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rcvcgers · 30 days ago

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Loathe To Paint You, part one

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

18+ MINORS DNI

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pairing ; rafayel x non!mc reader

synopsis ; you and rafayel are rival artists, always fighting for the spotlight. when it's revealed that rhys nixon, esteemed director of the famed art gallery the dreamscape, is looking for an artist couple who are the epitome of soulmates to be his next headliner, you and rafayel set your rivalry to the side and couple up in the hopes that you'll be chosen to be the headliner.

word count ; 7.4k words

author's note ; i would like to dedicate this part & series to a few people!!!! @zeskyzed , @kazbrkker , @jexireads . . . this is for you!!

content warning ; vulgar language, mention of an ass slap, nothing too crazy! slightly proofread! let me know if i miss anything!

my painters ✐ᝰ. ; @drowsyapple , @llamabois , @romils , @debrahhhhhhh , @kebarney , @mentaltrouble2201 , @itsmeaudrieee , @flamedancer13 , @lolightrealm , @ghoulishnero , @leeniverse , @justpassingdontworry , @yumesagashite , @m0ss-gremlin , @yunozumi , @azlyneamie099 , @m00nchildwrites , @mxkvlio , @nautismgremlin , @rafshottestgf , @blcknebula , @eve-ishu , @futurecorpse92 , @kaiii07 , @imhere2dosomething , @vyntheria , @queenkymmie

want to be a part of the taglist? click here!

The Dreamscape Art Gallery is every artist’s dream. They wish for their paintings to be chosen, to be hung on the gallery’s walls alongside other great artists. Every famous artist, known in every single country across the world and throughout the last fifty years, has been featured in The Dreamscape’s visions and exhibits.

Every exhibition they hold is otherworldly. Every detail, painting, sculpture, and layout is meticulously planned by the museum’s director, Rhys Nixon. He’s an older man now, being in his early seventies. He founded The Dreamscape when he was only twenty years old. Fifty years of excellence has made him a millionaire and has brought him worldwide fame and accolades.

Rhys is known for his kindness and sense of equality. He treats every person he meets with a gentle touch and heartwarming smile. His sense of life has been nothing but taking creative risks, treating those how you would like to be treated, and actions filled with love and splendor. He hates routine and people who play by the rules, always opting for unconventional art and sculptures that make people think. To Rhys, art should reflect the emotions of the soul while also challenging its audience to turn inward and reflect upon themselves.

The sad truth, though, is that Rhys Nixon is getting old. The Dreamscape has survived through his constant care and attention, always rotating a new theme every six months. He’s given up on so many shared memories with his children and wife, always tending to the museum and artists who fall at his feet. His children are all grown up now and are falling in love just as he did at their age. He is ready to pass down the museum to one of his children so he can live the rest of his life out in peace with his wife. Rhys wants to fall in love with his wife and family all over again before he leaves the world.

Love. What a splendid concept, no?

The Dreamscape is located on the opposite of Whitesand Bay. Rafayel is lucky to live so close by, usually taking a trip to the extravagant museum when he is need of inspiration or needs a break from Thomas and life.

The building itself is located alongside the shore, built from an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be a place to build ships but Rhys Nixon saw the potential for it become something better. The building is white on the outside but the inside colors change depending on the theme. It takes about a month or two to set up for the next exhibit, the floor to ceiling windows covered with navy blue satin curtains so the public cannot see what it to come. It has three floors, each one perfectly decorated and dressed for the theme.

The moon hangs low in the sky, beaming a warm yellow color. The stars in the sky are faint, quietly sparkling against the dark black sky. The brightest constellations tonight are Cygnus and Lyra, their stars brightest amongst the other faint dots. The further one gets from Linkon City, the more and more bright and exposed the constellations become.

Rafayel’s purple hair flows in the wind. He leans against the convertible’s door, the summer breeze warm against the Lemurian’s skin. The air is salty, the dark waves crashing against the tan rocks. The car drives away from Rafayel’s house in Whitesand Bay, driving through the narrow sandstone passageway. Rafayel smiles at the moon. He slowly inhales the salty breeze and closes his eyes, feeling the car turn down the road and away from his home and studio. He feels at peace.

“Promise me you aren’t going to fuck up?” Thomas asks, looking at Rafayel from the corner of his eye. The roads are clear, just a few other people passing by on their way home from the beach and back to Linkon City. Rafayel pulls down his sunglasses that sit on top of his head, covering his eyes from the bright headlights and to, well, avoid Thomas’ question. “Rafayel!”

“What?” the Lemurian whines. He sits up in his seat and pulls his sweater back over his shoulder, the knitted fabric soft against his touch.

“We can’t fuck things up tonight,” Thomas turns on the blinker and changes lanes, falling into the lefthand turn lane that enters The Dreamscape’s parking lot. Thomas looks away from the road, the car fully stopped, and narrows his eyes. “Tonight is important, okay? The future of your career is on the line—”

“My career? Now I know you’re messing with me,” Rafayel rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks in the opposite direction, the car now pulling into the large parking lot.

There aren’t many cars in the parking lot. The last night of the current exhibit at The Dreamscape is always dedicated to artists in the community and their agents. It’s a way for Rhys to find and assess new talent. To him, it’s not just the art he picks but the artist as well. No matter how talented somebody may be, Rhys will always choose the ones that are humble and kind.

“Look…I wasn’t going to tell you until we got inside, but,” Thomas parks the car. The engine shuts off and he turns to Rafayel, his face completely serious, no ounce of humor or playfulness hidden below his skin. “There’s a rumor among the other agents that Rhys’ upcoming exhibit is going to be his last. He is looking for two specific artists to fill all three floors and wants to closely work with them. It’s going to be a bloodbath when we get inside, Rafayel. If we don’t secure this for you, your—”

“What?!” Rafayel yells. Nearby artists and their agents look at the duo in their car as they walk to the art gallery. Thomas’ eyes widen. He frantically presses the button to close the convertible’s top but it malfunctions, moving back and forth, glitching. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?! I wouldn’t have worn this if I knew Rhys was on the line!”

“I didn’t want to make you nervous!” Thomas quickly retorts.

“Well, now I am! This is all your fault! This sweater is wrong and it doesn’t go with my pants! The cream color does not blend well with my pants!” Rafayel whines, frantically shrugging off his sweater, throwing it into the backseat.

All that remains is his white dress shirt underneath but the sleeves are covered in dried specks and brushes of colorful paint. Thomas reaches behind him and grabs the sweater, putting it on Rafayel’s lap. He leans over and points a finger in his face, glaring.

“You are going to put the damn sweater on and you’re going to like it! Understood?” Thomas’ breath is hot n Rafayel’s face. The painter rolls his eyes and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “And don’t slam my god damn doors!”

Rafayel flips Thomas off and slips the sweater back on over his shoulders. His body becomes jittery, nervousness flooding his body. He checks his fingers, quickly scratching away any leftover dried paint from that day’s work. The blues and yellows come off with ease while the reds linger behind, staining into his pale skin. Thomas catches up with him, smiling and waving to other people as he passes them by. They step in sync with each other, passing through the open doors as employees greet and hand them pamphlets of the exhibit.

Rhys’ current theme is “Messy & Sloppy.” The walls are painted pitch black. Black canvases are spread out in even increments, about teen feet away from each other, and are covered in vibrant paints. The colors mix and match, showcasing abstract expressionism at its best. With some canvases, the paint moves past the canvas and onto the walls, breaking free from its confines whereas others remain inside the small white space, barely taking up the entire piece. The lighting is bright enough for the vibrancy of the pigments to come out yet dark enough where it looks like the paintings are in 3D, popping out at its audience.

“Rhys Nixon gathered twenty artists for the exhibit,” Thomas quietly reads from the pamphlet, “and they created the art in house. It took about three weeks to complete. He would like to thank all of those who accepted his invitation to paint alongside him and his wife.”

Rafayel hates to admit it, but he is jealous of the artists that were chosen to partake in the exhibit. He would have loved to come in and join the abstract artists in creating messy masterpieces by just flicking his wrist and splattering paint onto the canvas. He wishes that he would be carefree with his art and not toss a canvas out whenever he makes a mistake. Maybe it was best that he wasn’t on the list.

“Is there anyone we know on the list?” Rafayel asks, moving to the next painting. It is mainly filled with pinks and purples, a tinge of green hitting the edges. It is reminiscent of those machines where the small pieces of paper spin around and the paint creates rims of colors around it.

“Let me check,” Thomas hums. His finger runs down the list, moving over names of artists from other countries and ones that are outside of their social circle. He stops on one name, though, and turns to Rafayel. “Bob is on here.”

“Bob?! Like…” disgust is prominent in Rafayel’s tone, his voice growing loud before he drops it below a whisper, “the guy we caught chugging a bottle of tartar sauce? That Bob?!” Thomas solemnly nods. “How the hell did Rhys pick that guppy over me? What kind of cruel joke is this?”

“I don’t know, but I am going to make for sure that he chooses you for this final exhibit, Rafayel,” Thomas nods, moving along to the next painting, “nobody will get in my way!”

“Nobody?” the painter glances at Thomas. The agent rolls his eyes and nods. “Well, at least there isn’t much competition!”

Thomas stops walking. Rafayel smiles to himself, crossing his arms, walking ahead of Thomas. When he finally notices that Thomas isn’t at his side, he turns around, rushing back over. With one eyebrow perked up and his hands on his hips, Rafayel narrows his gaze at Thomas.

“What? What could possibly have you glitching now.”

“She’s here.”

“Who is she, exactly?” Rafayel scoffs and rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest. Thomas nods his head to a space behind Rafayel. The Lemurian sighs and turns on his heel, following Thomas’ gaze. When his eyes finally land on what the agent was referring to, his jaw drops.

You stand beside your agent, Abigail, and laugh along with a group of painters and agents. You hold a glass of champagne in your hand, your light red lipstick staining the rim of the glass, and reach out to touch a man’s bicep, leaning in as you laugh. Your hair is perfectly straightened and is held back by bobby pins that are adorned with, Rafayel’s hater ass is assuming, fake diamonds.

His cheeks heat up, balls fisting at his sides. His blue and pink eyes fall to your outfit, which is just plain better than his. It is effortlessly cool compared to his mess of a sweater and designer sneakers. You wear a baggy navy blue dress that is fastened at your waist with a belt, complimenting your figure. A pair of sunglasses sits on top of your head. Rafayel suddenly becomes aware of his own sunglasses and takes them off his head, hooking them into the collar of his shirt.

