#I hate when artists who worked on their skill turn to others who worked on their skill in a different way and say “you are worse than me

[sonotpattismith]

where I first saw you

pairing: tattoo artist!sukuna x ballerina!reader word count: 10.3k content: fluff, grumpy+sunshine vibes, sukuna is low-key an asshole, reader is depicted as a bit naive, special guest starring choso my shnookums, almost loss of virginity, smut, 18+

Sukuna loved his job— no really, he did. He didn’t have to speak a certain way to garner respect, his marked up face helped his occupation rather than hindering it, and he was finally able to put to use what seemed like the one goddamn skill the universe graced him with. Anyone who walked into the shop and saw that look on his face though might assume he’d rather be anywhere else than holed up in the dimly lit tattoo parlor he worked at, but it truly was just his face. Luckily for him though, his resting bitch face seemed to match the vibe of the shop, so his boss let it slide.

So, yeah, there really wasn’t anywhere else the daunting man could see himself working in, but there was one qualm about his job— the people. God, how Sukuna fucking hated some of the half-wits that sat in his chair most of the time. Whether it be cuddled up inconvenietnly to their significant other with whom they would soon be matching ink with, or the awkwardly beefed up masculine types that were convinced that their decision to get a big ass tiger on their back was unique. 

Perhaps he should have started working on his judgemental nature long before he decided on a career that centered around servicing people, but he just couldn’t find it in him to feign interest in their drawn out stories about why they were sitting in his chair that day. At the end of the day, it was the art that kept his soul alive while having to work with so many idiots. He loved drawing, since he received his first sketchbook at the ripe age of ten so that he’d stop scribbling on the walls of his room. 

He often joked that it was his one redeeming feature, never having been the best academic student and failing to be as charming as his twin brother so easily managed— this was his one thing. 

That was why he seriously had to exercise restraint and put on his best poker face when a group of babbling college students stumbled into the shop just shy of an hour before closing. There were about five of them, all shouting over each other and giggling obnoxiously as if they could hear any of what the others were saying. 

Don’t lose your job over some sorority kids. He had to keep telling himself as he set his pencil down, looking up from his sketchbook with his lips set in a firm line. They were huddled around the stencil book now, shoving at each other for turns looking at the choices before them. The bickering grew louder and louder until his last thred of patience snapped. 

“Oi, if you shitheads are gonna come in here so close to closing, you better quiet the fuck down and pick which one of you is getting inked, cause I ain’t got time for all of you, and you’re givin’ me a fucking migraine.” 

The group was stunned to silence, blinking up at the aggravated man behind the counter who was shutting his book with a huff. It was silent for a moment before they broke into hushed, excited rambles about how he was perfect and how fucking funny this would be in the morning. Taking in a controlled breath, he watched them shove one of their members to the front.

“It’s her, she wants a tattoo.” They all guffawed, looking at each other with barely concealed smirks that appeared far too incriminating. 

You stumbled forward, bracing your hands on the counter as the room seemed to spin around you. The apples of your cheeks were flushed red, but he assumed it was your nerves, along with the fact that your gaze couldn’t seem to focus on the man before you. 

“It’s late, so if you want something it’s gotta be small.” Sukuna explained with poorly concealed annoyance as he stood up to begin prepping a chair. He heard you begin to speak, but you were quickly cut off by the boisterous group surrounding you. 

“It can be small!” One of the guys insisted desperately as he guided you by your shoulders to sit in the leather, reclining chair the tattoo artist was standing by. “She wants a…” His words trailed off as he glanced back at the giggling group, who were all giving him a thumbs up as they shouted various ideas at him. “A tramp stamp! She wants a tramp stamp.”

Sukuna felt his jaw tick at the outdated term, but he swiveled his head to face you nonetheless. 

“You fuckin’ mute or what?” He grumbled as he snatched the stencil book from the group. 

“N-No, I… they told me they’d pick something nice for me.” Your words slurred almost unintelligbly, and, upon closer inspection, he was taking note of the blearly look in your eyes. 

“You plastered right now?” 

“She’s only had a couple drinks!” One of the girls defended quickly, leaning the entire upper half of her body across the counter in anticipation. “But she’s been talking about this for like everrr.” 

Something about their eagerness to speak for you sounded off warning alarms in his mind, but he shook his head nonetheless. 

“You ever done this before?” The pink-haired man questioned as he donned a pair of gloves. 

“Umm…” You hummed nonsensically, head lolling to the side to watch him snap on the last glove. His deadpan expression made you flush with embarrassment, staring down self-consciously at your ink-free skin. “No.”

��This one! She wants this one!” Another degenerate spoke up, pointing excitedly to the stencil depicting various sized lipstick marks that would traverse the expanse of your lower back. When you leaned your head forward to look, he quickly snatched the book away from your line of sight. 

Sukuna watched the motion with narrowed eyes, irritation slowly creeping up each of his fingers with an urge to ring someone’s neck out. Glancing back at the way you were slumped back in the chair, eyes barely able to stay open, he gave a curt shake of his head. 

“Nah,” He finalized, ripping his gloves off before tossing them in the bin beside him. “I don’t know what it is you lowlives call a joke, but I ain’t the one. Take her home.”

The group quickly broke out into a string of protests, walking around the counter to level with the man, but he had already made up his mind. 

“C’mooon, man!” The guy pleaded with the stencil book still clutched in his grasp. “She’s fine! I’ll pay extra, c’mon!”

Sukuna stepped forward to snatch the book from his grasp, pointing it back at your figure still sat obliviously beside them. 

“She can barely fucking sit up straight. Take her home before you seriously piss me off.” He repeated once again. 

There was an encore of disappointed groans from the idiotic group that had brought you in. 

“Whatever man, there are like three artists on this block. We’ll go somewhere that actually wants to make money.” The ringleader quipped before grasping at your arm to pull you up.

All at once, his patience seemed to drain from him as his hand came forward to grip the man’s wrist in warning. Sukuna towered over him, his broad shoulders unknowingly blocking you from his view as he tilted his head at him. 

“Yeah? How ‘bout I call the fucking cops?” The shadows seemed to cast an impossibly more intimidating aura to his already less than welcoming expression. “Or do you wanna take this outside?” 

The group could be heard murmuring to each other, weighing their options out and deciding their cruel joke wasn’t worth whatever fate this man had in store for them should they continue. Upon acknowledging the fearfully complacent expression on the guy’s face, Sukuna leaned back, dragging his gaze across the group where not one of them stepped up to defend you in your inebriated state. 

As the idiot rushed to get you up so they could hightail it far away from this shop, the artist shook his head, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s fine there.” Sukuna said simply, not trusting that any one of these lowlives had even the slightest intention of taking you home unscathed that night. 

Baffled eyes stared up at him, but he remained resolute in his decision. It didn’t take much convincing at all though, because soon enough the group was scrambling out of the shop without so much as a second look at their ‘friend’. 

With an aggravated growl, Sukuna finally turned to face you again, only to find you passed out against the leather chair. He pursed his lips in annoyance, carefully reaching out to jostle your shoulder. You groaned softly, your still flushed face falling against your shoulder. 

“C’mon, brat.” He grumbled, glancing at the clock on the wall and deciding he deserved to close the shop a little early tonight. His boss would just have to get an explanation the next day. Reaching up, he gently pinched your warm cheek between his knuckles in an attempt to rouse you from your comatose state. “Where does your sorry ass live?”

