

⤑ 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩| 1,987

⤑ 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮| Hector and you were over, or supposed to be. But one jealous night at the club proves he never really let go. (REQ)

⤑ 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 | SMUT 18+!!, Rough Sex, Unprotected, Slight Angst, jealous sex.

You and Hector had history, like real history. Not just some months-long fling or a situationship gone stale. You’d both grown up together, part of the same tight-knit friend group that had seen every version of you both. You’d been together for years, years first as friends, then as more. Everyone in the group had known you as a unit, a given, a forever-thing, until you suddenly weren’t.

When you broke up, it hadn’t been explosive. No screaming or slamming doors. It was quiet and slow and painful in the way long relationships sometimes are, the kind where you’re not even sure when the beginning of the end started, but only that it did. And even though the relationship ended, the friend group didn’t. You didn’t split off, didn’t drift. That meant seeing Hector at every hangout, every birthday dinner, every movie night. And now tonight, at the club.

It was supposed to be a group thing. Just everyone letting loose for once, with no drama, no awkwardness. You told yourself it wouldn’t be weird. You even dressed up like you meant it, tried to feel like someone new in the mirror. But the second you walked into the pulsing neon haze of the club and saw Hector standing by the bar with the other guys, hands in his pockets, that same unreadable expression on his face, your stomach turned traitor.

You didn’t speak. Just walked past him, the way strained exes do when too much has been said and not enough at all. And maybe that’s why you ended up talking to someone else. He was harmless, really. Just some guy from the crowd who asked you what you were drinking and said something stupid but sweet enough to make you laugh.

You weren’t trying to flirt. You weren’t looking for anything. You were just tired of missing something you weren’t allowed to want anymore. Tired of the ache that bloomed in your chest every time you caught Hector looking at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you back or walk away for good.

You felt him before you saw him, almost like the shift in the air when a storm rolls in. One second, you were half-smiling at something a guy you'd just met was saying, nodding politely, a solo cup cradled in your fingers more out of habit than interest. The music thumped through your ribs, too loud for real conversation, but it didn’t matter. You weren’t really listening anyway.

You were too aware of the weight of your own loneliness, trying to convince yourself you were okay, that you were fine, that coming here hadn’t been a mistake.

The moment your new acquaintance leaned in, closer than necessary, his hand brushing your hip in that casual way that said he thought he could, the storm hit. Hector. His presence slammed into your senses before he even touched you, the kind of gravity you never stopped orbiting no matter how hard you tried.

One look at his face, jaw tight, eyes dark and locked onto yours with a heat that burned hotter than the club lights, and you knew. You knew he wasn’t just watching. Suddenly, he was right there, cutting through the space between you like it didn’t exist, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around your wrist, not hard, but with a certainty that made your breath catch.

The other guy blinked, confused, backing off like instinct told him this wasn’t his fight. “Come with me,” Hector said, voice low enough to make your heart stumble, rough in the way that told you he was barely holding it together. Not a plea. Not a suggestion. Almost a command, wrapped in heartbreak and heat.

His grip on your wrist wasn’t bruising, but it was firm enough to make your pulse stutter. He hadn’t said anything else, just led you through the thumping bass and flashing lights until you were tucked away in a hallway near the back of the club, somewhere between the staff entrance and the bathrooms, where the music was muffled but your heartbeat wasn’t. His eyes were burning. Yours were too.

“What the hell are you doing, Hector?” you snapped, yanking your hand from his like it burned. “You don’t get to do that. We’re not together anymore, remember?” He didn’t speak back, not at first. Just stood there, jaw tight with something he wasn’t saying. “You think I don’t remember?” he said, low. “Then act like it,” you shot back, voice sharp. “You don’t get to pull me away like I’m still yours when you were the one who let me go.” This time, he flinched, subtle, just a flicker in his eyes, but you saw it, and God, you hated that it still hit you that hard. “You were out there,” he said, voice rough, “touching some random guy like he could give you anything real, like he could give you something-”

“Oh, and now you suddenly get to decide what’s real?” you snapped, the scoff leaving your throat sharper than you meant, your hands trembling with rage you didn’t want him to see. “You don’t talk to me. You don’t call. You show up with the guys and act like we’re just two people who happen to orbit the same damn group, and the second I so much as talk to someone else, you lose your mind like I’ve betrayed you.” He didn’t hesitate. “Because it is a betrayal,” he growled, stepping in like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. “It is to me.” Your mouth opened, to fire back, to say something cruel, something final, but you didn’t get the chance. Because Hector was on you. Mouth crashing into yours, hard and hungry and devastating, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him alive. 

His hands were in your hair before you could even think, pulling you closer, his mouth hot and bruising against yours, and you hated how quickly you melted into it, how familiar it felt, how easy it was to fall. And then, like he couldn’t wait, like the time apart had built into something sharp and hungry, he pulled back just long enough to breathe, to look at you, his voice low and wrecked. “Come with me,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t a request, It was a demand.

You didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to. His hand found yours like it never forgot the way your fingers used to fit, and you followed without hesitation, heart thudding in your chest harder than the bass vibrating through the floor. The club was dark, flashing with reds and violets, bodies pressed together in a blur of sweat and sound, but the two of you moved through it like nothing else existed, like the gravity between you was stronger than the noise, than the past, than the people who might’ve seen. You felt the burn of his stare even as he led you, the possessiveness in the grip he had on your wrist, guiding you toward the back where the single-stall restrooms were tucked into the corner, barely lit, barely noticed.

The second the door clicked shut, Hector was on you like a storm, mouth crashing into yours, hands rough and desperate, like he’d been dying to touch you and couldn’t hold back anymore. He slammed you back against the door, one hand curling in your hair, the other already sliding up your waist, slipping under your top to palm bare skin. The chill of the metal behind you contrasted with the fire of him in front of you, and it made your head spin. He kissed you like he hated the space between you. Like he was trying to erase every second he hadn’t had you in his arms, in his bed, on his cock.

Your breath caught when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing the underside of your bra, thumb teasing the swell of your breast like he already knew exactly what would make you fall apart. Because he did. Hector had always known your body like it was a song he’d memorized, every note, every rhythm. “You think I could just stand there?” he rasped against your mouth, dragging your top off over your head, eyes devouring the way your bra hugged your chest. “Watching you talk to some random?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his hands were back on your skin, rough and reverent all at once.

“You don’t get to say that,” you gasped, even as you yanked his shirt up, needing it off, needing him closer. “You broke up with me.” “I fucked up,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off and tossing it aside. “But I never stopped wanting you.” And then he kissed you again, slower now, deeper. His tongue slid into your mouth like he was trying to reclaim it, like he was trying to brand you all over again. When he broke the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck, biting softly at your pulse, your knees buckled.

He caught you easily, lifting you like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding down against the hard length straining against his jeans, and fuck, the groan he let out sent heat shooting through you. “You feel that?” he murmured, grinding up into you. “That’s what you do to me. No one else, only you.” His hands shoved your panties aside, rough fingers sliding between your folds, finding how wet you already were. You gasped, head falling back, body aching.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against your throat, voice rough and almost disbelieving, like the heat he felt between your thighs was driving him insane. His fingers pressed harder, teasing, testing, and you gasped, hips twitching toward his hand like your body had a mind of its own. “Just from this?” he asked, low and wrecked. “Just from me pulling you in, touching you like this?” “Yes,” you breathed, shameless, your voice breaking on the word. “I’ve wanted you. I still, fuck, Hector, I need it.” The confession spilled out raw and desperate, your need for him clinging to every syllable.

He groaned like he was in pain, like hearing that undid something inside him. One hand fumbled with his belt, and then he was freeing his cock, already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. When he rubbed the thick head against your pussy, just enough to tease, your hips bucked into him, chasing the pressure. He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt with a groan so filthy it made your stomach flip. You cried out, nails digging into his back, your pussy clenching around his cock, almost missing this feeling “Fuck,” he hissed, gripping your hips, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven. Tight as ever. Still mine.”

He started to move, hard, fast, relentless. Each thrust slammed you against the door, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the small space, mixing with your moans and his curses. He was fucking you like he meant it, like he needed you to feel it, to remember exactly who you belonged to. Your pussy clenched around him, and he felt it, grinned through gritted teeth as he drove into you harder, faster.

“I’m gonna cum,” he bit out, hips stuttering. “Cum with me. Let me feel you.” And you did, shattering around him, pussy squeezing his cock as you came hard, gasping his name. He followed with a deep, wrecked groan, spilling inside you, holding you to him like if he let go, the whole world would fall apart. For a long moment, the only sound was your breathing,heavy, uneven, desperate against each other. And then his lips brushed your ear. “This wasn’t a one-time thing.” You didn’t answer, because you’d be lying if you said no.

[technovillain]

i have a lot of milla thoughts while i'm at it too...

i think milla was also raised in an orphanage, she had a photo of her parents and was living her childhood 'little orphan annie style' constantly dreaming about what her parents might be like. she had a lot of love for the women who raised her in the orphanage. i have an old fic i never finished about her growing up there, and how she started to idolize one of the women there, thinking she was so beautiful, wanting to be like her when she was older and thinking a lot abt that (i do hc milla as transfem btw)

she spent a lot of time thinking about the movies, and stories on the radio, and when she was a little older and they got a television, she was in love with it. she had a lot of 'big movie star dreams' as a kid. (thus her in-game dialogue "i'm on tv! where i was always meant to be!".... i think her current fame within psychic circles is kind of the ultimate healing of her inner child in that way. not only is she marginally famous but she is famous amongst the people who matter, those who accept and respect her for who she is)

i think that in her teen years she became more independent, and she got a job as a nurse/caretaker in the orphanage. she always felt like she belonged there, and grew to think of the staff like her family. they had always been kind to her despite her differences, and milla had always been there to help the younger kids. her working there felt like a natural step.

as a young adult she continued working there, and nothing made her happier than taking care of the children. she did, however start to spend a little more time outside, exploring and taking in the local culture. this is where she first started going to dance clubs and realizing how much she loved it. it got her back on track with her wide-eyed childhood hollywood dreams... sometimes it made her feel guilty, going out and enjoying herself (milla can have little a catholic guilt, i imagine her upbringing was religious) i like to think that maybe her psychic powers started flaring up as a result of this guilt, namely the fear of "burning" for not living her life 'the right way'...