Rafayel clears his throat and looks back at Thomas, who slips his phone into his jacket pocket. His cheeks are pink and he avoids Thomas’ gaze, scratching the back of his neck.

He may hate you, but fuck do you look amazing.

“I can’t believe she’s here!” Rafayel turns his back to you and the group, not wanting to be seen just yet. He fixes his hair, going off of vibes and aura alone in the hopes that it looks good.

“Are we really surprised, though?” Thomas turns with Rafayel, “She is a front runner for Rhys to pick. She hasn’t been used yet, either!”

“And we’ll make for sure she isn’t!” Rafayel snaps back. He turns back around, gasping and taking a step backward.

You and Abigail stand in front of them with smiles on your faces. Abigail wears a suit similar to Thomas’, matching the cool tones of his suit jacket but is more on the vibrant side than gray. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you swirl the champagne around in its flute.

“Rafayel,” you smile, voice teasing and provocative. Rafayel places his hands on his hips, holding back a sneer.

“Long time no see,” he cocks his head to the side, “you’re like a barnacle I can’t get rid of.”

You fake a laugh, turning to Abigail who joins you. Rafayel and Thomas blink at the two of you before sneaking a side eye glance. They shift uncomfortably in their place. You stop laughing and pass off the champagne flute to Abigail. You step forward, eyes focused on Rafayel’s, only a couple of inches separating you. You reach forward and grab one of the fronts of his cardigan, giving it a gentle tug before letting go. Goosebumps spread across his skin, uncertainty tingling the back of his mind.

“I love your outfit,” your tone is dripping with sarcasm and patronization, “it makes you look like a fathead sculpin.”

Rafayel gasps. His hand smacks his chest, protecting his fast racing heart. The tips of his ears go hot. You smirk and sink back in place, taking the glass back from Abigail.

“That’s right, Rafayel, your aquatic insults will no longer swim over my head!” you announce with a proud smirk. His eyes remain wide, watching as Abigail pulls out a document from her tote bag, holding it up. A tan document sits inside a black frame.

Linkon University. Degree. Marine Biology. Your name in big, bold letters.

Rafayel turns his attention back to you. Your smirk makes his skin crawl, a frown tugging his lips down. His eyes sharpen and yet you remain unfazed, checking out your perfectly painted nails under the hanging light of the gallery. You look back to him and chuckle.

“That’s right. I’m accredited, bitch.”

“You—!” Rafayel takes a step forward but Thomas pulls him back.

“Raf. We’re in public. Calm down,” Thomas whispers the warning in his ear.

Rafayel nods and pulls away. He adjusts his cardigan and covers his torso, turning his glare back at you instead of the crowd. Your smirk turns into a smile, giving him a little finger wave. He sticks his tongue out at you.

“So! Abigail,” Thomas claps his hands together. Your agent, and best friend, turns her attention to the man, raising an eyebrow. Despite your rivalry with Rafayel, Abigail has decided to remain neutral with Thomas since they’re both agents that deal with personalities that are…larger than life. “Have you heard the rumor?”

The two of them attach themselves to each other’s sides, Thomas even going as far as offering his arm to her because he is a gentleman (and yes he is married. His wife is okay with him doing this at events okay leave Thomas alone). Abigail links her arm with his and they walk ahead of you and Rafayel.

The two of you exchange dirty looks. You turn, flipping your hair in his face before following after the two agents. Rafayel’s face scrunches up and he shoves his hands in his pants pockets, groaning as he follows in your wake. He steps in pace with you, keeping a decent amount of distance between your bodies. Thomas and Abigail’s voices float behind them, landing in your and Rafayel’s ears.

“I did! Isn’t it exciting? Scary as fuck, though, I can’t imagine how much pressure artist’s feel trying to get one of the two spots,” Abigail smiles at Thomas. They stop by a few paintings as they walk, making small comments about the colors and how creative the artist was for using the canvas.

“I’m pretty scared too! Rafayel is destroying his career because he’s a social recluse who refuses to let people buy his art — or display it for that matter — and refuses to do interviews!”

Rafayel’s head pops up. He glares at the back of Thomas’ head. You snicker from his side, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafayel turns to you, glaring.

“That’s not funny!” he says in a loud whisper. You continue to laugh at him, breaking the barrier between you two and nudging into his side. He pushes back into you, though, and you stumble over your feet. You quickly regain your balance. He laughs now and turns his face away pretending to look at a nearby painting where it is nothing but white and gray paints on the canvas.

“Don’t get me started!” Abigail begins. You gasp and Rafayel’s head turns back to you, a devious smirk forming on his face. “She has no variation whatsoever! All she does is paint the same damn thing! People are getting tired of it!”

Rafayel snorts and doesn’t even cover it up. What a bitch! You smack his arm and he winces, turning to you, ready to fight back when Abigail and Thomas snap their fingers at you. The two of you stop, slowly inching away from each other.

“You two need to behave!” Abigail whisper yells.

“Rhys can be watching!” Thomas adds. “I…I can’t even look at you,” he rubs his eyes, trying to soothe away the budding headache that forms in the center of his head.

You move to laugh but Abigail shoots a glare in your direction, shutting you up as soon as you open your mouth. You swipe your tongue over your front teeth and turn to Rafayel, who glances at you with an equally annoyed and ashamed expression. Thomas and Abigail situate themselves in front of the two of you. Their eyes burn into yours, leaning in as you lean away.

“Play nice. Drink some champagne or wine or whatever fruity cocktail I know you’re going to order, Rafayel,” Thomas groans.

“Hey—!”

“Go look at the art and mingle with other artists, go scope out the competition for Rhys’ final exhibit,” Abigail continues for Thomas.

“With him?!” you point at Rafael. He audibly scoffs at you and roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thomas and Abigail circle around the two of you. They place their hands on your shoulders and push you together. Rafayel’s hip bumps into yours and the two of you share embarrassed looks. Thomas shoots the Lemurian a glare. Rafayel rolls his eyes and holds his arm out, looking away and in the opposite direction. You turn away as well, turning your chin up and into the air while you admire the ceiling. Abigail reaches out and links your arm with Rafayel’s, Thomas giving your backs a gentle push.

You and Rafayel stumble over your feet for the first couple of steps before you fall into a rhythm at his side. He guides you towards the steps, Thomas and Abigail following in your wake, and quickens his pace. You try to keep up with him, your heels dragging against the ground as feverish clacks sound off across the floor. He’s quick up the stairs, practically dragging you with him. Thomas and Abigail share quiet laughs.

When you reach the last step, the tip of your heel catches against the step. A gasp flies from your lips, your grip on Rafayel’s arm tightening. He looks down at you, one eyebrow raising in the air, before the momentum from your fall brings him down to the floor with you.

You land face first on the ground. Rafayel tumbles on top of you, your arms becoming an amalgamated mess.

The room falls silent. Hell, even the person in charge of the playlist at the event stops the music! All eyes are on you and Rafayel. He whines in your ear, matching the ringing you hear. His purple hair tickles your forehead, hands resting on either side of your head as he pushes up from the ground. You move onto your back, looking up at him with a large red circle on your forehead from where you hit the ground. Your eyes are half-lidded, somewhat dizzy from the fall. Rafayel’s mouth falls open when he looks at the red spot on your head, a laugh escaping his lips.

“I would ask you how many fingers I’m holding up but I think the only thing you’re seeing are floating pufferfish,” Rafayel quietly snorts.

You scrunch your face at him and throw a weak punch to his chest. You cover your face with your hands, remaining on the ground as he gets up, standing on the step below the top. He brushes himself off, the dust falling onto your crumbled body, and steps over you, smiling and waving at nearby artists who watch with amused faces.

You sit up from the ground, a glare burning into the back of Rafayel’s head. Abigail leaps up the stairs and drops to your side. She helps you up. You brush the dust off of your body and fix your dress.

“Did I flash anyone?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

“No, your spanx covered everything,” Abigail teases. You roll your eyes as she grabs a nearby glass from a silver plate, pushing the cool glass up against your forehead. A mortified Thomas walks up to you, placing his hand on your elbow.

“I am so…so terribly sorry for Rafayel’s behavior,” his cheeks are flushed pink from embarrassment, “I swear, I need to keep him on a leash like a toddler.”

“Or train him like a dog or cat—”

“I think he prefers aquatic animals to land creatures,” Thomas and you share a breathless, half-hearted laugh.

“Yeah?” you smile before it immediately falls, “then he really is a fathead sculpin.”

You take your leave from Thomas’ side, making a beeline for Rafayel’s side. He looks at a blue and white painting, one that took inspiration from the wave sin the sea. Well, that’s what the pamphlet told you, at least.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpens when he feels your arm link back with his, tugging him to your side. He lets out a puff of air and turns his chin away from you, crossing his arms, which in turn makes your arms be at chest level instead of at your side. You force a smile through the adjustment, though, and look up at the purple haired man.

“Aw, they’re cute together!” an oh so ignorant person asks from behind Thomas and Abigail. They laugh in sync, shaking their heads before turning around. The woman blinks at them. A few other people catch on to Thomas’ and Abigail’s laughter and float over. All of their eyes move to you and Rafayel.

“No,” Thomas sighs, grabbing a champagne glass for himself and Abigail as the server passes by. He hands it over and brings it to his lips, drinking the golden liquid. “They are definitely not cute.”

“Whatever the opposite of what ‘cute’ is, that’s what they are,” Abigail chimes in.

“Ugly, plain, unattractive, hideous, a fucking train wreck,” Thomas finishes his glass.

The group’s eyes follow you and Rafayel as you move to the next piece of art on the wall. He leans down and whispers something into your ear. A squeak comes from the forming group. Everyone leans in, dragging in a collective breath. When Rafayel’s face is pushed away by your hand, the group exhales and relaxes into their spots.

“How did they meet?” another person in the group asks. Abigail sighs and drinks the rest of her champagne, looking at someone else in the growing group. She hands them her empty flute and they replace it with a glass filled with red wine. She nods with an impressed smile and tips the glass to them.

“It’s a long story,” she breathes out.

“Is it, though?” Thomas shoots back. Abigail rolls her eyes and take a deep sip from the glass. “Well…their complicated friendship started two years ago on Rafayel’s twenty-second birthday…”

Rafayel stands in front of a large painted canvas. A proud smile lays on his face, one arm crossed over his chest while the other holds up his chin. His purple and blue eyes scan the dark pigmented paints, the blues and reds calling out to him from his spot against the light wooden floors. He tilts his head from side to side, taking in the painting from a new angle.