Your eyes opened blearily, and it almost appeared as though there were two of him. Trying desperately to focus your gaze, a dumb smile spread across your face as you reached up to poke at his cheekbones. He grimaced, trying to shift his head away from your reach. 

“Haha, ‘sup four eyes?” You giggled deleriously at your own joke. 

“Yeah, real funny,” Sukuna quipped with a huff as you tossed your head back against the chair to close your eyes again. “Hey, hey, no, wake up and tell me where the hell it is I need to drop you off at.”

You only hummed sleepily at his words, and it was clear that he’d already lost you once again. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly through his nose to calm his temper. When he opened them once again, your lips were parted ever-so-slightly as you slipped off into a drunken slumber. 

He tsked in frustration before giving you a once over. You didn’t have a bag on you, and he wondered if your ‘friends’ had taken it with them. Glancing down at your pockets, he carefully reached down to feel around for a phone or wallet that he could use to get you home. When your front pockets proved to be useless, he grimaced slightly as he slumped you forward to search your back ones, sighing in anguished relief when he procured a cell phone. 

“Fuck.” He growled out when the damned thing prompted him for a passcode. 

In a desperate attempt to get you the hell out of his shop, he began pounding in random variations of four digit codes. Typical ones, 1-2-3-4, 0-0-0-0, 9-9-9-9, anything that might get him out of the situation he’d put himself in. After countless attempts though, he nearly tossed the device across the room when it alerted him that he was locked out due to too many failed attempts. Opting to toss the wretched thing on the table beside him, he groaned up at the ceiling. 

This is what I get for not minding my own damn business for once in my god-forsaken life.

There was a light scratching noise that flooded your consciousness. With it, came the realization that your brain was absolutely pounding against your skull, and you were sure there was a knot in your back that no amount of stretches would be able to unfurrow for at least another week. Parting your lips to lick the desert-like dryness from them, you noted that your mouth was just as parched. 

It was cold— far colder than you ever dared to keep your dorm room set at, and the sensation manifested goosebumps that prickled at every inch of your exposed skin. Despite this, there was a sheen sweat that was lining the back of your neck as you attempted to stretch. The nearly forgotten scratching stopped abruptly at your movements, and you slowly pried your eyes open. 

“Oh my god.” Your rasped voice blurted out as you came to the gruelling realization that the ceiling you were staring up at was not that of your room. Sitting up with a start, you frantically took in your surroundings as your mind reeled with the feeble attempt to remember what had transpired the night before. 

There were a myriad of… unique posters lining the walls, and, from where you were sitting, you could see a counter filled with various body jewelery. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front were drawn, making it difficult for you to determine what time it was, though you could swear you saw a sliver of sunlight peeking out through the cracks. 

Your hands suddenly began feeling around your own body in search of your phone, but you came up short. 

“It’s on the table.” Came an unfamiliarly deep voice on your right. 

Whipping your head around so quickly that it nearly made you dizzy, you caught sight of the monstrous-sized man lounging on the leather seat on the opposite end of the room. His hair was disheveled, but you were still caught off guard by its soft pink hue as strands strew across his forehead. An intricate work of black tattoos lined his face, emphasizing the secondary set of eyes he had inked under his real ones. 

“Oh my god!” You repeated with a mortified expression. He set aside the notebook that was perched on his lap to stand from his seat, and you shrunk farther into yours as he stretched to his full height. “Did we… oh my god, did I get a tattoo?” You weren’t sure which outcome sounded scarier to you as you frantically began assessing your skin for any evidence. 

“Check your ass.” He quipped with an amused glint on his otherwise stoic expression, but it almost broke upon seeing the horrified look on your face. “I’m fucking with you. Nothing happened— no thanks to your dumbass choice of friends though.”

You slowly settled back against the leather seat, trying to calm your racing heart as his words sunk in. With a vague haze, you could recall going out with a few members from your class who you were paired with for a group project. They weren’t exactly your friends, but you were desperately trying to change that being new to the city where you had begun university. 

“What… what do you mean?”

“I mean, they brought you in here telling me to tat you. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open. I told ‘em to fuck off.” His explanation was nonchalant as he began organizing a few things behind the counter. “And your sorry ass wouldn’t wake up long enough to tell me where you lived.”

The hazy puzzle pieces slowly started to come together, and you felt yourself flush instantly. Glancing at the time on your phone that was waiting for you just beside your seat, you noted it was still far too early for a tattoo parlor to be open. 

“I’m so sorry, this is mortifying—” You babbled as you stood up, quickly trying to straighten your rustled clothes. “I’m not from around here, and I was just trying to make some friends, but I didn’t know that—”

“Woah, woah woah,” The man before you grimaced with a wave of his hand to halt your rant. The warmth in your cheeks grew that much hotter at the realization of your rambling. “I just spent the night on a damn tattoo chair. I am nowhere near awake enough for your sob story right now, doll.”

“Right, sorry. Um, I should really get out of your hair.” You stammered, glancing awkwardly down at your feet as you made a beeline for the front door. With a barely noticeable hesitance, you turned back toward him one more time. “Thank you, by the way. That was… really cool of you.”

Sukuna watched with a lazy gaze as you pulled at the door only to be met with stark resistance. With a quiet huff, you used both hands this time to try to wrestle it open, even attempting to push it just in case. His long legs slowly dragged toward the front of the store with a tired mischievousness. Reaching over you, he switched the door unlocked before leaning back again, watching as the heat creeped up your neck. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled once again in humiliation, unable to face him as you finally pulled the door open. In an instant though, his hand was reaching above your head to hold the door closed. Your heart leaped into your throat, a nervous sweat nearly breaking out onto your forehead as you hesitantly looked up at him. 

“No friends is better than shit ones, you hear me?” One of his brows was raised as he glowered down at you, and the breath slowly escaped your lungs. 

His broad figure made sure his shadow consumed you, and from this close your clouded mind was finally able to process how terrifyingly hot this man was. Not trusting your voice, you could only nod meekly at his solemn advice, nearly crying in relief when he finally pushed off the door and allowed you to slip through it. 

In the end, you, by the grace of a higher being, made it to practice only ten minutes late, though you were still scolded by your instructor since you cut into your warm-up time. It was arguably the hardest practice you’d yet to endure, what with the crink it your back from spending the night on a tattoo chair. 

The more you thought about the mortifying events that had transpired the night before, the more you wished you could take your brain right out of your skull and hose it down in hopes of forgetting all about it. It was humiliating to think of how naive you had been to keep accepting drinks from the group you were with, who were still essentially strangers to you. Still, you were desperate for some friends after having spent an entire semester holed up in your dorm with nothing to do and no one to see. 

You had moved to the city from a small town, the kind where everyone knew everyone, and the culture of hospitality was far different from the uppity vibes you had received from nearly every new person you had met here. It was never really in your plans to move so far from home, but the university you had been accepted into had one of the best ballet programs in the country, and it had been your dream to dance professionally since you were six years old and perfected your first pirouette.

Still, you hadn’t expected to sacrifice so much to make it happen. 

You were friendly with the other members of your ballet group, but they all seemed to have already known each other for so long. It was more difficult than anything— trying to fit yourself into friend groups that had already been solidifying for years before your appearance. So, when your group members invited you out with them that night, you were more than elated to go along with whatever they had planned. 

You groaned in frustration, gently hitting your head against the wall of your shower as you washed off the sweat that had built up from your questionable night as well as practice later that day. There were at least five minutes spent inspecting your naked body in the mirror to confirm that you did not in fact have any unexpected ink anywhere. 