i'm not completely sure if i subscribe to the idea of the fire being a result of milla's intrusive thoughts and worries about something bad happening to the children and it being her fault somehow, i think purely because that makes her already tragic story even sadder, but i'm not not a fan of the theory. i feel like there are ways that you could interpret milla's level as dealing with intrusive thoughts (though now in a healthy way. like locking up the really damaging ones, and keeping her good music loud enough to tune other stuff out, keeping the rings spinning to conditionally 'make her feel better' etc. etc.)

after that, i do pull from the li-po story a bit. that she was tortured by the voices of the children in her head, intrusive thoughts and fear of fire. she stayed in the hospital for a while, and eventually the psychonauts where contacted when someone figured out what she was struggling with, which was something that she could not explain.

i also do like the idea of sasha being her therapist for a while after her initial psychoisolation. it adds extra fuel to the fire of sasha being weird abt pursuing her romantically despite them being sooo past that dynamic and having been equals working together for years now

[callme-holly]

Hi!! I love your fics sm and was wondering if you could do a Dallas x reader where they get into a big argument or something else angst but then a happy ending? Thank you in advance 💕

𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃.𝐖 headcanons + imagine

a/n: im loving all this angst atm. tysm for the request!!

Dallas has an incredibly bad temper, and while he cares about you more than he cares about other people, it doesn’t mean you don’t get under his skin, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re exempt from his anger. 

When you zwei do argue, it's loud and quick and sometimes can get a little rough. He won’t ever lay a hand on you, but the words exchanged are heated and cut deeper than any blade ever could.

He won’t back down until you do and likes to have the upper hand. He won’t ever admit, he’s wrong, no matter the argument.

Your fights are usually over stupid, little things that really don’t matter in the big picture. At some point, you probably both forget whatever it is you were fighting about and just find random things to dig at instead. 

He always storms out afterwards, often leaving for hours at a time before dragging himself back. He doesn’t apologise—not with words—but you can tell he regrets it from the way he actually comes home to you. 

When you forgive him, he’ll try and act like it never happened, brushing it under the rug and carrying on with life like usual.

The door slammed so hard that the whole house seemed to rattle, the windows shaking in their frames, everything shuddering like a kitten in the snow. The sound reverberated off the walls, and you turned to glare at Dallas; another reason for you to yell.

“Do you have to do that?” You snapped, stepping towards him, and he scoffed, towering over you.

“Do what, doll?” His tone was condescending, a cutting remark that wasn’t meant to sweeten you up.

“Slam things! Act rough all the time!” Your voice was just as harsh as his own, matching it in volume, the bite behind your words dangerous. “I’m sick of it, Dal!”

Dallas shook his head in response, brushing past you, shoulder bumping yours as he passed. The action was careless, done in a way that was meant to be infuriating. “You signed up for this! If you’re that sick of it, fucking leave!” 

“Maybe I will!”

Your words hung in the air like a death sentence; they brought a sense of dread over Dallas, a feeling that was unfamiliar and sickening. Dread pooled in his stomach, twisting and churning, but he refused to show it. 

Instead, he remained deathly silent, back turned to you, not giving you the satisfaction of the hit. “Fine.” He snapped. “Go. See if I give a damn, man.” 

The finality in his words hit you like a freight train, unrelenting and holding no remorse. You were left staring at his back, waiting helplessly for him to turn and look at you, to apologise… But you knew he wouldn’t. 

He never did. 

So instead, you shuffled to sit down on the edge of the bed, bringing your knees to your chest, ignoring the burn in your throat. Your gaze never left him; he paced, cursed, and hit the wall with a force that made you flinch.

And then… he sat down on the floor beside you, leaning ever so slightly into your legs. 

It wasn’t a sorry, at least not a verbal one, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. It was the best you were going to get of him showing the rawer side of him, the “apologetic” side. 

Your fingers threaded into his blonde strands, nails scratching along his scalp, revelling in the way he relaxed under your touch. 

And when he pulled away just enough to kiss you, it was rough, filled with a thousand things neither of you needed to voice to understand. It was like an unspoken promise; he wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were you.

At least not yet. 

[lvzrii4]

꩜ .ᐟ THE EASIEST LOVE 양정원

— ✮⋆˙ yang jungwon x reader ✮⋆˙ fluff with comfort, high school au, established relationship ✮⋆˙ 0.5k wc ✮⋆˙ 💬 inspired by a song (you’ll be in my heart !)

WHEREIN yang jungwon made you realize that loving you is like breathing fresh air.

you were scared to love again—scared of the past, of breaking your own heart, of losing yourself like before.

you admit it, you were terrified. terrified that maybe love wasn’t for you after all.

but jungwon came into your life, like a quiet sunrise you didn’t even realize you needed. he made it feel so easy, so natural—like loving you was never something he had to think twice about. like you were always meant to be loved.

and now, here you were. sitting together on his rooftop on a school night, taking a break from studying, the city lights blinking softly in the distance. the breeze was cold, but being next to him made everything feel warm.

jungwon noticed the way you grew quiet. not your usual peaceful quiet, but a kind of silence that weighed heavy, like there were thoughts you were trying to hide.

he knew you—knew you too well to ignore it.