You stand from behind but you don’t observe the piece, no, you observe him instead. You tilt your head with him, a small smile forming on your face. Boldly, you take a few step forwards and take the place at his side, hands behind your back. Rafayel doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain on the pain strokes on the canvas.

“So,” you begin in a calm, cool, and collected tone, “what do you think about the piece?” Your gaze flickers down to the small piece of paper that displays your name beside the painting. Pride fills chest, knowing that you have worked so hard to get one of your paintings to be displayed in a prominent art gallery, even if it is in a desert city like Aridum.

“It’s grotesque,” Rafayel’s voice is intrigued, filled with wonder and awe. “It defies all rules of art. There’s standards and this…” he makes a ‘tsk’ sound, “does not follow those standards.”

You, on the other hand, take his ‘compliment’ as an insult. Your face immediately sours and you turn to face him.

Smack!

Rafayel gasps, finally looking down at you. He places his hand over his arm on top of the spot that you hit him. You smirk and flip your hair over your shoulder, looking back at the painting. Rafayel laughs from shock and complete and utter disbelief. He diverts his gaze to look around the art gallery.

Nobody saw your surprise attack, nobody even flinched!

His jaw drops. The Lemurian swivels back to you. Without thinking, he reaches out and pinches your arm. You gasp and face him. He has the same smug smirk you wore just seconds earlier. You slap his arm again. He slaps your arm back. You hit him again, a hit in which he returns. The two of you begin to fight now, exchanging blows and slaps.

There’s a slap to the face! A punch to the stomach! A half-opened hand to the groin! Did Rafayel just slap your ass?

The two of you fall to the ground and roll around, bumping into nearby patrons as you pull on his hair and he scratches into your skin. Your yells and screams fill in the quietness of the art gallery.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s not how it went!”

The group turns to look at Abigail. They lean in towards her and away from Thomas, who crosses his arms over his chest with an eye roll. Abigail chuckles and waves the group in closer. They follow her silent instructions like an obedient puppy dog.

“This is how it really went…”

You stand in front of your painting with your arms crossed over your chest. You wear a prideful smile on your face, eyes trailing over the painted lines on your red and blue coated canvas. The colors merge together and form a dark purple, although in the darker lighting of your studio it looked brown, and forms into the shape of a woman sobbing on the floor.

You gasp. Your shoulder lurches forward as Rafayel pushes past you. He reaches up to the wall, his hands grabbing the sides of the golden painted frame that hold your painting. The Lemurian rips it off the wall. A screech flies from your lips. He turns around and begins to walk away before you snatch the other side of the frame from him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell at the man. He leans in, his torso now hovering over the large canvas.

“This belongs at the bottom of the sea! It’s hideous! We need to drown it!” he tugs on the painting.

The two of you take a few steps in his direction. Your fingers curl over the frame and pull back on it, moving back in your direction.

“It is not hideous!” your voice raises, “It is art! And art is subjective, motherfucker!”

“Mother…motherfucker?!I am not a motherfucker!” Rafayel screams back.

“Yeah?! Well you look like a bitch and a half then!” your retort is quick and sharp. It pierces Rafayel’s heart. His posture straightens, grip tightening on the frame so hard that the wood splinters. The man pulls on the painting and you pull back. His grip inches up the frame, moving closer to yours side. The two of you move in a circle, slowly picking up speed as you hurl insults at each other.

“Bitch!”

“Pufferfish!”

“Blobfish!”

“Asshole!”

“I bet your penis is microscopic!”

“Yeah? Well it’s bigger than yours!”

The room gasps. You let go of the painting, hands slapping over your mouth. The canvas tilts up with such force that it smashes over Rafayel’s head. The canvas stops right below his shoulders. His blue and pink eyes are wide, looking down at you. He clears his throat and adjusts his stance, relaxing with his hands on his hips while the canvas acts as a new fashion trend around his shoulders.

“Well…at least it’s destroyed now!”

“And now here we are!” Abigail proclaims with a smile. She finishes the wine in her glass and sets it down on a nearby table. “They have been rivals ever since that day!”

“You are so fucking ridiculous,” Thomas points his finger at Abigail who holds her hands up in the air as a defense against his words. “I mean, they are rivals, yes, but that’s not what went down between them. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh and yours isn’t?” she quips back, crossing her arms over her chest.

The group is suddenly bigger now with you and Rafayel out of sight, now on the third floor. Their eyes move back and forth between Thomas and Abigail as if they are at a tennis match where the current rally is tension filled and never-ending. If they didn’t know any better, they would think that they are the real enemies here instead of being really, really, really passionate allies.

“So, are they dating?” an older man’s voice rings out. Thomas snorts and looks inside his champagne flute, the glass now void of its golden beverage.

“Oh, no, they—” Abigail goes silent. Thomas looks at her, amused. Her eyes are big and wide, lips formed in a small frown, gulping away her sorrows. He shifts back and forth on his heels, slowly turning around to finish her answer.

“No, they are—” Thomas’s eyes shoot open. He stumbles over his words, incoherent blabbering now leaving his mouth. The large group that blossomed for your and Rafayel’s rival origin story now vanishes. The once gargantuan group disperses, a lot of the artists and agents flocking to nearby paintings and pretending to be invested in the abstract artwork. “They are…uh…” Thomas looks at Abigail. She’s of no use, completely frozen.

“They…they are not dating?” Rhys Nixon smiles at Thomas, hands resting on top of a simple black cane, leaning on it for support. “That’s a shame. I would have loved to talk to them about my next exhibit—”

“Yes!” Thomas breathes out, clapping his hands together. Rhys raises an eyebrow. He takes a step closer to the agents. Their hearts race in their chests the closer the famed art director gets. Thomas gulps and Abigail grabs his wrist, nails digging into the fabric of his silver-blue suit sleeve. “Yes! They are dating! I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Nixon.”

“Please,” Rhys extends his hand, Thomas immediately taking it, “call me Rhys!”

‘O-Okay, Rhys!” Thomas beams. “My name is Thomas and I am Rafayel’s agent!” Abigail pushes Thomas to the side and is the next one to shake Rhys’ hand.

“And I’m Abigail! I’m her agent! She adores your curations, truly!” the woman gushes over the elderly man. Rhys’s chuckle is gravelly yet is filled with warmth and delight. It puts both Thomas and Abigail at ease.

“Do you mind introducing me to them? I would love to discuss my final exhibit as The Dreamscape’s art director.”

“Yes! Of course! Follow us, please!” Thomas steps to the side, holding his arm out for Rhys to pass by. Abigail and Thomas attach themselves to Rhys’ side, helping him walk up the stairs to the third floor where you and Rafayel stand.

The third floor is empty. There’s a few sculptures scattered across the barren wasteland. The walls are lined with more canvases but the art pieces themselves are more conservative within the abstract style. Rafayel observes the pieces, humming to himself, while you stand by the large glass window that overlooks the sea. You sigh heavily. The lights from the building illuminate the nearby waves, the white bubbles from the collision capturing your attention.

Rafael’s attention soon turns to you. A faint smile spreads across his face. Je never knew you that you liked the ocean so much. Every time you ran into each other in Whitesand Bay, he always caught you looking out at the waves, a sense of longing in your eyes.

The Lemurian steps forward, silently closing the distance between you. His eyes catch how your smile grows when there’s a particularly large wave of water that crashes against the sandstone rocks. He stands right behind you. He can feel the warmth from your body on his chest, chills running down his spine. He tilts his head to the side, admiring your side profile.

He wonders how your features would look on a canvas but in his style instead of yours.

“You know, I can always throw you into the ocean if you want me to,” Rafayel’s voice is close to your ear. You shriek and jump, your hand backhanding him across his face.

“Fuck! You scared me!” your voice is loud and trembles. Rafayel stumbles backwards, holding his face in his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t break your nose! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard! You were just…there!” You reach out for him but he takes a step back, shaking his head no. You obey his silent command and stay where you are, watching as he slowly uncovers the bottom half of his face.

His nose isn’t broken, at least it doesn’t look like it, but his cheek is definitely a bright red color with a hint of purple shining through. You flinch and close your eyes, shaking your head, the stinging sensation somehow attaching itself to your cheek now.

“What?!” Rafayel’s voice is loud and trembly, “Is it bad?! How badly did you fuck me up?!”

“It could be worse! It could be a lot worse!” you immediately respond. You turn to face the stairs, giving him some privacy for whatever reason.

Well, the actual reason being that you’re so fucking embarrassed that you just did that to him. You hate the guy and his stupid fucking fish-themed guts, but you would never want to purposefully and physically hurt him! Just his career…and pairings…and the occasional sculpture he comes up with every now and then to try and one up you.

Thomas and Abigail’s head pop out from over the stairs. You sigh and wave to them, but they wear an expression on their face that tells you that something is simply amiss. Your face falls. Rafayel’s footsteps grow loud behind you, his presence becoming all too familiar at your side. Your cheeks heat up and you avoid his gaze, feeling his disappointment and annoyance burning into the side of your head.

“And here are the lovebirds!” Abigail declares with a bright smile.

Rafayel and yours faces contort from confusion. With a shared glance, you watch as Thomas and Abigail appear over the stairs with the one and only Rhys Nixon. Abigail walks ahead, her hands frantically waving at the two of you and hidden from Rhys’ sight. She mouths three words to you and Rafayel.

You. Are. Dating!

“What?” you whisper. She shakes her head as Rafayel takes a step away from you. She rushes to his side and bumps her hip into his, your bodies colliding, and she wraps his arm around your waist like a pro before Rhys can notice.

“Ah! Hello you two!” Rhys smiles. You return it, feeling Rafayel’s grip on your waist tighten. You clear your throat and nudge your elbow into his side before moving your arm around his torso. “How is the lovely couple doing?”

“The lovely couple!” you repeat his words with a shocked laugh. You look up at Rafayel, who looks completely bewildered despite the grin that spreads across his lips. You turn look at Thomas, who stands behind Rhys, furiously typing on his phone. “The lovely couple is……doing well!”

“Yes! They are!” Abigail chimes in, stepping in front of you two just as Thomas passes off his phone to Rafayel.

He wants a couple to headline his next exhibit. You two fuckers are dating! Act like it!

You blink at the message, struggling to understand before Rafael slips the phone into his pocket. He pulls you closer to his side, fingers curling into your dress and body. You gulp. Abigail steps back out of the way, no longer eclipsing the happy couple.

“What happened there?” Rhys chuckles, using his cane to gesture to Rafayel’s freshly bruised face.