Despite your being in the clear, you couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of what could have happened had the kind yet terrifying tattoo artist not been as decent of a human being as he was. The guilt and embarrassment gnawed away at you in the few days that followed at the thought of the complete stranger staying with you in the shop until your stupidly drunk self decided to wake up. You thought of his parting words as well, that made you feel even a tiny bit better about your less than fortunate social circumstances.

It was an impulsive urge spurred on by your incessant boredom just two days later that had you meticulously weighing out the ingredients for the easiest cookie recipe you could manage in your dorm’s tiny kitchen. You heard the timer ring in the next room as you tied your hair up in front of the mirror. After carefully packaging the baked goods in a leftover, holiday themed cookie tin with a neatly written ‘thank you for not tattooing me!’ note written on some pink stationary, you set off for the shop that had been haunting you for the past two days. 

The lit up, neon red ‘TATTOO’ sign that hung outside the front seemed to buzz ominously as you stared up at it. It was never the type of… establishment you ever frequented, but it was far from you to judge given your previous circumstances. 

With an anxious sigh, you pushed into the door, hearing the faint jingle of the bell attached to it. The shop was fairly busy, a stark difference from that morning you’d woken up in it prior to its opening. 

“Welcome in. You here for a tattoo or a piercing?” You were pulled from your thoughts as a man behind the counter greeted you. He definitely fit the part, you thought as you took in his tattooed nose and pierced lips. What appeared to be eyeliner was smudged haphazardly around his already ominous, dark orbs, and there were two spiked out buns at the top of his head. 

“Um, neither actually.” You flushed unnecessarily, your fingers curling tighter around your tin as he raised a curious brow at you. Mustering up a kind smile, you finally found the courage to look him in the eyes. “I’m looking for a guy that works here. Tall, pink hair, face tattoos— do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Sukuna? Yeah, he’s working on an appointment right now.” The man explained as he looked at the time. You opened your mouth to ask if he would be so kind as to just give him the tin whenever he got out, but he cut you off. “He should be finishing up soon if you wanna wait here for him.”

Abruptly shutting your mouth, you weren’t sure why you couldn’t bring yourself to decline his offer, far too self-conscious about your every breath in this place. Nodding in thanks, you slowly sat down on the low, leather black couch that was in the waiting area. You clacked your nails anxiously against the tin in your lap, hyperaware of the man’s eyes still on you. 

“So, what’s in the container?” He questioned with a curious glint in his eyes, jutting his chin toward your lap. Looking up at him in surprise, you offered a bashful smile.

“Oh, they’re just cookies.” You explained with a nonchalant wave of your hand. 

His intimidating expression seemed to melt right off of his face, darkly lined eyes lighting up in a way that gave him a child-like aura. Smiling knowingly, you stood to walk over to the counter and opened the tin to offer him one. The boyish smile he gave instantly fought off any fear you previously held toward him, and the tension in your shoulders slowly faded as he eagerly grabbed one. 

“‘Thank you for not tattooing me’?” The man read the card through cookie-filled cheeks, crumbs gathering around his lips as he looked up at you in question. “I’ve gotta hear this—”

“Choso, get him a tube of aftercare, will ya’?” That familiar, deep voice saved you from the embarrassment of having to explain yourself to the kind man at the front desk. Sukuna, as you had now learned his name was, was walking in from the back followed by a shorter man. His movements faltered upon seeing you in the shop again. 

His ruby eyes took in your soft appearance in contrast to the gothic decorations that adorned the shop. You stuck out like a sore thumb, with your baby pink cardigan and perfectly glossed lips, and he couldn’t for the life of him think of why you would step foot back in here. 

“Sorry, doll, bed and breakfast is closed.” He quipped as nodded at the customer who had stopped to thank him again before exiting the store. You flushed at his jab, wondering why you bothered humiliating yourself like this. 

“She made you cookies.” Choso announced excitedly, once again with his mouth stuffed.

“Yeah? Then why the hell are you eating them?” He grumbled, swatting the man on the back of the head as he raised his hands in mock defense. The pink haired man walked behind the counter, picking up your note and skimming it with a raised brow before casting his eyes to the side dismissively. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought you had flustered him. “Don’t gotta thank me for not being an asshole.”

As he leaned over to distract himself with checking the computer for his next appointment, Choso stared incredulously between him and you.

“You can thank me, I’m not an asshole.” He gushed, leaning his forearms on the counter to smile invitingly at you. His eyes skimmed your face before a flush fell over his cheeks. “Won’t tat you either if it means a pretty girl brings me cookies, too.”

“Quit being such a freak.” Sukuna growled as he elbowed him, finally tearing his gaze away from the computer to close the tin back up before Choso could steal another, but he was far too focused on getting your attention to pay the grouch any mind.

“How ‘bout a piercing, hm? Bet you’d look reeeal cute with a septum ring.” 

“Oh, um…” You flushed at his words, subconsciously reaching up to touch your bare nose. “I’m actually in ballet, and they’re pretty strict about—”

“Ballet?” Choso guffawed, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he huffed at the energetic man. “That’s so tight. So you do like shows and cool shit like that?”

“Yeah! I… actually have a recital coming up next week.” You explained enthusiastically, eager to connect in any way you can to the first person who’s shown you any sort of kindness since moving here. Without stopping to think about how desperate you might appear, you fished out a spare handout from your bag. “You should come— y’know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

The pierced man before you snatched up the paper eagerly, dark eyes skimming the contents before he slumped in disappointment. 

“No can do, I’m working that night.” He sighed before turning to Sukuna, who had been watching the exchange with a barely concealed glare. “You should totally go though— he can go, right?”

You were undeniably flustered as you looked up at the man you had come here for, who looked less than enthused about your sudden turning up to the shop again. God, were you totally out of your element inviting this insanely attractive, crushingly edgy man to your ballet? Gulping down your nerves, you nodded softly, offering a timid smile. 

“Y-Yeah! Of course—”

“What the fuck would possess you to think I look like a dude who goes to ballets?” 

Your words died in your throat, and you felt all the blood rush to your face so embarrassingly fast that the only possible solace would be if the ground opened up below you and swallowed you whole. Looking down at your pristinely manicured nails, you dug your top lip mercilessly between your teeth. 

“Well, I-I usually invite my friends, but… it’s my first show since moving here, and I don’t… really know anyone, so…” It was as if you were growing more pathetic by the second, and you willed yourself to just shut the fuck up.

Sukuna, on the other hand, felt his stone cold heart shrivel up in horror at your words. Even with all the terrified glances he’d get from passerbyers on the street, and all the children he’d scared to tears with just a sharp glance their way, he had never felt like more of a monster than he did in that very moment watching your lively face dim so abruptly. 

He remembered what you had said the other day about trying to make some friends, and apparently you were desperate enough to get yourself in the position he’d had to pull you out of himself to do so. Beside him, he could feel Choso stepping on his toes as if to tell him to take it easy on you, but he was already wallowing in a pool of his own guilt. 

With a guarded scowl, Sukuna snatched the paper from his half-brother’s hands, red eyes skimming it furiously as you began apologizing for disturbing him. As you turned to make a desperate speed-walk toward the door, he spoke up. 

“Better be fucking good, brat.” 

Pausing mid-step, a subtle warmth spread in your chest as you slowly turned back around with a tickled smile. He didn’t deserve it, he was sure of it— not with the way your eyes lit up the entire room as if he’d just found the cure to cancer or solved world hunger. No, he’d just stepped on your innocent offer with the sole of his heavy, black boot after you’d just brought him home-made cookies for not tattooing you while you were under the influence. He didn’t deserve the way you flashed your teeth at him. 