“hey,” he said, nudging you gently with his elbow. “you alright?” you glanced at him, forcing a small smile. “yeah. why?”

he smiled too, the kind of smile where his dimples peeked out and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “i know you,” he said simply. “you can tell me anything, you know.”

he didn’t rush you. he just sat there, letting the night wrap around the two of you, waiting for you to be ready.

after a few seconds, you finally spoke.

“it’s just… maybe i’m doubting,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. you looked down at your hands. “i feel like i’m not good enough for you. like i’m just… dragging you down.”

jungwon stayed silent, letting you finish.

“i heard people say it too—that you’re too good for me. and… maybe they’re right.”

jungwon’s brows furrowed immediately. he shifted closer to you, gently taking your hand in his.

“don’t listen to them,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “they don’t know anything about us. you’re good enough for me. you always have been.”

he squeezed your hand lightly. “and you’re not a burden, not even close. if you still think you’re hard to love,” he paused, his smile gentle, “then you’re wrong. because loving you is the easiest thing i’ve ever done.”

you stared at him, your heart aching in the best way.

he meant every word. even with the dim light, you could see it—the way he stared at you like you were the only thing that mattered. like he didn’t want anyone else. like you were home.

“won,” you whispered, feeling the sting of tears threatening to fall. you prayed he wouldn’t notice but of course, he did. he always did.

he laughed softly, reaching up to caress your cheek. his touch was featherlight, like he was afraid you might break.

“you can cry if you want to, you know,” he said, teasing but kind. you laughed too, shaking your head. “i don’t wanna cry right now.”

instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. breathing him in. grounding yourself in him.

“thank you, won,” you mumbled. “for everything.” he held you tighter, resting his chin lightly on your head.

“always,” he whispered. and somehow, you knew he meant it.

no matter how scared you were before, no matter what anyone said—jungwon made it clear, simply by being there.

loving you was easy. loving him back? even easier.

© lvzrii4 — do not copy, translate, and repost my work.

[uravitypng]

yandere zenitsu behaviour you didn't realise was dangerous before it was too late. he's your best friend and you love him! he's always just been a little bit... too needy... too clingy... too close... that was fine though! he was your best friend after all! but... then you told him about a boy, it wasn't anything serious, you met him a couple weeks ago from the village over and he invited you to dinner but to zenitsu it was a completely different story.

you're leaving him?! but he needs you!

any food that boy would give you would be awful, he just knows it, he wouldn't care about what you'd like. you deserve the finest of foods, made with the finest ingredients something that only zenitsu can give you.

the night your dinner rolls around you cancel, zenitsu became ill and he needed someone to look after him, holding onto your sleeve with tears starting to trickle down his face.

you feel that zenitsu is getting clingier? he's always been touchy, resting his head on your lap, while you run your hands through his yellow hair, or leaning on your shoulder, his breathing always relaxed and level when he does it, as you constantly bring him comfort. now he's consistently holding your hand firmly wherever you go and is pulling you closer to him by your soft middle anytime he considers the distance between the two of you is too great.

people have started distancing themselves from you, you're unsure why? the townsfolk make excuses to leave conversations that they find themselves in with you. zenitsu doesn't think he even did anything bad so he's confused why they're all looking at him so scared. he just wants you all to himself, is that really so wrong? and the people in the village took up too much of your time, time much better spent with him.

"why do you keep talking to my girlfriend? don't you think she's got better things to do?" they've never seen that expression on his face before... on anyone's face. one particular woman with a nervous disposition often has nightmares about it. recently a new family moved into the village from another country, along with them they brought along two goats. one of the goats went missing they hope nothing happened to it but they can't accuse 'someone' when they have no proof, they haven't even been living in japan a year yet and 'someone' must have left the door to the church open- everyone knew who.

there was a terrible storm at night, thunder and lightning keeping everyone up and when the morning came the priest went to open up the church only to find out that it was never closed the night before, the whole place was flooded, pews soaked beyond use, no one will be sitting down for service for awhile... if not carefully treated the whole building could be damaged beyond repair.

you often spoke negatively about the priest and the church and their teachings, 'i don't know zenitsu doesn't that guy gives you the creeps too?' you mummer shuffling closer to him after the preacher's beady eyes were on your skirt.

you often spoke about how you were jealous of mrs dockerty's goat. "you'll have to keep this a secret okay? it's an early birthday present. it was a fair bit of-" your eyebrows furrow- "well let's just say it was certainly some money and did you hear about the dockerty's? if everyone finds out you've got a goat they'll accuse you and try to swindle you out of keeping all the goats milk for yourself." zenitsu's got the biggest grin on his face seeing that you like it and you have a matching one, already thinking of names.

your best friend is a bit delusion... you're soulmates! you're meant to be! it's destiny!

any time you're apart he whinges and whines when he finds out, the idea of going over a day without seeing you?! horrifying.