“Oh! That!” Rafayel’s laugh is effortless and cool. It didn’t come off as unnatural or forced, but rather genuine and wholehearted. “My silly cutie here got a little too excited when she saw the beautiful view from up here!”

A belly laugh booms from Rhys’ mouth. Everyone else joins in with his laugh, exchanging awkward glances and winks from the agents behalf. His laughter dies down and he places his cane back down onto the floor, resting some weight onto it.

“How long have you two been together for?” Rhys’ question makes you and Rafayel look at each other with puckered lips and narrowed eyes.

“Um…great question, first of all,” you gush, buying the two of you time. “We met two years ago at a gallery!”

“Yes! And I asked her to be my girlfriend a year later!”

“So…you have been together for a year?” Rhys leans in. The two of you nod and exchange timid smiles and nods.

“Yup! She’s my little guppy!” Rafayel laughs.

“Yes! And he is my…” you pause, swallowing as you try to come up with something, “he is my…fathead sculpin?”

“Now that is just wonderful!” Rhys turns to your agents, who feverishly nod. When he turns back to you, they signal for you to keep going with thumbs up. “Your wonderful agents were telling everyone your meet cute! It caught my attention and, well, I thought I would introduce myself and extend an invitation to be courted.”

“Courted?” you repeat. He nods.

“Yes…as you may know, my next exhibit shall be my last. I want it to be a testament to the time and energy I have put into The Dreamscape as well as a celebration of my love for the art community and my family,” Rhys sighs.

He walks to a nearby painting, one that has bright pinks and reds and purples on it. Rafayel guides you over to him, settling in the space beside him. You pinch his waist. He lets out a quiet ‘oof’ before pinching you back, your hips pushing into his as you try to escape his touch. When Rhys turns around, the two of you immediately return to normal and smile at him.

“Love. That is the final theme,” he nods a knowing nod, “I know it may be cheesy, but I have never done it before. I wish for a couple to fill up all three floors The Dreamscape. I want to see their passion and desire for each other on these walls. I also want it to tell a story…your stories. How you fell in love.”

“That sounds like a wonderful theme, Mr. Nixon,” you breathe out.

Your words are genuine. If you weren’t stuck in a fake relationship with Rafayel and in a real one with someone else. Another creative who matches your artistic genius — one that is not Rafayel — and is there to push you past your limits instead of holding you back

“Thank you, young lady,” Rhys nods his head and takes a step closer to you and Rafayel. “I need to make for sure that the couple I choose are pure and not in it just to be featured in the gallery. I wish it to be as genuine as possible. There are many others who have already tried to be my…perfect couple, but I can sense that there is something real between you two...I need the epitome of soulmates for my final work. Nothing more, nothing less!”

Rafayel pinches your waist. You chuckle and look up at him, face scrunched and disguised as a loving face when in actually you’re silently planning for his demise.

“See! That is what I’m talking about! The love you share!” Rhys beams. “I’ll be in contact with your agents about meeting again soon, yes?” The two of you nod. “Wonderful! I will see you soon, then!”

Rhys bows his head and walks off. You wave, watching as the elderly man is helped down the stairs by Thomas. Once he is out of sight and Abigail gives a thumbs up, you shove the Lemurian away from you and shudder.

“Too close!” you quietly squeal. “Now I have your douche perfume all over me!”

“Okay, first of all: rude! Second of all: bitch! My perfume is delightful! It carries the scent of the sea with hints of—”

“Rafayel, shut the fuck up,” Thomas rushes over. The four of you stand in a circle. You stand across from Rafayel and stare at his face, memorizing the way a crease forms between his furrowed brows and the way he pouts when his agent chastises him. He turns his head and your eyes meet for a split second before you turn away, a blush creeping up on your cheeks.

“So, you heard the man,” Abigail takes a deep breath. “You two are a couple until this whole thing is over…or until he doesn’t pick you then we can stage a very convenient break-up to convince him that the stress was just too much. Maybe we can guilt him into giving us some connections, you know, gain something from this!”

“That’s horrible, but I agree!” Thomas points at Abigail. “We need to keep this charade going. Think you two can handle it?” Before either of you can disagree, Thomas claps his hands and smiles. “Great! Now, I’ll be in touch with Abigail about making you two appear more…loving with each other.”

Thomas takes Rafayel’s arm and yanks it back around your waist. He gasps and his cheeks turn pink. The agents furiously fix your appearance; they fix your hair and cover up the bruise on Rafayel’s face with a smudged kiss from your red lipstick (thank you, Thomas), and even switch around a few accessories to make it seem like you two share everything. Once they are down, they push you in the direction of the stairs, ready to feed you to the wolves.

Both of you hesitate when you reach the top step. Rafayel’s hand is at home on your love handle, dangerously close to your ass while your arm is wrapped around his torso and your other hand rests on his chest. You gulp. His body trembles, just ever so slightly, and you take a deep breath in sync. With one final look, the two of you nod, stepping down the first step.

Rhys’ courtship will only be a few weeks, right? He’ll probably only have a few meetings here with you two here and there. A simple few interrogations to try and weed out the phonies from the real couples. You and Rafayel descend into a minefield, a no man’s land where your only ally is each other.

Buckle up, fuckers, because oh my, my! What a ride this is going to be!

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 i love seeing what y'all have to say! <3

#rafayel x non!mc reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel fluff #rafayel romcom #love and deepspace romcom #love and deepspace #qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #rcvcgers writings #loathe to paint you ✐ᝰ

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etheraltides · 6 months ago

Text

MY SUNSET ˚✧ﾟ

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Artist!Reader

Summarize: Reader is painting while she waits for Rafe to come home.

Warning(s): none, I guess. Rafe's daddy issues.

A/N: Something cozy cause we're all humans, right? Feedback is always heartwarming!

The evening sun cast a warm glow across the beach house, settling into soft, golden patches on the walls. Rafe stood in the doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, his other rubbing at his neck. His face showed exhaustion – a subtle droop in his eyes, a faint frown line between his brows that deepened with every passing day. He let out a sigh, dropping his briefcase by the door with a dull thud. Being the man of the family could be exhausting sometimes.

Your eyes were trained on the canvas while you brushed steady strokes on it. The loud music playing on the headphone helping you to not overthink your decisions about this piece. You wanted it to be natural, something from deep within you.

Rafe knew that after calling out for you a couple of times and getting no responses where to find you.

You were so focused on the painting that you didn't even notice when he opened the back door and walked down the stairs, moving behind you. He waited until you moved the brush away from the canva to lean down and place a kiss on your cheek.

He smiled agaisnt your skin as you jumped in place, dodging your srained brush when you placed your hand on your chest.

"How long have you been here? I didn't see you coming." You smiled at him, your cheeks burning from the jumpscare as you placed the brush down, wiping your hands on the cloth.

"I just arrived and assumed you'd be here."

You titled your head to the side, a small smile on your lips as you notice his tired eyes and heavy shoulders. “Long day?”

He looked down, a faint smile breaking through his fatigue. “You could say that” He murmured, unbottoning the fa few buttons of his shirt and making his way over to you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the outside couch, dry paint smudged on your fingers and a touch of blue staining your cheek, making you look like a work of art yourself in Rafe's eyes. Brushes and a half-finished canvas rested on the table nearby, and Rafe’s eyes softened at the sight of you. There was something utterly comforting about coming back home to you - like when that orange sunray hits your skin during a sunset.

He slumped down beside you, his shoulders sagging, and you reached out without thinking, your hand tracing lightly over his shoulder. “You’re so tense.” You remarked, your fingers pressing gently into the tight knots at the base of his neck.

You couldn't remember the last time Rafe took a break. A real one and not those parties Topper and Kelsey were always inviting him to.

Rafe closed his eyes, a sigh slipping from his lips as he leaned into your touch. “Feels like I’m carrying the world around” he muttered, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

You chuckled softly, shifting to kneel behind him. “Well, the world can wait. Let me help.” Your hands found his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the firm muscle, working through layers of tension with slow, careful strokes.

Rafe’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath, his head dipping forward as he surrendered to your touch. You could feel him loosening under your fingers, the hard lines of his posture softening. His breathing grew slower, deeper, as though your touch had grounded him.

"You and those magic hands, huh." You could hear the smirk in his voice, chuckling.

You leaned in, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Think you can relax for a few minutes?”

His lips curved, eyes still closed, and he mumbled, “I’ll try.”

You continued working your hands down his back, your fingers firm but tender, kneading out knots with a gentle persistence. You felt his shoulders drop further, his body melting under your care. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching occasionally as he let go of the stress of the day. You tilted your head a bit to watch his face, his expression easing from its usual guarded tension to something softer, almost vulnerable.

Rafe’s voice came, a low murmur. “You know… I don’t think anyone’s ever done this for me before.”

Your hands paused, just for a beat, and then resumed their steady rhythm. Your heart sank with realization. “Really?” You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Then it’s about time.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Guess I got lucky with you.” His head tilted slightly, a faint glint in his eyes as he looked back at you.

Your smirked, rolling your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “Well, someone has to keep you in line.” You gently squeezed his shoulder, a playful edge to her touch.

Rafe’s lips twitched, his gaze softening as he moved his hands to your waist, bringing you to straddle his lap. “And you’re perfect for the job, aren’t you?”

Your fingers slowed, your hands resting on his shoulders as you shared a quiet look. You could feel his heartbeat steady beneath your touch as you moved your fingers down to his chest, and something unspoken passed between them - a silent understanding, a comfort found only in each other’s presence. Home.

Rafe lingered under your touch a little longer, breathing in that familiar scent of paint and something floral, your presence a gentle balm to the weight he carried daily. The silence between you was thick with an unspoken intimacy, but he found he didn’t mind it. For the first time in hours, he felt at ease.

After a few minutes, you slid down beside him on the couch, leaning your head back against the cushion, your fingers still tracing absent patterns along the exposed skin of his chest. He tilted his head to glance at you, a hint of curiosity sparking in his gaze as he noticed the streak of paint on your cheek again.

“Still working on that painting?” His voice was softer, the edge worn off by your presence.

You followed his gaze to her paint-streaked fingers, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah… lost track of time. It’s been tough getting it right. I just...” You paused, looking off thoughtfully before turning back to him. “You ever feel like something is close to being perfect, but you can’t quite… capture it?”

Rafe considered her words, his gaze flickering down to your nails scratching the paint off your skin and taking your hand in his, a stark contrast to his own. Smaller, warmer. Your dedication to your art, to something so different from his structured world, was something he admired - quietly, almost reverently.