“Heading to practice right now, boss.” You beamed with a mock salute before making your way to the exit with more pep in your step than had been there previously. Just before the door shut behind you, you shouted over your shoulder. “I hope you like the cookies!” 

“Why doesn’t this type of shit happen to me?” Choso questioned rhetorically as he stared longingly at the door you just left through with a shake of his head. “You’re a real asshole, you know?” 

And, boy, did he know it. 

While you had been flattered at Sukuna’s implication that he’d be showing up to your recital, a larger part of you was coming to terms with the fact that there was no way in hell that dude was coming. You couldn’t blame him. After all, you were essentially strangers, and it truly didn’t seem like his scene. Still, it would have been nice to have one person coming in your support. 

Sighing wistfully, you sprayed the final touches of hairspray into your slicked back bun, turning your head to the side to assure there were no stray strands. The lights of the dressing room mirror reflected the subtle glitter on your eyelids as you watched your fellow dancers bustle around behind you as they also prepared. 

Resisting the urge to bite at your lip for fear of ruining your lipstick, you glanced down at the message on your phone. 

Mom: Please send me a recording! I hate that I can’t be there for you today :(

In all your years as a dancer, you had always had someone there for you in the audience to cheer you on. Whether it be your family or your hometown friends, someone was always waiting for you outside with flowers and a proud smile. Swallowing down your self-pity, you gave yourself one last once over before you heard your three minute warning. If you weren’t dancing for anyone, you determined, you would just have to do it for yourself. 

That was the notion that got you through both of your group numbers and your solo. With every pointed kick and turn, you reminded yourself that this was for the life you were working so hard to achieve. The stage lights were blinding, and the beautifully orchestrated music almost made you forget that you were so upset in the first place. It showed on your face though, you were sure. After all, every instructor you’d ever had always told you that your expression would tell the story of your number louder than any lyrics ever could.

With all the preparation that went into every recital, you still never failed to be shocked whenever it ended so suddenly. There was a strong sense of pride bubbling in your stomach as your team met up backstage for a few celebratory photos. That familiar buzz came to an end though as everyone began departing, all greeted by friends, families, or lovers. With a wistful smile, you tugged your jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the frigid air. 

“There you are— jesus,” A man sighed in exasperation as you accidentally shouldered into him, his hand closing around your arm before you could walk away. “All you people look the damn same with your hair like that.”

Looking up in bewilderment, your jaw fell open in surprise upon seeing that familiar head of pink hair. He was scanning the area with an awkward tension in his shoulders, as though he felt out of place in the midst of all these ballerinas— he certainly looked out of place. 

There was a black, button down dress shirt clinging mercilessly to his sculpted form, the first few buttons undone and revealing a teasing amount of his chest. As if it was the only color that ever graced his closet, his slim-fitting dress pants were also black, emphasizing his slim waist as it contrasted against his broad shoulders. 

Your lips parted as you took in his appearance, and you could swear the air around you grew at least five degrees warmer. As if your face couldn’t get any hotter, your eyes finally landed on the arrangement of flowers clutched in his hands. He glanced down at them with what seemed like an annoyed expression before shoving them toward you. 

“My brother said you’re supposed to bring crap like this to these things…” He explained, still not looking you in the eyes as you slowly took the bouquet into your arms.

“You actually came.” You commented, still a bit shell shocked to see him here. 

“I said I was gonna, didn’t I?” It came out harsher than he would have liked, but he couldn’t help but feel so oddly out of place before you. 

“Right.” You muttered pathetically, looking down at your feet so he wouldn’t see the flush in your cheeks. After taking a moment to compose yourself, you offered a hopeful smile that struck him like lightning. “Did you like the show?”

“You were alright, brat.” Sukuna grumbled as he peered down at you. 

It was a gross understatement though, because the man was absolutely floored when he saw you on that stage. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before— so used to the heavy metal and the harsher things in life. As soon as that center light hit you though, reflecting the ardently despaired expression on your intricately done up face as you allowed the music to take hold of you, it was as though you had cast a spell on him. 

The flowers in his lap nearly dropped to the floor as he found himself subconsciously leaning forward in his seat, lips parted in disbelief. You were angelic, each of your calculated movements translating etherally into the overall story you were conveying through your choreography. Even the subtle positioning of your delicate fingers seemed intricately thought out, pulling him further into your orbit. It made him want to trap you in your own little snow globe to put you on his shelf, ready to twirl so breathtakingly each time he longed for it. 

Yeah, maybe alright was an understatement, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to you. Even now, as you smiled up at the waiter taking your order, Sukuna pretended not to be enamoured by the way your stage makeup made your eyes glitter under the restaurant's dim lighting. He had insisted on taking you to dinner following the show, not exactly asking and certainly not taking no for an answer as he led you to his sleek, black car with an urging hand on the nape of your neck. 

And you— you were far too elated to be making a friend to care about his off-putting demeanor. You barely had the chance to be remotely nervous over the fact that this teetered very closely on the edge of being a date with a man you would have deemed far out of your league just days ago. 

“So, you own the tattoo shop?” Your soft voice pulled him from his haze once the waiter placed your plates in front of you. You leaned forward on the table, a curious smile tugging at your red painted lips.

“Hah— yeah, that’s fucking hilarious.” He scoffed with an amused grin, leaning back as he took a sip of his drink. Taking note of the barely concealed confusion on your face, he cleared his throat, trying to remind himself to be on his best behavior. “I mean, I just finished my apprenticeship— don’t got the kind of money it takes to own my own shop.”

“Oh,” You muttered with a shy smile, suddenly feeling stupid for asking in the first place. “Well, I’m sure you’re really talented. I could barely draw a stick figure without making him look deformed.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, amused by your attempt to smooth over his negativity. You nodded affirmatively as you took a sip of your wine. There was a subtle flush in your cheeks that told him your drink was starting to catch up to you, and he made a mental note to stop the waiter from refilling your glass again. “And what about you, huh? You’d let me come at you with some ink since you think I’m so talented?”

A mock hum bubbled in your throat as you pretended to think about it. 

“I don’t know, you’d have to come up with something real cool.” You teased, running your hands dramatically up and down your bare arms. “This is virgin skin you’re seeing here— not to be tainted with any of those boring designs, you know?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.” Sukuna assured with theatric sincerity, only spurring on your giggles as you played along. 

“It has to be something that’s me, you know?” You pursed your lips pensively before casting a sidelong glance his way. “Maybe like a pair of pointe shoes.”

“A pair of what?” 

 “Pointe shoes! You know, the shoes ballet dancers use?”

“That’s fucking lame.” Sukuna blew a raspberry at your idea.

“Oh yeah?” You quipped, biting down your embarrassment at his abrupt shut down of your suggestion. “What would you put on me then?”

The tattoo parlor was already closed by the time you and Sukuna stumbled inside, your excited giggle filling the deadly silent shop as he locked the door behind you and switched on the lights. He shrugged his jacket off, watching you carefully as you snooped around the store. 

“Why don’t you sit your ass down before you break something?” He grumbled, snatching a tattoo gun from your curious grasp before taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. You rolled your eyes playfully before sitting down across from him, swinging your dangling feet gently as you looked around. 

“So, what were you thinking then, boss?” You questioned, watching as he pulled out his sketchbook and flipped it open. Rummaging through the drawer for a pencil, he peered up at you with a raised brow. 

“I don’t know. Tell me something.” He murmured as he began a rough sketch. 