"those steam trains are really scary zen'! it doesn't matter how many times i go on them, it's just too fast. we have legs for a reason! i don't like walking but still... and i still have a long walk until i even reach the train then i can focus on getting into edo. i'll bring you something back, okay. i'll try and find some of that high quality japanese eel that you like that we never get to find around these parts."

his cries are louder than normal, your collar and neck becoming wet with his tears, his grip around your plush waist is unrelenting and you promise you'll give him extra attention when you see him in two days time if he stops crying, people are starting to stare at the display. he'll hold you to that promise.

"this- this has got to be a joke right zen'! i mean we're friends i can't- friends don't do that."

"you promised though."

your eyes widen, "b-but, this is- you can't actually be serious."

zenitsu's eyebrows furrow, a pout forming on his face, "i'm not asking for much, just stroke it."

you still think he's joking... or you're trying to convince yourself that he's joking but he doesn't seem like he is. he seems serious but that's what you don't understand, you know you promised to make it up to your best friend because you were apart for a couple of days but it wasn't anything serious and now he's barged into your house telling you to rub his cock.

zenitsu moves closer to you, closing the gap and takes your hand in his, bringing it to his crotch and moving his hips up towards your touch. you feel how hard he is. "come on sweetheart, you'll make me feel better right? you did promise." his voice becomes a bit more confident when he watches you look away from him and he catches an almost shy, bashful, look on your face.

"i-i," you stutter. this is your best friend.

he starts spewing out words, his hips still moving and gyrating against your hand, "i know you don't believe in the church but if you still want to be traditional i'll ask to marry you if you're still being so stubborn with that hand of yours. i was planning on asking some time this year anyway."

"marry?!"

"we've been dating for a long time now and i'm getting more and more pent up with each passing day that i see you looking so beautiful."

"dating?!" you try and move away from him unsuccessfully. "zen' we're best friends! we've been best friends for years."

"best friends, dating - same thing." zenitsu's other hand goes to your wide hip and squeezes the flesh between his fingers, a small moan comes out of his mouth and his body shudder's at the feeling, moving his hips quicker. "being apart from you for even a second is torture."

your mouth open and closes in shock. how didn't you know that your best friend thought like this?

[popsiclesarenicelol]

So I was bored 😭.. all characters aged up please…don’t come for me. The links are TikTok’s that inspired.

Tw: Unedited, written in third person..(idk why I did that.) you are she‼️

Katsuki Bakugo

......

"Kat—mm!" she yelped, but Katsuki just scoffed and yanked her back by the hem of that damn skirt. She dropped to her knees, back arched deep, head shoved into the pillows, whining like she had nowhere to run.

He didn't let up. His hips snapped forward—hard, mean, no mercy. Her nails tore at the sheets until he grabbed her hands and bunched them into fists. She choked on a gasp when his palm cracked against her ass. It echoed. Made her jump. Made him groan when she clenched tight around him.

He ran his hands up her thighs, gripping her waist like a vice. Dragged her back onto him, setting the rhythm. Fast. Brutal. Out of her control.

And all because of some punk-ass kid.

Some teenager who stared too long. Said something about her skirt. Katsuki caught the look, heard the comment, and stared that kid down until he damn near pissed himself. Bolted mid-sentence like he saw his life flash.

She had no idea. She was mid-thank you when he ran. She thought she messed up, but when she looked back and saw her boyfriend still glaring holes, she knew. She tried to check him. Called him out for overreacting. That's when it started—when the switch flipped.

"Stupid—" thrust "fucking—" thrust "skirt," he growled, shoving her head down and yanking on a fistful of her hair. Then he pulled her up again, rough and fast. She reached out—didn't matter. He didn't let her grab shit. One hand tangled in her curls, the other locked on her waist, thumb digging into her lower back.

"I told you to burn it," he snapped.

She whimpered, clinging to his arms. "Katsu—"

He yanked her hair. "Yes or no."

She nodded fast, breathless.

"Y-yeah—you did—mm—" Her body jolted when he shifted, hit a spot that made her whole frame twitch.

"Then why the fuck is it still in your closet?" he gritted out.

She shook her head, blinking through the heat, struggling to speak. "It was—hah—expensive."

"Expensive," he sneered. "I'll buy you a fucking car."

His hand slid under the waistband, twisted the fabric tight, and yanked. Her legs gave out. She hit the bed, gasping, shaking. Done.

"Burn it," he muttered. His palms flared hot, quirk humming under his skin. "Not sayin' it again."

"I—I will," she panted, voice small, wrecked.

He smirked, breath catching.

"Good girl."

Then he got serious. No teasing now. Just the end.

.......

Kirishima Eijirou.

........

Her boyfriend was strong—obnoxiously so. She knew that much. Show-off, gym rat, always grinning like he knew he could bench-press the world. But she was strong too. She could handle the heavy weights, outlast him on the machines. What she couldn't do was throw him around like he did her.

He could drag her by the ankles like she weighed nothing, smirking while she scrambled and squealed, legs trembling. And when he got that look—playful, cocky, hungry—she already knew her insides were about to be scrambled and her throat would be hoarse.