“All the time.” He said, his voice low. “It’s like there’s this… picture in your head, but you can’t reach it. Can’t even touch it sometimes.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against a tender spot you had just relieved. His mind went back to the role model of a son his dad expected him to be and how he could never get even close to that, even when he thought he was making progress. “But I’m guessing yours involves a little more paint."

You smiled, a soft laugh slipping out as you reached over, your fingers grazing his cheek, leaving a faint blue smudge. “Looks like you’re part of the art now, too.”

Rafe gave her a mock glare, though his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. “Glad I could help,” he said dryly, but he didn’t wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in, kissing your shoulder. “So, what’s this masterpiece gonna be?”

You hesitated, tucking your legs beneath you as you angled toward him, your expression almost shy. Rafe couldn't understand how humble you were and sometimes even insecure about your art when everything you did was breathtaking. “It’s… it’s supposed to be a mix of things. Like… nature and people and everything kind of blending together. But it’s tough. Every time I think I have it, I look again, and it’s just not there yet.”

Rafe’s gaze softened. “You’ll get there.” The words held more confidence than he often felt himself. “You always do.”

You looked at him, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. “You’re biased.”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though.”

Both of you settled into a comfortable silence, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm draped around you almost instinctively. The world beyond the backyard faded away, the pressures and stresses replaced by the quiet hum of familiarity, of being home.

After a few minutes, you stirred, breaking the silence. “You know… we could both use a break.” Your voice was light, but there was a note of longing in it.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, curious. “Thinking of a getaway?”

“Maybe.” You looked at him, your eyes bright with something he hadn’t seen in a while. “I mean, we talk about it all the time, but… I don’t know. What if we just went somewhere? Just us. No work, no deadlines. Just… you and me and a week with nothing but time.”

He considered it, the idea settling over him with surprising appeal. Work had been unrelenting, and the idea of stepping away - for a short while - sounded like the relief he hadn’t realized he needed. And the thought of you beside him, somewhere far from the noise of his daily life, was… tempting.

“Anywhere in mind?” he asked, his voice a shade lighter, almost teasing.

You tapped her chin thoughtfully, your eyes drifting as though you could already see it. “A beach maybe… with clear blue water, warm sand. Or… I don’t know, maybe somewhere with lots of art and history. Or a cozy cabin with nothing around us but trees and stars at night.”

Rafe chuckled, amused by your enthusiasm. “So… every vacation idea, basically.”

You nudged him playfully, your laughter filling the room. “It’s called variety, Rafe. Ever heard of it?”

His lips quirked up, and he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers. “Alright, let’s say… I’m in. Where’s the one place you’d want to go first?”

Your eyes softened, a dreaminess overtaking her expression as you mulled it over. “Italy,” you said finally. “Can you imagine? All that history, the food, the art… and the coastline. We could spend days wandering through old streets and galleries, then head to the beach by sunset.”

The way you spoke about it painted a vivid picture, and he found himself wrapped up in the idea, too but truth be told: he'd go anywhere with you. Even being locked in the bedroom with you would be a dreamy vacation. “Italy” He repeated, rolling the word around as if it were a foreign but tantalizing concept. “Never been. But I could go for that. Though… if we’re going, you’re gonna have to handle the language part.”

Your grin widened, your eyes dancing at the idea of trying to use all the Italian you learned by yourself a few years ago, at the possibility of leaving the country for the first time. “Consider it done.”

They talked late into the night, exchanging dreams and ideas for that trip, letting themselves get lost in fantasies of cobblestone streets, Italian sunsets, and lazy mornings. Rafe found himself captivated by the way your eyes sparkled, the way your voice softened whenever you spoke about the art, the people, the life waiting beyond their world.

At some point, he had leaned back, his head tilted against the couch, watching you more than really listening, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with their imagined vacation.

Your voice dropped as you continued talking, your words like a gentle rhythm in the background, and he realized you had a way of drawing him in, pulling him out of the exhausting reality he was constantly entrenched in. You were his escape, his sanctuary.

Eventually, your words trailed off, and you glanced over, her eyes catching him in a lingering, soft look. “Are you sure you're really in for this?”

He blinked, surprised by the intensity of the connection he felt in that moment. “Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it held a depth of sincerity. “With you? Absolutely.”

For a while, you simply looked at each other, the quiet promise of your shared dreams hanging in the air. You moved closer, tucking yourself against him, your hand resting on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close.

And as they drifted off, the night wrapping them in its quiet embrace, Rafe knew that no matter where life took them - Italy, the beach, or even just their own city - you'd be there beside him.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

#rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron oneshot #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron outerbanks #rafe cameron x you

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hwallazia · 10 months ago

Text

OCEAN, BED, TATTOO – 정우영

synopsis . in which wooyoung tattoos your skin with ink... and with his lips.

pairing . jung wooyoung & fem! reader

genre . smut (mdni!), fluff & comfort, established relationship, tattoo artist! wooyoung

taglist . @bro-atz @purplenimsicle @vampzity @iykyunho | comment your username if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist! ♡

word count . 2,1k

DISCLAIMER! dom! wooyoung (he’s a teasing menace here) sub! (and very whiny) reader, fingering, clit play, light scratches, unprotected sex (boooo👎), tattoos involved, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names (my love, sweetheart, youngie & more). lmk if i missed anything.

NIC’S NOTES hey, i’m back at the game again after a long month full of exams !! i’m soo glad, i missed writing so much ♡ well, enjoy <3

tattoos aren’t as bad as people say. they look cool on your skin and they are aesthetically gorgeous. when you were about nine years old, your older sister, a few months after she came of age, got a tattoo of a beautiful, fine mandala on her right leg, and from that moment on, you were committed to tattooing your skin—probably the forearm, you often thought.

and you finally did it when you turned 20. with your sister’s company, you arrived at the tattoo parlor in search of a certain “wooyoung”, who would be the artist who would draw the permanent (and hopefully pretty) lines on your skin.

“excuse me. um, we’re looking for wooyoung? he’s supposed to be the tattoo artist for my sister.” your sister said to the man behind an old oak desk that seemed to be some kind of reception, her body leaning against the wood, elbows resting on it.

“guess you’re looking for me then” a voice not participating in the conversation intervened. since you heard it coming from behind you, you turned around. just to meet the most good-looking, jaw-dropping, mouth-watering man you’ve ever seen, his figure leaning against the door’s frame that seemed to lead to his studio with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his notoriously pump chest.

“you must be yn.” he continued as he approached you and your sister’s position. “hi. i’m wooyoung.” he extended his right arm, placing his left hand under it. oh, he looks like a prince, a tattooed prince, but hush. “well, do you want to come in alone or do you want your sister to accompany you?”

fortunately, your sister could read you like a book. so when she saw your momentary inability to formulate coherent sentences —she’d later study the reasons why you suddenly were flabbergasted— and before you could say whatever thought your short-circuited mind processed, she answered for you. “go on. i’ll wait here. sometimes you gotta face situations without your dear older sister’s help, right?” she said as she ruffled your hair playfully, slightly messing up your hairstyle. an annoyed huff escaped from your lips with a small pout in reply.

a cute, quiet snort came from wooyoung, your embarrassed heart racing a little at the sound of it. “come on, then” he tilted his head sharply indicating you to enter his studio. you walked side by side towards its door and before you both could pass the threshold, he stepped aside the door’s frame and extended his arm, his fingertips pointing to the inside of the room.

“ladies first” he uttered in a honey-dripping tone that made your heart skip a beat. and the warm smile he gave you after you locked gazes? double kill. heat flushed through your cheeks, now turning into a more reddened hue. when wooyoung saw your adorable, bashful face turning into a cute tomato, his eyes closed even more. two beautiful, heartwarming crescent moons decorating his eyes. you bowed your head slightly at the embarrassment and entered the studio. abstract art pieces hanging on the wall; a melting-type clock on the side of one of them; a few framed diplomas embellishing a narrow decorative table located below a large window, which gave the most beautiful view of the busy downtown of seoul and, at the same time, allowed the entry of divine natural light, changing the ambience completely. he also had some plants here and there.

“so, what did you have in mind for today?” he spoke as he reached for his chair, grabbing it by its back and pulling it to him so he could sit on it. his arms finding support on the top of the chair as his upper body vaguely leaned against it. “is it your first time?” he asked and turned around to prepare the tattoo machine by grabbing the black ink he’d possibly need.

“yes, um. it is, actually” you stuttered, trying to sound as clear and understandable as possible. “i thought about tattooing the word ‘resilience’ on my forearm. is that okay?” your eyes wondered between wooyoung’s fingers and the veins that came from them, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol in his right hand.

“of course it’s okay. you’re the boss in here.” he chuckled a little at your stammering tone. ‘well of course it is, you’re the one getting the tattoo and paying for it anyway, so duh’ a bothering voice in your head replied to you, a soft huff from you was heard. “so, do you have an idea of how you want it to look?” he continued while he stretched the latex glove on his left hand and then replicating the action on his right.

“yeah, let me get my ph-” you started to say as you touched your upper body, and then your hips, and then your pockets, and then your pants... you had totally forgotten your phone, in which you kept the idea you saw on pinterest the other day of the tattoo you wanted to get. a murmured curse coming off your lips when you realized. “i, uh. i don’t have my phone with me right now. i... forgot it at home.”

“oh. well don’t worry! it happens to me more times than i’d like.” he laughed not too exaggeratedly. he wasn’t trying to piss you off by giggling at your disgraceful situation; he was comforting you in the best way he could because, after all, you were strangers. “hm. so do you wanna reschedule or-”

you didn’t think twice before responding by shaking your hands in front of you. “no! i trust you with it! it’s just a word anyway.” the words easily slipped out of your tongue, not a hint of doubt in the spark that glimmered in your orbs.

“but it’s your first tattoo-” wooyoung replied with notorious insecureness in his tone and you, unbothered, interrupted him.

“come on!” you spoke as you lifted your dark purple oversized sweater’s sleeve, revealing your soft skin to his fox-like eyes which doubted for a second before resting his slim, latex-covered fingers on your exposed skin. you were able to see a very close-up of the touch of his fingers against your skin, your hair standing on end as a result. his fingers sent shivers and sparks down your whole anatomy, a weird feeling forming in your belly and chest. you felt how his touch dragging flowers through the meadow of your complexion, creating the most beautiful garden.

who would say that that boy who marked your skin for life with his art would now be the one with whom you wake up every day, the one to whom you trust your most intimate secrets, the one whom you love and kiss every day. the one that makes you see stars.

like now, fucking his fingers sloppily from all the right angles into your wet cunt.