“Like what?”

“About you.” 

“Oh.” You looked down bashfully, toying with a run in your tights before shrugging at him. “I don’t know. Nothing to tell, I guess. I’m kind of boring.” 

“That’s bullshit.” He brushed off nonchalantly, not looking up from his book. You blinked owlishly at him a few times. Noting your silence, he continued. “I saw you dance— saw the look on your face. Can’t tell me there’s nothing to tell there.” 

You were taken aback by his astute observation, staring back at the way he concentrated so intently on his drawing. He didn’t look nearly as intimidating in this light. It was silent for a beat too long, and he glanced up at you, the sharp nature of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. 

“Well?” 

“Okay, well, um… I guess I just never know if I’m making the right decision? About anything ever?” You rationed with furrowed brows, trying to make sense of your own illogical feelings. “I moved here because of the dance program, because I thought that this was really what I wanted. Now I’m here though without all my friends and family, and I’m…”

“Lonely?” Sukuna finished for you as you trailed off. 

“I guess so. And, I mean, I know it’s supposed to be hard in the beginning, but I can’t help but feel like I made a massive mistake and my life is about to crumble around me?”

The sound of his pencil scratching against the paper filled the sudden silence that hung between you, but you knew he was listening. Taking advantage of his distraction, you stared unashamedly at his hunched over figure. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the black rings that were tattooed across both his arms. There was a subtle furrow in his brows, but for the first time since meeting him it wasn’t born out of anger or frustration, instead telling a story about his dedication to his craft.

You felt the breath get knocked out of you as you observed him. Frantically trying to veer back on topic before he noticed your creepy gawking, you cleared your throat before offering an enthusiastic smile. 

“Guess it’s just always been hard for me to commit to things.” You tried to wrap up your subtle sob story. “Maybe that’s why I’ve got no tattoos then, huh?”

He huffed out a breathy laugh, the corners of his lips curling up ever so slightly as he shook his head at your conclusion. 

“Is that what you want? You know, do this ballet shit for a living?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Then to hell with people. If they give a shit they’ll be there whenever you come back.” He scoffed as though the notion offended him personally. “You’re too talented to hold yourself back for that kind of crap.”  

His nonchalant compliment made your heart pound just a little bit harder.

“What about you?” You asked breathlessly, shaking off the butterflies waging war in your stomach. 

“What about me?”

“Why tattooing?”

“Wasn’t good at anything else.” He answered simply, and his dismissal made you roll your eyes. 

“Come on, I was just very honest with you.” 

“Yeah, well you’re probably better at all that sap shit anyway.” 

Sliding off the chair, you walked closer to him and leaned your elbows on the work table before him. Propping your chin on your fist, you grinned knowingly at him, though he still hadn’t looked up from his sketch. 

“Maybe that’s why then, huh?” You assumed. He hummed in question at your vague statement. “You draw cause you’re not good at all the… ‘sap shit’. If you don’t know how to say it, you draw it, right?” 

The careful maneuvering of his pencil slowed before pausing all together at your read. Of course, he’d always known that his drawings were an outlet for him, having learned through years of repressed feelings how to convey words through lines and swirls. No one had ever explained it so… simply to him before though. Taking note of his forlorn expression, your lips curled up empathetically. 

“I do it sometimes too, you know— when I feel too overwhelmed to put my thoughts into actual words. I put them into my choreographies instead.” 

“Yeah, it shows.” Sukuna finally spoke up,  suddenly uncomfortable with the serious energy that had invaded the space around them. Clearing his throat, he put his pencil down before handing you his sketchbook with an awkward scratch to his forehead. “That ‘you’ enough for ya?” 

Your pretty, pink nails clutched at the edge of his sketchbook, slowly bringing it toward you as you soaked in his creation with parted lips. Right in the middle of the page was a snow-globe, flowers that you recognized as the same type he’d brought you earlier decorating the base of it. Inside though, was a ballerina in the very costume you had donned just hours prior on stage, one leg curled up as her arms curved softly around her in the perfect pirouette position. 

“Sukuna, this is…” Your voice failed you as you gave each detail another weighted once over. Blinking back the haze that threatened to form over your eyes, you looked up at him with a besotted smile. There were stars in your eyes, and he didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of them. “This is so beautiful. You’re incredible.” 

He tsked dismissively, trying desperately to conceal the softness in his gaze as he took in your reaction. 

“Why the snowglobe?” You questioned suddenly, glancing down at the sketch before flashing him with that eagerly curious grin. 

He opened his mouth only to shut it once again, not sure how to tell you of where his thoughts had taken him to while he watched you dance so gracefully across the stage. So, he simply huffed in feigned annoyance before snatching the book from you and jutting his chin toward the chair. 

“You questioning my artistic decisions now, brat?” He didn’t give you the chance to respond as you sat back against the leather chair. “So, where are we putting this thing?”

“Oh!” You quipped, suddenly coming to the realization that he was dead serious about giving you a tattoo. Anxiety creeped up in your stomach as you brought your hand up to chew apprehensively at your nails. “Um…”

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out on me now.” Sukuna teased with a mischievous smirk.

“No!” You quickly defended, much to his surprise. “I want to do this— get over my fear of commitment, right?”

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing your jacket from your shoulders to inspect your arms. Grasping at your hand, he turned the inner side of your arm out to face him, purposeful in the way he allowed his fingers to trace up the delicate skin of your forearm. It made your breath hitch, his proximity allowing for a generous waft of his cologne to flood your senses. You clenched your thighs together in a manner you prayed was subtle. 

“I think it’d look good right here.” He suggested, grazing his thumb over the expanse of skin just above where your elbow creased. 

Taking in a calculated breath to pull yourself together, you quickly shook your head. 

“Can’t be anywhere too visible.” You explained, staring down at where his hand still wrapped around your elbow. “I mean, it can, but I’ll have to worry about covering it up for every performance.” 

Sukuna’s dark eyes glanced up to meet yours at this statement. His brows were raised in suggestion, an amused smirk pulling at his lips. 

“So your friends were serious about you wantin’ a ‘tramp stamp’ then? That what I’m  hearing?”

“I don’t want a— a tramp stamp.” You scoffed with flushed cheeks, but he was just too elated at how easy it was to fluster you. “I don’t know, where else do you think that can be covered up easily?”

Sukuna sighed, eyes trailing over your body in thought. It made you squirm in your seat. After a moment, he leaned forward to pull the lever on your chair, sending it reeling backwards until you were nearly laying flat. You squeaked in surprise, quickly grasping his arm for support as he smirked at your reaction. 

You watched as his hands came up to hover over the hem of your sweater before glancing up at you in question. Despite the way your heart was beating up into your throat, you nodded softly at him. It had to have been deliberate— the way he dragged your sweater up so agonizingly slow, assuring his fingers brushed against each inch of skin that was exposed on the way. You gulped as he paused just under your bra, and he was once again looking up at you in search of approval, to which you nodded silently, far too convinced you’d embarrass yourself should you speak.

With your approval, he tugged your hem up to rest just under your chin, trying to appear professional as he took in the sight of your bra-clad chest. The truth was though, that his thoughts were so very far from the tattoo at the moment, reveling in the way your breasts strained against the confines of your cups with each ragged breath you took. Your breathing had been growing heavier since the second he laid his hands on you— and he noticed each time. 

He trailed his hands up your sides, thumbs grazing over the divets of your ribs in a manner far too sensual to just be chalked up to searching for a good placement. As his pointer fingers traced where the wire of your bra met your skin, he hummed affirmatively. 