She shook under his grip as he pinned her down by the waist, hard and firm and unrelenting. He bullied his way in, quirk activated—skin turned dense and rock-solid—and she had to flare hers just to keep up. Her nails bit into his arm. Her mouth dropped open in a silent moan, eyes crossed, brain short-circuited. Kirishima grunted above her, rough and steady, while she let out helpless little gasps in time with every thrust.

Her sports bra was hiked up, tits bouncing shamelessly. Her shorts? Torn somewhere—she'd find out later. And she would scold him. Maybe.

"C'mon, Angel," he panted through a grin. "Tappin' out already?"

He meant her grip—how she was holding her own legs up, thighs trembling near her chest. She could admit defeat. She should admit defeat. But her pride had other plans.

She bit her lip.

He just chuckled.

With one arm around her waist, he pulled her up and flipped—effortless. She cried out, back arching as he rolled to his back and set her on top of him. He groaned when she bent forward, hands on his chest, face twisted in desperate concentration.

"What's wrong, honey?" he teased, voice all sugar and sin. "I thought you were queen of leg day?"

She sucked in a breath, locked in, and started to ride—hard, fast, determined.

If she was going down, he was coming with her.

And judging by the way he gripped her hips and cursed under his breath, she was doing just that.

.......

Tenya Iida

.......

Tenya knew about the girl they called Flash. Everyone did. Magazines called her the fastest beauty alive.

But that was his girl.

The same girl who hogged the mirror in the morning, scarfed breakfast in under two minutes, and left streaks of wind every time she zipped through the apartment.

Stubborn as hell, too. Always in motion. Always pushing.

She did everything fast—talking, training, reporting, sex.

It was exhilarating. Addictive.

But sometimes, he needed her to slow down.

Like now.

She was pinned to the wall, arms braced high above her head, palms flat against the surface as he moved behind her—slow and deep. Deliberate. She whined in frustration, hips twitching, trying to take control.

"Faster," she begged, voice trembling.

"No, darling," Iida murmured, hands steady on her waist as he dragged his hips in slow, exact strokes. He knew it drove her crazy. That twitch in her thighs, that impatient clench around him—she hated giving up control.

"You know I can go fast," he said, low in her ear. "But I don't want fast right now."

She pushed back against him, testing.

Smack.

His palm landed hard on her ass—loud, sharp, final. She jolted, moaning at the impact.

"I said slow," he growled, voice tight with restraint. That tone? She knew it. That was his end-of-discussion voice.

No more backtalk. No more games.

She was going to take it the way he gave it.

And right now? That meant slow, and thorough.

......

Hanta Sero

.......

Anyone else might've said he looked lazy—laid back against the headboard, arms slack, doing nothing while she did all the work. But Sero didn't give a damn. He was too high to care, too far gone to move, too busy watching her ride him just the way he liked it.

Up. Down. Hips circling. Grinding slow and sharp, angling just right. She knew what they liked.

The room reeked of weed and smoke—thick in the air, clinging to the sheets. She'd bitch at him later. Something about lung damage and pollution. All very important... just not to him.

He paid for the air fresheners anyway.

She leaned in, hands on his cheeks, forcing his lazy gaze to focus. She rolled her hips slow and deep, just right. His eyes fluttered, head dropping back, a broken sound caught in his throat.

She'd never admit it to him—hell no—but she loved him like this. High, loose, sensitive. More vocal than usual. Less in his head, more in hers. She could control the tempo, pull the sounds out of him. Drag it out until he was wrecked.

But she'd never say it. He'd ruin it if he knew.

"Left," he mumbled, breathy.

She raised a brow—then heard it: pshhh. His quirk. Tape slid through the air and wrapped tight around her waist. She froze, hips twitching.

"I wan' you so bad," he slurred, voice thick with need.

The tape moved her—slow tilt to the left, grinding her down into him at the angle that knocked the air out of both their lungs. She moaned, body trembling.

"That—fuck—just like that," he licked his lips, eyes half-lidded and dark. "Like that, yeah baby..."

He sighed, blissed out, while she kept riding—tape guiding her, his body helpless under hers, and her in full control.

Exactly how she liked it.

......

Izuku Midoriya

......

No one would believe her if she told the truth about Izuku Midoriya.

Not the media. Not his classmates. Not even his own mother.

They saw Deku: kind, respectful, always flustered when girls flirted, the type to apologize before touching someone's hand. Golden boy. All Might's successor. The picture of virtue.

They didn't see this.

Didn't see him with one hand fisted in her hair and the other wrapped around her ass—thumb inside her, palm gripping like he owned the whole damn thing—while he pounded into her with the kind of force that made the headboard creak.

"'Zuku—" she gasped, voice thin, clawing at the pillows for balance. He didn't answer. Just kept going. Jaw clenched, shirt bunched in his mouth, sweat sliding down his throat. His eyes weren't soft. They were feral. Focused entirely on the spot where they were connected.

The pace was brutal. Controlled. Like he'd snapped—and was too far gone to slow down.

She hadn't expected this. All she said was, "Show me your childhood room."