“youngie, wait i- hgh- i don’t wanna cum yet.” you whine as you grip the silk, champagne-colored sheets underneath you. he has spent a generous amount of time prepping you, playing way too much with your sensitive clit. and that has brought you to the brink of abyss. you want to cum when he finally fills you with his rock-hardened cock, but wooyoung seems to have no intention of stopping. he is a hundred-percent committed in making you cum as much as you physically can.

“huh? what’s that, sweetheart? didn’t quite catch that.” he mocks at you, deepening his index and middle fingers inside you and putting his thumb to work on your bud’s stimulation. a desperate cry bubbling out your throat. “but stop crying, baby. so you can respond.” his non-working hand releases its firm grip on your hip and moves up to your cheek to stroke it in the most gently way.

your voice lets you down, your tone drowning in the blubber that erupts from your lips once your body feels the consequences of wooyoung’s incessant thumb swaying over your clit. the palms of your hands sheltering your reddened cheeks.

he chuckles at the sight of you, “covering your face when you’re dripping all over my fingers?” he withdraws his fingers from your warm interior, your walls clenching around nothing due to the nostalgia of being satisfyingly full. he then covers your hands with his and takes them away from your blissed expression and pecks your lips briefly. “shameless.”

he gets on his knees in between your legs, his hands pushing them apart before he bends over your figure, trapping you between his strong, tattooed arms. you have tried in the past putting your legs on his shoulder; and yes, he does push further than usual, but it was an uncomfortable and painful position for you. so you opted for simpler things, nothing so difficult so that it replaces pleasure with pain. wooyoung always puts your satisfaction over his, doing everything he can to give you the most toe-curling orgasm every time. and he never fails.

your hands instinctively find comfort on his back, your fingers mindlessly stroking his back tattoo. “i’m putting it in, love.” he murmurs against the crook of your neck as he pushes in further and further, your nails digging onto his bare back. the combination of a masculine grunt and a whimper floats in the air, which is getting heavier and heavier.

“holy shit- ah, wooyoung. you’re so.. fucking deep.” you blubber as you feel his cockhead faintly rubbing your g-spot. his thrusts are precise and strong, driving you quickly over the edge. his sighs blowing on your face as almost invisible clouds because of the humidity generated by the situation.

“fuck baby. you feel so soft and warm. and tight” he exhals, some strands of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. he does some kind of push-up to come down your face and kiss your swollen, red lips frantically. your tongues fighting and his winning over yours. “wanna stay inside you forever. ah.” wooyoung pants out his words, hips still going and knocking a little more roughly against your cunt with every push.

“i know you can give me a little more, though” he pants raspily, totally out of breath. your fucked-out mind can only process something about ‘wanting more’ or something like that, you don’t know, way too gone to even say your name without stumbling with your own words. you can only understand what he says when his very familiar touch lingers strokes on your clit, so swollen and tired of overstimulation. the cute, pleasured sounds coming out of you only encouraged him to speed up his fingers and his hips as well. he practically is wanting to break you completely until you aren’t able to even recognize where you are, your name or how much is two plus two. and wooyoung finds your current state quite amusing, so he starts to imitate you, mocking your broken sobs and pathetic mewls exaggeratedly.

“if only you could listen to you right now. but you aren’t even listening to me, are you, doll?” he teases, enjoying a bit too much the tears that pitifully stream down your face profusely. your eyebrows furrow together, your thighs shake more than usual and you start feeling lightheaded; you’re about to fall into the abyss of pleasure and wooyoung is more than happy to receive your warm, dripping juices.

“oh fuck, youngie. ’m gonna cum. you’re gonna make me cum. please let me... fuck... please, i—” you give up on the rambling begging and let yourself just helplessly whine and mewl.

“i know, my love. go on, cum for your youngie. make me proud, angel.” he encourages you, his fingers keeping a steady pace on your bud as well as his thrusts. three or four more are more than enough to melt you under his divine touch as your throat lets out the very last shriek of the night. “ah you’re so good, so fucking tight for your youngie, aren’t you? ugh” he shakes above you as he lets out a moan that sounded more like a cry. he quickly, but carefully pulls out, your body shuddering at the sudden emptiness, releasing hot shots of cum over your belly, painting your navel’s surroundings with pearl-like spurts.

he finally lets his body surrender to the overwhelming tiredness, collapsing above you.

“wooyoung. love. get off of me, i can’t breathe.” you speak, receiving a drowned and unbothered ‘mm’ as a response. you chuckle with the little strength you have left, “at least get off of my arm?” you try to negotiate with him the dumbest thing ever. but he finally does as told and moves a little to the side, releasing your right arm from his weight, “there you go. see? it wasn’t that hard.”

“hush. i’m sleepy. and tired” he mentions separately in a grumpy tone. of course, how could you forget the grumpiness that wraps your boyfriend when he runs out of energy?

“fine, babygirl.”

“don’t call me that!”

| masterlist

#© hwallazia #ateez #ateez smut #jung wooyoung #jung wooyoung smut #wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung os #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic

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aylish91 · 2 years ago

Text

New chapter incoming!!

Sea Of Hope Chapter 8

Previous Next SOH Master Grandmaster

This masterful piece of art was done by @aoi-kanna as a commission. They are truly talented and I appreciate all the hard work they put into making this for me. Go check them out, they are absolutely wonderful!!!