“It would look nice right here.” His raspy voice was almost a whisper now as he tucked his finger underneath the area of your bra just between your breasts, right over your sternum. 

A breathless whimper threatened to escape you, but you swallowed it back and looked down at where he had placed his finger. 

“Y-You think so?” You whispered, and he quickly nodded, gradually leaning over you more and more with the illusion of getting a better look. 

“Might be a little painful, but…” His voice trailed, as did his hand, escaping from under your strap to dance up your chest and neck. “I’ll let ya’ hold onto me if you’re good.”

You were sure your soul had left you at that point, off to find a body whose nervous system wasn’t utterly short-circuiting. Your knees drew together as you fought to maintain your composure at his suggestive words. 

“Sukuna, are we… still talking about the tattoo?” You questioned doubtfully, and the smirk on his plush lips told you you weren’t wrong. 

“Do you want it to be about the tattoo?”

“Well, it’s just…” He thought the way you stammered over your words was endearing, and it was sending all the blood in his system rushing down south. Glancing up at him timidly, you chewed on your bottom lip. “Would it hurt more if it’s… my first? You know… tattoo, of course.”

For the third time since meeting you, Sukuna was struck by the startling realization that he seriously didn’t deserve any of this. The hand that had been slowly traversing up your neck grasped at your jaw. 

“Well, I’d make sure you were good and ready first, doll.” He assured, eyes drifting down to stare longingly at your parted lips before meeting your heated gaze once again. “But you should always be sure you chose the right artist first, you hear?” 

And you heard him loud and clear. With your heart beat reverberating mercilessly in your ears, you nodded breathlessly at him.

“I trust you.”  

And oh, how hard he worked to assure you didn’t regret those words. Something told him you didn’t though— maybe the way those pretty, manicured nails were digging into his scalp just as his jaw began to ache deliciously in tandem with his mouth’s relentless ravishing of your perfectly supple pussy.

You were dripping down his chin, evidence of you tickling down his neck as he desperately tried to drink up every last drop of you. His colossal hands had come up to hold your trashing hips down against the chair after one too many jolts away from his eager tongue. The sound of his grotesquely sloppy, open mouthed kissed against your core filled your ears as you stared up at the ceiling blearily. 

You were so grateful that you always wore waterproof makeup for your performances, because you were sure your mascara would have been smeared unattractively down your face with the sheer force of your overstimulated tears. The saccharine moans that were hurdling their way from your throat made him dig his black fingernails into your stomach as he sucked on your clit as if rewarding you for the melodies. 

He grunted when the sensation made you yank at the roots of his hair, and you quickly gasped apologetically before releasing your tight grip. 

“Oh! I-I’m— ah! I’m sorry.”

Your disappointed whine made him smirk as his face suddenly emerged from between your legs to leer at you menacingly. One of his hands left your stomach to catch yours as it departed from his scalp, guiding it back affirmatively. 

“Tear the shit out if ya’ want— quit fuckin’ apologizing.” 

His words had your eyes rolling back into your skull, more confident now as you dug your fingers through his soft locks once again. The hand that had abandoned its post on your stomach never returned, and you instead felt it gliding purposefully up the inside of your thigh. Two of his long fingers sweeped up your weeping slit, gathering some of your arousal as his lips remained focused on your bundle of nerves. 

With a thrust that seemed so uncharacteristically careful of him, he dipped his two fingers into your sopping entrance. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, the heels of your feet finding the edge of the chair to pull yourself away from the subtle sting. 

“Easy, easy,” Sukuna rasped, tearing his mouth away from your honied center in favor of talking you through your unease. The remaining hand on your stomach began tracing soft, sensual circles against your silken skin. It made you slowly release your hitched breath, apprehensively relaxing back against the leather. “Atta girl, relax for me, yeah?”

You nodded deleriously up at the ceiling, head lolling to the side to watch what he was doing, not expecting to find his ruby eyes already focused on you. A flush fell over your face, hoping your expression didn’t give away how utterly torn apart he had made you with his tongue alone. A smirk tickled his glistening lips as you met his gaze, and he turned his head to press comforting, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

After a few moments, his fingers began slowly pushing through the subtle resistance of your core. Casting a sidelong glance your way to catch your reaction, he gently curled his fingers up, digits massaging at the cusiony bundle of nerves at the roof of your walls, and god, how the blissed out popping open of your mouth failed to disappoint. 

Burning for a closer look, he rose from his knees to climb onto the tight space of the chair. It was by no means designed to hold two people— especially not when one of them is as abnormally overgrown as Sukuna, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t drink up those candied whimpers slipping past your lips. The steady pace of his fingers picked up as he hovered over you, taking a moment to soak in how beautifully debauched you looked just like this. 

“Sukuna—” You whined at the sensation of the steadily growing knot in your stomach, but he only offered a mockingly sympathetic nod. Your fingers dug into the soft fabric of his button down, clinging for dear life as he lowered himself closer to you until his lips brushed against your ear. 

“Call me Ryomen, doll.” 

And that was the very name that slipped from your lips in an almost strangled sob as you crumpled against him. His lips quickly found yours, though you were hardly able to reciprocate his kiss as moans continued spilling from you, falling into his awaiting mouth like a prayer. 

Much like the startled realization you had earlier that he was very serious about tattooing you that night, you were for some reason just as gobsmacked as you watched him rise with his knees trapping you in, purposefully unbuttoning his now wrinkled dress shirt as his hungry eyes stared down at you. He had pushed your sweater off of you just before burying his head between your thighs, and he was now reaping the reward of watching your breasts heave as you looked up at him. 

Your expression must have given you away, as it always seems to, as he stood up to work his belt off. The clinking of his buckle made your mind race, chest swelling with a feeling that you couldn’t decide was anticipation or anxiety. As he pulled the leather material through the loops of his dress pants and worked away at his button and zipper, he observed your horribly practiced poker face. 

He tilted his head to the side as his bottoms pooled at his feet, the outline of his erection now on full display for your already perturbed gaze. Maybe it was just because you’d never exactly seen one up close before, but, even through the straining fabric of his boxers, you were almost positive that thing wasn’t natural. Hiking yourself further up on the leather chair, you tried not to stare in a way that screamed fear. 

The motion made him pause, his thumbs slowly unhooking from their spot in the waistband of his boxers. A careful sigh escaped him, the tiniest of knowing smiles masking the subtle disappointment in his chest as he turned from you to pull up a stool. 

“W-What are you doing?” You questioned, watching with fluttering eyes as he leaned down to begin pulling supplies out from the drawer to place on the work table beside your chair. 

“I’m tattooing you— the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” 

Your mouth opened and closed much like a fish as you closed your legs self-consciously. His hair was still rustled from your fingers’ assault through it, and there was still a very prominent tent poking out through his boxers, though he still began prepping his station as though he hadn’t just been about to take your virginity in the middle of this tattoo parlor. 

“Well, um… what about you?” You stammered anxiously as he guided you by your shoulder to lay back. 

“What about me?” He murmured while pulling on a pair of gloves. 

“Didn’t you want to…” The words died on your throat, far too embarrassed to utter them aloud. Your eyes drifted to the side as you felt your face flush. “I mean you… helped me, so.”

Sukuna finally paused, tilting his head to look at you with a challenging raised brow. 

“I wouldn’t tattoo you in that chair cause you weren’t a hundred percent about it before. What makes you think I’ll fuck you in it when you clearly don’t want to?” His crude words only made your embarrassment grow that much deeper, but his fingers quickly came up to tilt your chin toward him before he winked teasingly at you. “Don’t worry— one commitment at a time, right?”