So he did. She saw it all—All Might posters, shelves packed with notebooks and hero merch, the medal from the Sports Festival still hanging proud on the wall. It was innocent. Nostalgic.

Then, somewhere between pointing out his first All Might figure and closing the bedroom door, his hand slid to her waist. His voice dropped. And the tension flipped.

Now she was face down, legs shaking, dress bunched at her hips, trying not to cry out too loud while his mother cooked downstairs.

"This—mf—this isn't proper—oh fuck," he muttered through gritted teeth. His voice cracked on the curse. The shirt slipped from his mouth, wet from where he'd been biting it. He pushed it back between his teeth and went deeper.

She whined—high, helpless, completely wrecked.

He froze.

Panic flared behind his eyes. He reached down, shoved her face into the pillow hard enough to muffle the sound. His thrusts didn't stop. If anything, they got rougher. Desperate.

"Sorry—s-sorry," he stuttered, barely audible. Not sorry enough to slow down.

She moaned into the pillow, hips stuttering as he kept rutting into her. The grip he had on her ass? Unforgiving. Possessive. Like he needed to leave a mark.

Like he wanted her sore.

And she? She loved it. Loved that no one would believe her. Not even him. If she told him how insane he was like this, how obsessed he got when he lost control, he'd spiral. Overthink. Shut it down.

So she kept quiet. Took everything he gave her. Let him ruin her in the room he grew up in.

Because proper little Midoriya? Golden boy, top of the charts, the one reporters drooled over?

Was currently fucking her like he was trying to break something.

And she was so okay with that.

......

Shoto Todoroki

......

Todoroki liked to think he'd grown.

He'd made peace with his father—at least on the surface. No more shouting matches, no more cold shoulders. He took his advice now. Listened. Nodded when it made sense. The man used to be the number one hero, after all. And Shoto? He was running his own agency. Legacy mattered.

He'd even borrowed from the old man's playbook.

Took his assistant, too.

The sharp-tongued, foreign girl Endeavor brought in to manage operations—brilliant, terrifying, with a temper like wildfire and a mouth that never knew when to shut up. Everyone tiptoed around her. She snapped at interns, corrected pros mid-sentence, and didn't flinch when Endeavor barked orders.

But Shoto knew better.

Underneath all that bark?

She was his.

His bitch. His mess. His favorite plaything.

All that fire? Burned down to ash the second he touched her.

Right now, her legs were thrown over his shoulders, arms pinned above her head, back arched off the old oak desk as he fucked her into a barely-coherent mess. Desk creaking. Papers scattered. Her lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek.

His father's desk.

The one Endeavor would be sitting at in a few hours for his weekly agency briefing.

Shoto didn't care.

Some resentment still lingered. He just found better ways to deal with it.

"Shoto—" she gasped, voice raw, toes curling as she tried to brace against him. Tried to run. Legs trembling, body giving out.

He yanked her back down, slammed into her deep. She screamed.

"Shut up and take it, pretty," he growled, low and sharp. Voice like ice against fire.

She moaned—loud, shameless. Her body said yes before her brain could catch up.

He smirked. This was how she liked it. No matter how much she barked in meetings, no matter how tough she acted in the halls—this was who she was. A writhing, begging mess beneath him.

He'd make sure she remembered.

And when his father walked in later to sit at that same desk, clean and dignified?

Well.

Shoto would still be smiling.

[the-peak-legend-of-first-gen]

HELLOOOO okay so. I know this is a weird request, so feel free to decline at any time. But…

Can I request a break up scenario with Gun and reader? Like reader has known him since they were kids because family and they had to get married eventually and that stuff. But reader lived her own life after gunny went to korea and meets him only a handful of times since she studies abroad? And its like no secret that gun was involved w other women. I hope i explained that well enough. Sorry if it’s too much tho! You can always just ignore it :P

With much appreciation and Love

~T

Hi ♡ no its not a weird request but thank you for requesting and trusting me to write this. Hope you enjoy and if you feel there is somewhere I lack or need to work upon feel free to tell✨️

Laughter and giggles of small children echoed through the air. Shintaro kept a watchful eye, noticing how well the young master and you got along. How could he be wrong, after all? He had carefully arranged the match, and so far, everything seemed to be going just fine — or so he supposed.

"Gun, throw that ball toward me!" you commanded.He looked at you, then threw the ball with full force. You stumbled back a little but managed to catch it nonetheless.Your lady-in-waiting rushed over immediately, her face stern."Young miss, you shouldn’t be playing such rough games, especially with your future husband. It’s not good for the [Clan Name]'s reputation."

"Future what?" you giggled with a toothy grin before darting off."Let’s go!" you shouted to Gun, who, surprisingly, followed you.

But before you could get too far, Shintaro stepped between you two.His towering stature and menacing face frightened you a little, so you instinctively clung to Gun’s kimono sleeve. In response, Shintaro handed you something odd — a traditional toy, a ball attached to a string that had to land perfectly into a cup.

"Interesting..." you murmured.Just like that, the two of you spent hours playing, competing to see who could get the most wins, carefree and young.