Story below or AO3 above.

~~~

While Axe checked you over, Edge grabbed Red by the back of the neck and stormed down the main hatch, loudly yelling at the rest of the crew to mind their own business as they scurried out of his way. For the most part, Red's protests went unheard as he was dragged down the steep steps. Blue, on the other hand, had hesitantly approached Papyrus, whispering something before they too turned and headed past the hatch, disappearing through a pair of doors into the upper levels of the ship.

The clearing of a throat had you tensing and pressing closer to Axe. Black had once again gotten closer than you were comfortable with, standing only a couple paces away. “AS HEARTWARMING AS THIS IS, IT IS QUICKLY BECOMING LATE AND THE LADY STILL NEEDS ADEQUATE DRESS. MY BROTHER’S COAT IS HARDLY A FITTING SUBSTITUTE.”

Rus chuckled beside him. However, when he made to comment, a look from Black had him looking down instead.

Axe narrowed his sockets. “Don’t know where you’re planning on get’n somethin. Ain’t exactly swimmin in extras and you’ve refused to mend mine so I could give it to her.”

Black scoffed. “YOU FAILED TO MENTION IT WAS FOR YOUR MARKED. YOU HAVE ALSO YET TO COMPLETE THE TASK I ASKED OF YOU. I DID NOT SEE THE POINT IN TURNING IN YOUR FAVOR WHEN MY OWN HAD BEEN UNMET.”

“Been busy.”

“AS WE’VE ALL.”

Something shifted in the air, both of their eyelights brightening. Rus glared, moving closer to his brother. It took Crooks placing a hand on Axe’s shoulder for the two to back down.

“Petty bastard.”

“WHEN IT SUITS ME.” With a flourish of a hand and a half step back, he indicated the direction of the doors, continuing to meet Axe’s gaze. “NOW, I BELIEVE WE SHOULD ATTEMPT TO FIND SOMETHING MORE SUITABLE UNTIL NEXT WE MAKE PORT. SURELY YOU CAN AGREE IT WOULD BE IN EVERYONE’S BEST INTEREST.”

“Fine, but we’re not leadin’.” You could hear the creak of Axe’s teeth.

“OF COURSE.” With a tight turn, Black nodded, marching forward with Rus trailing behind with a wink. "AS YOU WISH."

Axe refused to move at first, tugging his empty socket and prompting a sighing Crooks to nudge you both. "I Know You Don’t Like Him, But He Is Fair.”

“Bastard never does anything fer free.”

“And Yet, He Has A Point.”

Neither you nor Axe was reassured but allowed him to guide you forward regardless. Crewmen brave enough to linger eyed your group with various degrees of emotion. When a dog monster growled, another was quick to slap the back of their head, nervously hunching at a glare from both of your skeleton friends. You tried not to show your fear or your growing limp as you passed, hoping Rus' long coat hid what you couldn’t. It didn't seem like a good idea to show weakness around others. The watchful eyes and aggressive postures spoke volumes to your already heightened nerves. Entering the ship did nothing to ease your discomfort.

It felt cramped and pressing despite having more than enough space and light. Unlike the previous ship, several lanterns lit the expanse leaving no ominous shadows or darkened areas. You could easily see all the doors lining the walls as well as the beautifully carved and decorated windowed doors marking the end of the hall. Rus waited near the last door on the left.

It was calm and warm, but you couldn’t shake off the feelings of danger.

“Ya c’n go inside Darlin. Milord’s wait’n.” Rus stood to the side, motioning you inside the now open door.

You looked to your companions. While Axe kept his eyelight on Rus, Crooks’ soft smile and nod gave you enough of a boost to cautiously cross the threshold. It smelled of lavender tinted with something you couldn’t quite place, the overall size relatively small. What looked like a narrow modified canopy bed connected to the wall was on your right. In front of you, under a single window, was a rather lovely desk intricately carved with polished knobs. To your immediate left was an open decorative chest shoved in the corner. Everything was of exquisite taste and quality, from the bedding and carvings on the furniture to the upholstery on the chair at the desk. The few trinkets left out were of fine gold or silver with glistening jewels.

You jumped when the door closed behind you. Axe nor Crooks had made it inside. It had your stomach rolling with nerves. You did not anticipate having the others closed out. Having Black now between you and the only exit made it worse. His eyelights were too bright.

Didn’t Rus call him a lord...?

Your chest tightened at his approach, making sure to lower your gaze.

“TRUE TO MY WORD, THAT HORROR’S GARMENT HAS BEEN MENDED. HAD I KNOWN IT WAS FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS, I NEVER WOULD HAVE HELD ONTO IT.” In his hands was a large linen shirt, neatly folded and dark in color. Holding it out, he offered it to you. “PUT IT ON. I WILL ADJUST IT AS NEEDED AFTER.”

You froze, intently focusing on the simple article of cloth. Was he expecting you to do it here and now? In front of him? Wasn’t it bad enough you were laid bare in front of all those on the deck, or stars, when you pressed yourself against Blue? At least Axe had good reason to see you. Multiple! To willingly undress now in the presence of a man other than your husband...

By the angel, what would Axe think of all this?

Black must have noticed your silent panicked uncertainty when you didn’t immediately take it. Clearing his throat, something in his tone changed. “I SHALL, OF COURSE, REFRAIN FROM LOOKING WHILE YOU DO SO. YOU MAY LEAVE MY BROTHER’S COAT ON THE CHAIR WHEN YOU ARE READY.”

It was hard not to squirm. While that was greatly appreciated, it still felt uncomfortable. Could you trust his word? You hardly knew the man. Perhaps things may have felt different if the room wasn’t quite so stifling or the door hadn’t been shut so suddenly.

Luckily, heavy thumps in the hall distracted Black enough for him to hand you the garment himself, squinting at the door behind him. He was just about to speak again when another set of thumps sounded, this time shaking the door. Growling, he finally turned when the muffled voices following the noise got angrier.

You really didn’t want to do this right now. Not here. Not with all the uncertainties surrounding you.

Taking a slow breath in, you let it out. The sooner you changed, the sooner you could be rid of these unsettling feelings. With unsteady fingers twitching against the fabric as you took one last glance at Black’s back.

One more breath.

The sound of your rattling bones was louder without the security of the coat. Placing it on the chair, you did your best to quickly dress.

The feeling of fabric against your bones was surprisingly comforting as you pulled it over your head. True to Axe’s size, the shirt almost went to your knees. It was so large the fabric pooled on your much smaller frame and reminded you of the nightgowns you used to wear back at the manor.

If only it wasn’t so short.

Though your more private areas were covered, it was not good for a lady to show so much… leg. You tugged at the hem, the sleeves threatening to engulf your hands.

“I’m dressed, my lord.”

A calculated breath was your only answer before his eyelights found you, fuzzy with a slight warble. You had to second guess if you had seen them correctly, for the next moment they were back to their bright and sharp orbs. Getting closer, they traveled over you as he hummed, the heel of his boots clicking as he circled. If you had hair, it would have stood on end at the subtle brush of his hand against your back.

“AS I EXPECTED.”

You startled, yelping when he came around to lightly grip your hips. Instinctively, your hands came to your chest from the forwardness, sockets wide. He paid no mind, eyelights intent on the bunched fabric. He only let go to pull a satin rope from his pocket.

You squeaked again when he reached around you to wrap it around your waist.

“MUCH BETTER. HOWEVER," His gloved hands touched your elbows, slowly moving up your arms to grasp your hands for inspection. “YOUR MAGIC. IT IS MUCH TOO THIN…” He turned them over. “Hmmmmm. Knowing Him…”

Your chest clenched. He was close enough you could feel his ambient heat and wisps of breath.

Before Black could say or do anything else, his door nearly burst off its hinges, a very aggravated Axe forcing it open. Black pulled you into him with a snarl, eyelights vanishing with the click of his teeth. Stuck in a headlock was a disgruntled Rus, resigned to the hold around his neck.

You didn’t know if you could physically handle any more stress.

“BY THE ANGEL, YOU WILL REPLACE THAT LOCK IF YOU HAVE BROKEN IT!”

Axe’s voice was low, grin tight as he took in the scene. “Don’t appreciate the closed door, Black. Hell ya think yer doin’ in here?”

Black placed you behind him, grumbling a growl. “AS I STATED EARLIER, I HAVE GIVEN HER SOMETHING TO ADEQUATELY COVER HERSELF UNTIL WE CAN PROCURE SOMETHING MORE FITTING.”

Axe narrowed his sockets at Black’s squared shoulders. For a split second, you could see the red orb of his eyelight flick over the man in front of you before it focused on you.

“Sure that's all ya were doin’?”

The fabric of Black’s gloves creaked. “IF YOU MUST KNOW, I WAS INSPECTING HER MAGIC FLOW. I’M NO EXPERT, BUT EVEN I CAN TELL IT’S RUNNING LOW. A MORE IMPORTANT QUESTION WOULD BE, WHY HAVEN’T YOU—”

“I’ve been doin’ exactly what I need ta be. Don’t need ta explain myself either.” Rus stumbled into the room when Axe unceremoniously released him to motion to you. “Now, if yer done?”

With a snarl, Black pointed a finger. “NOW SEE HERE YOU–”

Instinctually, you reached out, stopping just before Black’s arm. “My lord, I!” You faltered at his abrupt attention, pulling back to dip your head in respect. “I thank you for your kindness, but I should return to my lord husband before any more misunderstandings occur.”

His eyelights stuttered. “I, I BEG YOUR PARDON?”

There was a beat of awkward silence before Axe broke into heavy laughter, the loudest and deepest you’ve heard from him. It was enough to warm your cheeks as he beckoned you out and away from the room. Black gaped, slack-jawed and sputtering as you passed. You were already being guided onto the deck by the time he was able to call out one last time from his doorway.

“AXE! YOU WILL… THAT… YOU WILL EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

Axe only laughed harder, closing the doors behind you.

The sun had mostly set by the time you stepped out into the humid sea air. You would have done anything in the past to be able to look up, out, and around but Axe was swift in guiding you down the main hatch. You didn’t want to linger longer than necessary anyway.

You didn’t have Rus’s coat to hide under.

You were grateful for the darkness once you were under. The lanterns were farther spread, some empty of light altogether. It helped ease your mind against the wandering eyes. Most gathered under the brightest lamps, playing cards at makeshift tables, drinking, and socializing while others lounged in hammocks hanging interspersed between the canons. While some watched you pass, Axe was surprisingly good at slipping through the darkest areas to avoid the unwanted attention.

The closer you got to the front of the ship, the fewer people there were until you came upon barrels and crates stacked near and around an area quartered off by familiar heavy sheets. You could even recognize the stack you and Blue had hidden next to, the sheet on that side still halfway pulled down. Axe was kind enough to hold the flap for you to enter.

Finally, you were able to relax the tension out of your shoulders and pained joints. You wanted to climb back into the hammock and rest your aching pelvis, maybe snuggle against Axe and his warmth. The way he moved about though had you gingerly sitting on his stool, setting it upright from where it had been knocked over.

You wondered when that had occurred. What happened after you had been taken?

...

A quiet curse had you looking back at Axe as he re-fastened the makeshift wall. There were a few more rips in it than you remembered. If he had any sewing supplies, you would have to mend them. It was the least you could do as thanks.

You let out a slow breath, peering down at your clenched fists. They were cold and stiff on your lap. Black had been interested in them. The lot of them had been interested in general, but he had seemed so focused.

Your voice was soft, hesitant as you summoned the courage to speak. “Axe? I have so many questions, but I’m afraid… I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask.”

Axe chuckled. “Don’t gotta be afraid with me, Dove. It’s good ta ask questions around here. The more ya know the better, good or bad. Don’t let anyone tell ya otherwise.”

You picked at the hem of the shirt, smoothing it down as much as you could. “Is that true?" Axe simply grunted. Collecting yourself, you forced yourself to ask the questions burning your mind. "What is a Banthos? What does it mean to be one? And what did Black mean when he said my magic was too thin? I don’t have magic. I’m not… I’m not even a monster.”

It was hard not to flinch when, from your peripherals, you saw him stop. His voice had become more serious but thankfully still soft.

“The hell yer not. Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been told, where ya come from, or what ya been through. But you’re as much of a monster as the rest of us. You’re made of magic and hope just like me.” He came over to place your hand in his scarred one, taking a knee to look directly into your sockets. “We’re the same. Dust and all. It don’t matter about anything else. As fer your magic,” he rubbed his face with a frustrated sigh, “let me worry about that. Just know ya got it and I’m gonna make damn sure ta get it where it needs ta be.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, but it sent a comforting feeling to your chest. He was always so warm. It reminded you of your mother.

Nodding, you were about to ask about your first question when footsteps interrupted you. Axe stood, moving between you and the flap.

“AXE, IT IS GETTING LATE. I HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF PREPARING SANS’ ROOM FOR THE LITTLE MISS. I HOPE YOU HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN.”