Your gaze softened at his consideration, even as he turned away from you to continue prepping his station. It made you forget how nervous you were that he was about to permanently mark you, but a small part of you already felt like he had. 

So, you allowed him to carefully pull your bra off when he asked, sighing wistfully as he pressed a longing kiss against each one before cleaning the area. Much like just minutes prior, he let you pull at his hair as the needle gradually began piercing your skin, laughing through your tears as he grumbled about how much of a wimp you were. His soft smile told a different story though as he sat still clad in his boxers and paused each time you needed to breathe, taking each opportunity to kiss and nip at your lips with the false pretense of taking your mind off the pain. 

You were sure the process was prolonged at least an hour longer than necessary with how long your breaks would last as he couldn’t bear to interrupt you as you nervously rambled about whatever came to your mind. As you began growing used to the subtle pain, you traced each of the black marks on his face as he worked with a fierce concentration. 

Pathetic tears of awe and shock spilled from your tired eyes as you stood in front of the mirror to observe his delicate handiwork. It was just as beautiful as it had been when he first showed you the rough sketch, though he would argue that your skin did it far more justice, chin hooked over your shoulder as he observed your reaction in the mirror. 

Sukuna scoffed at you when you tried to ask him the price, much to your mortification. He wouldn’t even look in your direction, busying himself with cleaning up the station as he pretended not to hear your countless protests. 

“You just spent like— hours doing this.” You gaped, through flushed cheeks as you jostled his arm. “Please, let me pay you.” 

“Wanna know how you can pay me?” He finally questioned gruffly, leaning back against the counter as he pulled you in closer to his bare chest. Breathlessly, you nodded, eyes unable to meet his as they were too focused on his curled lips. 

“Whenever you’re ready for your next big commitment,” He whispered, his warm lips brushing against the shell of your ear as you clung to his biceps. “Let it be me, yeah?”

part two

a/n: got the inspiration for this yesterday, blacked out, and suddenly it was finished the next day oops

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[zaynessbeloved]

Creative block

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

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

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

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

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

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

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

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

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So close—I'm so close—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© zaynessbeloved 2025

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

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

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[atalienart]

idk, I'm so fed up with Al that I had to get it off my chest...

I hate Al, I hate stupid prompted images that flood every space. I hate Al popping up every time I open anything on the internet. I hate people who pretend that prompting is such a skill and so much work but are scared to actually disclose they used Al for their stupid images and text. What are you scared of? I hate people who think writing "make me a ..." makes them a creator of anything. I hate people who think generative Al is an improvement and innovation. It's not! The fact that something is new doesn't make it good! Do you know viruses? There's always a new one at the corner.

Can't you see it? It makes you dumber with every use. Your creative skills decline with every command you give to a machine. Your communication skills deteriorate every time Al writes an email for you or you talk to your virtual girlfriend. Your ability to decide about yourself shrinks every time you ask a machine what to do, what to buy, what to say. Your critical thinking vanishes (well, assuming you even had any to begin with) whenever you ask "grok, is it true?". Whenever a computer does homework for you, whenever it writes an essay for school (which you won't even proofread) or spits a picture you were supposed to make yourself for a class, you become more stupid and less skilled. It won't make you into a good writer or artist just as watching work out videos won't give you muscles.

And you mock people who don't want their brains to rot, who maintain their values, who don't want to destroy their integrity and planet, who improve their talent and skills and spend their time actually thinking and learning stuff.

You can't even see how big corporations fuck you hard and slow every time you pay them to improve their Al monster, dangling colourful pictures before your eyes like a cat toy, cackling seeing your pupils blow wide. They promise you money and lure you with a vision of fame that those pathetic, broke artists will never see in their worthless lives. But you will. You'll have it all! Just feed their wallets with your money and databases with yourself and turn off your brain. You really think you'll have money and fame? Who will ever see your pretty pictures under millions of other pretty pictures? Who will read your book, when John Pickle published 30 only yesterday using Al? Who will watch your great movie when someone else has already made one with their own face and now they're kissing their favourite actor in space in a ship with too many details? Well, at least you can use someone else's voice to scam their family. If you get caught by the police you'll have your two minutes of fame before the Al erection supplement commercial rolls in :)

Al is here to stay! Yeah, like the putrid smell of your rotten brains.

[erinwantstowrite]

opinions on ai?

This is the perfect time to share something I wrote a few months ago when I was upset about it:

AI is the bane of my existence and I hate it so much. Not only because of the environmental impact that it has, but because of how it gives us absolutely nothing of value in creative spaces and is actually a detriment to our future, rather than being "innovative" like companies want us to believe.

If you're using AI to write notes for you, or to answer questions, to write your essays and your discussion posts, you are hurting yourself. But eventually you will hurt others with your willing ignorance. You are not learning, you are not taking the time to push yourself to new bounds. You are not absorbing the information you need, and for why? Because it's hard? Life is hard. Learning is hard. If learning was easy, you wouldn't be learning anything at all. And one day when you need to use these tools you put down and gave to a program in order to do your job, you are going to get someone hurt in some way. If you're going into teaching and you didn't bother to learn about childhood development because you let an AI take your notes because you couldn't be half-assed to sit through an hour long lecture, you will fail every student that comes your way. If you're an engineer and you had AI do the math for you, something that you make will break and it could kill someone. Because the AI can not even count how many times the letter 'r' is in strawberry, but you're trusting it to make bridges or design buildings?

And in a creative sense, you are not an artist if you use AI. I will scream it from the rooftops if I have to.

You are not an artist if you use AI.

Because to be an artist is to put your very soul into what you create. And an AI has no soul. To be an artist is to lay yourself bare for people to witness and interpret, and it's scary but it's freeing. To be an artist is to make a message with your art, to have people a thousand years from now sit in a museum and feel connected to who you were so far in the past. To think that humanity may be different but we are also inherently the same. To be an artist is to despair over the process of creating your art because it's difficult, and time consuming, and damn does it drive you crazy. But then you get that end result and you realize you learned something about yourself, you got better at something that brings you joy, you created and now you see what you are capable of, and what you will be capable of in the future. To be an artist is to connect with someone because of what you made, and that someone includes yourself.

We keep telling young artists that they need to be better now, they need to quit if they aren't good at it on the first try. We keep acting like we didn't start from somewhere ourselves, like we were born with the fine motor skills and the talent needed to create. It's because our attention spans can't handle over 20 seconds and we need multiple videos playing to drown out our own thoughts. We have to look at comment sections to see the court of public opinion before we make a judgement ourselves. If anything is out of the ordinary or doesn't look the way we expect or want, it must be shamed. And this existence is exhausting because at the end of the day, we have done nothing of value. When coming across a video of a young artist who took the time out of their day to create, we need to encourage them to continue going, tell them that their work is worthy. Because it is. It is worthy because they made it. If we shoot them down before they can go anywhere, we've just killed an artist that could have painted the next Starry Night, or created a sculpture that millions of people would try to visit. We've shot down someone who could teach others how to create one day in their future. We shot them down and killed their inspiration and motivation, and they might turn to someone else to do it for them because they will believe they are not worthy enough or talented enough to make it.