That night, a loud slap shook the household — and you. You were only just beginning to understand the violent ways of the Yakuza world, but what shook you even more was what followed: Gun barely played with you after that, no matter how much you cried or threw tantrums.

Haruto would play with you sometimes, but no one wanted to be near Gun anymore.And little did you know — that was only the end of the beginning, the first step in how he would slowly but surely drift away from you.

🥀

You were starting to understand what it meant to be bonded with Gun — he wasn’t just the future hope of the Yamakazi clan, but regrettably, your would-be husband.

The thought made your stomach churn in the worst way possible.Come on, you were only in middle school! That actor you saw in the movies was way more handsome, and he definitely knew how to treat a lady right.

"Should we go for ice cream?" you asked him one day.

"No. I have work to do," he replied curtly.

Work this, work that. Mother said this, Mother said that. Father will be pleased, Father will decide.

That was all that ever went on inside his head.

"Just today, please!"

He observed you for a long moment, a sigh escaping his lips."Fine," he said at last.

You jumped with joy, your eyes sparkling.

Gun stared, confused. Why were you so happy? It was just ice cream. What had he done to make you react like this? Where were the grand efforts?

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt your small hand slipping into his.This isn’t so bad, he thought, strangely at peace

."Why are you so happy, dumbass?" he asked.

"Oh, because you finally agreed to go somewhere with me!" you said, grinning.

"That's it?"

"Yeah! And don’t forget — I’m getting free ice cream!"

"What free ice cream?"

"You’re paying, of course," you teased, sticking out your tongue.

Maybe this was what family was supposed to feel like.He tucked the thought away into a quiet, hidden corner of his heart.

Who cares, anyway?

But he did care — when he saw that tiny smile on your lips, when he noticed how his shoulders relaxed around you, when he realized he hadn’t clenched his fists in a long while.

Who cares? You did.

And you cared when that idiot — himself — left for another country.You cried not because of him, but because of what it meant for the future.Where had he gone? Would he be safe?

Who cared?Did you care?He wasn’t around anymore, but he hoped you were safe. He hoped your clan aligned with the right faction. He hoped you would marry —Who cared?---

🥀

"Idiot! You don’t know I’m allergic to these!" you yelled, throwing the chocolates at him. He dodged them casually."I’ll bring something else next time," he shrugged.

And true to his word, when he visited your university, he brought exactly what you liked — the right flavor, the right brand, the right packaging.You threw your arms around him, clinging like a koala, and he instinctively held you by the waist.

But something felt... off.

The scent clinging to him wasn’t his.You knew he slept around. It was normal in your world, accepted even — but still, the heart wants what the heart wants.

"So, what were you doing before you came here? Did you visit the places I told you about?"

"I wanted to explore them with you," he replied.

Your heart eased — but not entirely.

"Are you still sleeping around?" you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

He was caught off guard for a second but regained his composure quickly.

"None of your business," he said flatly.

"It is my business," you retorted.

"We’re engaged, and we’ll marry soon. I do have a say."

His soulless eyes seemed to pierce right through you."And what is your say?"

"Stop it," you said firmly.Not a plea. Not a request. A command.

Whether he would listen or not, only time would tell.

When you got intimate, he wasn’t as rough as you had expected.There was a delicacy to the way he touched you, held you.But your mind wandered — was this how he treated others too?

Shouldn’t this tenderness be something only the two of you shared?

It wasn’t just that. His infrequent calls and texts had started gnawing at you.You felt like you were overthinking, but you weren't — and every time you tried to bring it up, Gun brushed you off.

"You have too much free time to think about nonsense," he said.

Instead of communicating like a mature couple, he would resort to what he knew best — showing his devotion in bed, claiming every inch of you as his.And even though he gave you his body, your doubts never truly went away.

His devotion was laser-focused elsewhere — on Charles Choi.

So you decided to do what was best — not just for yourself, but for him too.

🥀

"It’s not working," you said.

"We’ve hit a wall," you said.

For the first time, Gun truly saw you.

Not the cute, energetic girl from the playground — but a devastatingly beautiful woman.It wasn't your curves or your skin that he noticed — it was your spirit.

The same commanding, boisterous spirit, wanting what you wanted, even if it went against tradition.

Despite everything, you were willing to do the unthinkable — to leave.

Maybe if he had been different, if he had given loyalty to you and not just Charles Choi, things could have been salvaged.

Maybe.

But it was too late."Well, if that’s what you want," he said. "It’s fine, I guess.

Who cares, right?

No more Goo ogling at you.

No more international trips.

No more stupid dates and boring occasions.

Your safety and well-being — none of his concern anymore.

So why did he feel like his chest was caving in?

When he finally said, "It’s fine. I understand," his tongue felt heavy like lead.

When you kissed him for the last time, tears burning your cheeks, he tasted the salt of your heartbreak.

When he saw your retreating figure disappearing from his life — he felt it.

He cared.In his own way.

Maybe not the way you wanted.

Maybe not enough.

You two were collapsing binary stars — once brilliant, now destined to destroy each other.

But he cared.

And he loved you and that's why he had to leave.

So maybe in another universe you two care openly, shamelessly without any burdens or doubts?