Axe only slightly relaxed at the sound of Papyrus’ voice, not moving but calling out to the other skeleton. “I can take her when we’re ready. Just got a few–” he bristled when Papyrus entered and smiled down at you, hand twitching at his side –“more things ta take care of.”

“AND WHAT MIGHT THAT BE SO I MAY HELP?” When Axe only grumbled, Papyrus took it upon himself to continue. “WELL, WHILE YOU FIGURE THINGS OUT, I SHALL MAKE SURE TO GET HER SAFELY TO HER NEW LODGINGS.”

You both tensed. “Papyrus. Paps. At least let things settle before ya drag er away. You saw Sans. I don’t trust him.”

Papyrus looked a little sheepish at the accusation. “I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONCERN, BUT I HAVE FAITH THAT THIS WILL WORK. I MYSELF WILL KEEP AN EYE ON THINGS IF I MUST. He Means Well. NOT THAT, THAT IS AN EXCUSE FOR HIS TERRIBLE BEHAVIOR.” He came forward to place a hand on Axe’s shoulder, humble and pleading. “WON’T YOU AT LEAST TRUST ME?”

You couldn’t place the look that crossed Axe’s face from the question, the red orb of his eyelight quaking until his free hand brushed the edges of his empty socket. “That’s cheat’n…” There was a heaviness to the silence.

When Axe’s shoulders sagged, Papyrus gave him back his space. “All WILL BE WELL. I’M SURE OF IT.”

You were uncertain as to what you needed to do, but before you could stand, Axe nudged you back down. With the reluctance of a stubborn cat, he then went about gathering items he had deemed yours, going so far as draping his favored blanket over your shoulders. When all was said and done, you were left with a surprisingly intricate box full of puzzles, Axe’s blanket, and an affectionate nuzzle to your neck.

It was with a heavy heart and a glowing face that you eventually followed Papyrus back out into the darkness.

You did your best to keep up with his long strides, missing Axe’s purposely slowed gait. You could feel the grinding strain on your pelvis and lower joints with each step. You focused on the clack of your feet to keep your mind off the aching. Papyrus was already several steps ahead of you when he got to the steps.

Blessedly, he turned to wait for you.

It was embarrassing how out of breath you had become from such a short distance, especially when you knew you didn’t technically need to breathe. You were even more so when Papyrus cocked his head to look you over with a contemplative hum.

His smile was kind. “MY APOLOGIES MISS. I KNEW YOU WERE IN ROUGH SHAPE, BUT I HADN’T REALIZED…” He glanced up the steps. “PERHAPS IT WOULD BE BETTER FOR ME TO HELP.”

Without so much as a warning, he picked you up and draped you across both of his arms. You almost dropped your box, squeaking in surprise as he ascended to the deck. Your mind and tongue had stopped working from the suddenness. Though Axe had carried you once before and had moved you a few times, you didn’t quite know what to think of this stranger picking you up so nonchalantly. It was as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him, smile just as polite and kind as before.

With him carrying you, it took little time to cross the rest of the way back through the double doors and down to the end of the hall. Standing in front of the windowed doors, you were only jostled a little when he turned the knob. He used his boot to kick it open the rest of the way with a bang, making you flinch when the glass shook precariously.

You thought you saw a flash of blue, but when you looked, there was nothing there but a railed raised platform with an extravagant-looking bed, windows lining the entirety of the back wall.

You shuddered. It smelled overwhelmingly of snow and cold rain.

Scrunching his nasal ridge, Papyrus walked around a heavy round table with a scattering of papers and a lantern. Stepping onto the platform, he carefully set you down, turning to furiously rip the blankets off the bed to ball and fling them across the room with a fwump.

“FORGIVE MY IDIOT OF A BROTHER. I WILL BE HAVING A TALK WITH HIM ABOUT APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR LATER. FOR NOW, I’M AFRAID THIS WILL HAVE TO DO. AT LEAST THE BED IS EXCEPTIONALLY COMFORTABLE.” He put his hand down to pat the mattress. “IT IS A GIMBAL BED, MADE WITH LARGER MONSTERS IN MIND SO YOU WILL HAVE PLENTY OF SPACE AND WON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE TIPPING OF THE SHIP.”

When you didn’t move, he gently ushered you to sit before making his way to the windows. It was so dark now that the light from the lamp effectively turned them into mirrors. You were grateful, too afraid to look through them. To your relief, Papyrus closed the many curtains for each once. Once done, he gently took your box and stood at the end of the bed, bowing slightly from the waist.

“I WOULD STAY TO HELP YOU SETTLE, BUT I UNFORTUNATELY HAVE OTHER DUTIES I NEED TO TAKE CARE OF AT THIS TIME. BUT DO NOT FEAR, I WILL MAKE SURE SOMEONE WILL BE BY IN THE MORNING TO BRING YOU SOME TEA AND BREAKFAST AND TO WELCOME YOU.” Walking away, he stopped to place your box on the table and extinguish the lantern. “SLEEP WELL MISS.”

With a wave, he picked up the bundle of discarded blankets and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

…

It was frightening, alone in the dark.

Previous Next SOH Master Grandmaster

#sea of hope #aoi kanna #my writing #undertale #undertale au #piratetale #multiple aus #sans x reader #papyrus x reader #horrortale #underfell #underswap #swapfell #ao3 undertale #ao3 fanfic #undertale fanfiction #skelereader #skeleton reader

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stararch4ngelqueen · 2 years ago

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Innocent Possession

—

Time Written - 11:52 p.m.

Arkham Knight/fem!reader smut

Tags: Smut, possessive, breeding/innocence kink. Jason might be a meanie. (Not Proofread. Have to work on a Saturday AND I BROKE MY NAIL 🫠)

This man is such a slut it’s not even funny anymore. LOOK AT THAT.👇 THIS WAS INSPIRED BY THAT 👆

—

His lush, heavy breathing fans along your exposed, maroon muddled neck. Sharp teeth dimpling your skin in harsh punctures, not enough to draw blood quite yet.

Hands that once cradled your neck like porcelain art in the distance of the past, now grasped your throat like a damn vice, pairing with his grip on your shoulder to force you back against him with each deep, aching thrust.

One of the major accomplishments of his new identity, his new life, was to find the innocence of his past. The highlight of his life for many years was brought to him, bound and gagged as Gotham was in the midst of evacuation. Your clothes were torn and rustled from aggressive attempts to subdue you, enough to leave bruises along your supple, upper arms as you thrashed and screamed.

Now those bastards of men lay dead outside the hall. Scattered corpses slumped along the floors, dreadfully bland decor that meant nothing to the Knight that holstered his gun after his short pursuit.

Your first greeting from the armored man was terrifyingly quiet, towering over you like a beast after approaching where you cowered.

His hands grasp hold of his helmet before you could beg for your life, only trying to make it towards the Evac buses before you were hauled off by those bastards. All words died on your tongue when steel cut blue eyes meet yours, brows faintly furrowed, his jaw taunt with incredibly strong tension.

You’re his ex, but not by choice. None of this was by choice. He vanished for a year, only to be presumed dead the next.

You never hated him enough to put that label on him. Any attempt to begin your list of a million questions abruptly halts before it even began, as his lips instantly assault yours.

“That’s a good girl. My fucked out little whore.” He grunts, squeezing your hips closer to his pelvis, bullying his fat cock deeper into your tight walls.

The ropes that kept you bound now uselessly dangled from your wrists like cheap bracelets, the skin of your knuckles lightening as you helplessly plant them along the wall. Skin grew sticky with milky cum in between both your bodies, loud and wet, seeping down in between your bare thighs.

Watching and feeling your juices dampen the front of his red tactical pants was a punishment in itself, one he was feeling kind enough to save for later.

Maybe fucking your mouth would make for good punishment, listening to you choke as he grinds against your face, a pool of your combined mess seeping along your dirty knees on the ground.

“You better hope I never learn if any other guy fucked what’s mine, Princess,” He huffs against your kiss bruised lips, barely taking breaks to let you breathe. “Woulda’ rather had you cryin’ on fuckin’ toys than another man.”

Your whimper sounded like a cry, making Jason believe he could do so here right now, in this dingy room, underneath a dusty headlight. He hovers more over your back, tilting your head just enough to crash his lips against yours.

Feverishly responding to such a heavy, messy kiss, you moan fully against his rough, scar lined lips, amplifying when his tongue promptly invades. He licks with feverish hunger as a hand slips under your waist, huffing at your jolt at the sudden, angry assault on your nub, forcing your walls to deliciously clench towards a third orgasm.

The sounds he could pull from his sweet girl never ceases to amaze him. Even before his death, you were nothing but kind, the epitome of polite and heartwarming sweetness. What the hell were you thinking, choosing to date a guy like him?

Doesn’t matter if he died. No man is ever gonna take what’s been his for a very, very long time.

You won’t have to tell him now, but he’ll know. He has the capability to learn all your deepest secrets, knowing he could drag them out of you so easily.

“You miss me, pretty girl?” His hot rasp rumbles richly along the shell of your ear, sparking an uproar of your over sensitive nerves.

“You miss cryin’ on my dick, Princess? Missed how good it made you feel, how perfect you’d behave just to get bred? Tell me,” he grunts after relinquishing from the kiss. “Tell me you did. Say it loud, tell me you missed me.”

“I did-“ You spew out from quivering lips, ripples of tears trailing down your cheeks.

“I did, Jay. M-Missed you so much—“

Your voice draws out an empty whine towards your last word, hearing the collision of hot skin get louder as he gets harsher, brutal, eagerly desperate to make up for all the time he’s lost.

His sweet, innocent girl resorted to a jittery, babbling fleshlight. You could say anything he wanted, his guarded ego crumbling from the truth laced in your words.

You missed him, grieved for him, loved him. Yet, all he saw you as right now is his babbling whore, his whining little baby who never got used to the size of him driving deep into your cunt.

Honestly, he hopes you never will.

Your front further gets pressed flat against the wall, hot skin shivering from the harshness of the cold surface. Thick, precisely detailed armor digs deep into your back when he leans over you, keeping his persistent grip along your jaw, keeping you suspended just enough to breathe when he fucks you.

“S’been hell without ya, sweetheart,” He lowers his tone, whispering with a kiss of taunt as he rocks himself against your plush ass, keeping you cock drunk per his amusement.

“My baby wanna prove how much she missed me?” He cooes along your ear, smirking sadistically to your complete unawareness. “My baby wanna have a baby? She wanna have her pussy filled to prove she always loved me?”

You whine out ‘yes’ over and over, your back arching heavily from his relentless pace. The more space you involuntarily create, the closer Jason leans into you, the harder the plating digs into your back. The harsher the head of his cock endlessly strikes your cervix, making you just about lose it.

A series of curses spewed from your lips, resulting in three thick fingers shoved into your mouth, tasting yourself prior when he assaulted your soaked core.

“Language, babygirl,” Jason sneers against your cheek, despising the foul words that left those pretty lips. “Don’t badmouth me like a cheap whore. You’re my good girl. Fucking act like it.”

His other hand promptly pressed against your abdomen, forcing your lower half closer towards his waist. With his overwhelming free reign on your body, Jason bullies your sore, abused pussy with a series of sharp slaps, your clit stinging from repeated impacts.

You jolt out, sobbing out a series of apologies laced in short begs in the midst of various squeals.

In another life, he was your gentle giant. Now, he was a monster lusting after much more than blood. Jason was a simple man; wanting nothing more than the death of his mentor, and his ex’s warm cunt until he’s fully satisfied.

You whine out something that sounded like a mix between a cry and a moan. He clicks his tongue, tilting your head back just a little more while halting his hand, catching sight of those teary, bubbly eyes and quivering lip.

“Speak up, baby.”

“I-I’m sorry!” You hiccup, your nails scraping along the wall from overstimulation.

“I’m sorry Ja-Jason, please—“

You stumble over words. A pure miracle over how flustered you were to say your desire after being his sex doll.

“Please what?” He demands, losing what patience he never had.

“A baby,” you whine out, purposely leaning into his palm, fluttering your teary lashes. “Give me your baby, Jason. I want it. Please.”

His brows raise in surprise, slowly rocking his hips whilst holding back a grunt. Yes, he said it, desiring it, but hearing you beg for this. To ruin your beautiful body with his tainted seed.

“M��Not gonna stop, y’know. Even when it takes.” His voice dribbled with lustful possession while his hips stutter back into an uproar, nibbling along your lobe with sharp teeth. “That what you want? You ready for that?”

You moan out an easy agreement with more eagerness than before, allowing your body to relax against his chest.

“Y’hear me, Princess?” Jason braced a hand along the wall, clutching hold of your hand in his grasp, keeping your fingers safe in his fist. “I’m gonna make you a mama by the end of tonight.”

The Bats can wait, for now. Once he’s dead, once he’s been dealt with, then he’ll have much more opportunity to celebrate.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #Jason Todd smut #dc jason todd #arkham knight #I went from fluff to this #idk 🧍🏽‍♀️#it’s so short but I’m also hella tired from this week

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