When I was still in school, my favorite part of the year was seeing the projects put up on the wall. The silly displays our teachers put up to show a holiday with slightly wonky paper snowflakes, the posters that the art students made with "too many lightning bolts around the guitar", the signs for school dances, the yearbooks that students spent all year making, the English class posters that depicted scenes from what they were reading and they were made with stick figures or they had someone draw out butterflies. I loved seeing the decorations for Homecoming Week, loved looking ta the booths that everyone made for our career and science fairs. I liked when we put on talent shows still, when we did pep rallies and fashion shows and we saw everyone get together to have fun and not care if it was "perfect." No one there was a professional artist, not yet, but that didn't make it any less entertaining or creative.

We dance because we want to feel how our bodies move and express ourselves in ways words cannot. We paint and we draw and make pottery and quilts and pictures because at one point, all we had were cave paintings of our hands, and we still look at them with reverence for where we started. We sing and we drum and we laugh because music is a universal language that anyone can understand, and isn't that breathtaking? We write so that people in the future can pour themselves over our words and learn from us, so that kids can hide their books underneath their covers with a little flashlight when their parents put them to bed hours ago but they just can't put our story down they have to know what comes next! We cook for our loved ones and have family recipes that mean we've been tasting the same food that our family we never got to meet were eating too.

We create because humans are meant to create. We put our love into the process, we put our dreams and our hopes and our hard earned lessons into these creations.

AI will never have that. AI has none of the process, and therefore, it is not art. We can gripe about how art has different meanings all we want, we can shout that art is only art if it invokes an opinion or a thought, but that is not what makes art. Because there is still effort put into placing a shoe on a pedestal, or painting a yellow square, or painting a mural on a wall, or writing poetry in a tiny notebook at school, or melting crayons together, or anything that requires you putting it together. If AI is doing all the work for you, then you've accomplished nothing. And you stole from the people that actually did accomplish something. You stole not only their effort, but you stole their process, their feelings, their hope and their dreams and their ideas of the future.

AI is nothing and will ultimately become obsolete. Because humans will not stop creating just because companies are pushing for us to stop and hand it over to them. They want us to stop creating, they want us to pay them for it, they want us to put blind trust into what they're doing, they want us to forget that they are stealing from us. I will not forget. I will never forget. Because I was born to sing and dance and write and draw and cook, and when I die, my body will go right back to the Earth and perhaps flowers will grow around my grave. I will still be creating even then. And even if AI is still around and still trying to steal from us, I will die knowing that it could never do the same.

[nataliasquote]

Tattoos for troubled minds | n romanoff

Summary: Natasha struggles to trust anyone when it comes to touching her body. But that becomes rather difficult when a tattoo idea comes into her mind that she just can’t shake

Warnings: mentions of scars, tattoo needles, slight internalised homophobia

wc: 3.6k

note: I don’t actually have tattoos (despite wanting one so badly) so this is probably really inaccurate. I do apologise if this doesn’t make sense. also, I hate this so much but the guilt of not posting is eating me alive so I’m sorry

-⧗-

Natasha was a quiet soul. She kept to herself, usually sitting at her own table in the Shield cafeteria, eyes focused on her plate of food as she ate quickly, just wanting to get out of there. None of the other agents dared make conversation with her, too spooked by her fighting skills to approach. But that didn’t bother her. Her hyper independence made her hesitant to trust people.

Clint was the only one she spoke to outside of working hours. They weren’t exactly friends, but she tolerated him enough to flash a small smile if she saw him in the hallways or feel slightly relaxed if they were paired for missions together.

And he liked her too, especially since her first words had been a jab at his choice of weapon.

“Bow and arrow? What did you do, get your training in a forest?”

But he didn’t take offense to it. After all, he’d made the call to save her and she owed him her life. Which is how, two years later, she was sprawled on his couch, chewing on take out pizza for the second time that week with a scowl.

“I think I want a tattoo.”

Clint frowned at her, wondering where her brain cells had disappeared to. “What?”

“You know, the permanent drawing-“

“Yes I know what a tattoo is Tasha,” he rolled his eyes at her teasing smirk, already over her sarcasm. “But you know it’s a bad idea for spies to have unique markings like that.”

Natasha shrugged, tugging up her sleeve to reveal a strange shaped scar across her bicep. “I’d say I’ve got enough of those naturally. And it would be hidden on my ribs or something.”

Clint just shook his head and turned back to his food. He was used to Natasha’s odd comments and her tattoo phase probably wouldn’t last in his eyes. Just like her ‘wanting to be blonde’ phase didn’t.

But it didn’t end. A month later and Natasha had fallen down the rabbit hole that was tattoo designs on pinterest, courtesy of a fellow agent who introduced her to the app. She didn’t understand it at first, but now it was 3am and her tablet screen was still glaring bright in her face, a plethora of images scattered across her screen.

She saved a couple to a board, now set on design and placement, before placing it to one side with a grin on her face. Natasha climbed out of bed and padded over to her mirror, pulling up her shirt and smiling softly to herself. But the dim lamplight made her scars glisten and she caught herself, a sudden feeling of repulsion shuddering through her body. She looked like a freak and no tattoo artist would want to go near that. Her scars weren’t normal and she wasn’t ready for the questions yet.

Tears glazed her eyes over and her arms snaked across her stomach, her reflection in the mirror now blurry. Even as the salty tears dripped down her cheeks and soaked the collar of her shirt, she didn’t step away, too engrossed with how disgusting she felt in her body.

That stubborn hope that the redroom failed to squash out had ignited inside her once more, except this time she just wanted to laugh at it. Natasha would never be normal. She was what they’d made her into, and a tattoo was never going to change that.

Clint noticed the change in her demeanor when she sat down at breakfast. Natasha barely engaged in her usual small talk, more focused on her food in front of her.

“Did you do anymore tattoo research yesterday?” He asked, knowing that would catch her attention. But instead of the usual spark, she remained dejected, stirring her yogurt half heartedly.

“Yeah,” came her response, albeit rather forced.

“There’s probably a lot of places in DC that would kill to tattoo a shield agent.” Nat shot him a look. “Just saying!”

“Sure. But I don’t think I can anymore.”

Clint looked at her with a frown. “Why not?”

Natasha just looked down and tugged at her sleeve, suddenly feeling exposed in her tight fitting suit. The image in the mirror from last night came into her mind and she pushed her food away, no longer hoodie. And beside that, she didn’t trust people she worked with, so how would she trust a complete stranger to add something permanent on her body? Getting a tattoo would be nothing but a dream for her, she knew that, but it still crushed her.

Clint studied his best friend for a moment in thought, before he placed his hand gently on her arm. “I might know someone who can help.” Natasha looked up, now interested. Her face was still stony but Clint knew she was excited. “A friend of Laura’s, we helped her out even before you came here.”

“An agent?” Clint hadn’t mentioned anyone like that before and it confused Natasha.

But Clint shook his head. “No, nothing like that. She came to Laura and I when she was a teenager and had nowhere else to go. And you know my wife-“

“Can’t let anyone suffer,” Natasha finished for him, warmth spreading in her stomach at the thought of the soft woman she’d grown to adore. Laura really did have the biggest heart out of everyone.

“Exactly that. Y/n was fourteen, I think, parents kicked her out of the house. How she got to ours, I’ll never know, but she just appeared on the doorstep one night and Laura melted at the sight of her.” Clint’s expression softened at the memory. “But anyway, what I’m saying is that she’s a tattoo artist. She’s got trust issues just like you and I think she’ll help.”

Natasha scowled at the last part, wanting to protest his comment. But she knew he was right; her trust issues were what got her into this mess in the first place.

“But she’s a kid?”

“No, almost the same age as you,” Clint said with a laugh. “You’ll like her, but she can be a little scary.”

“Scarier than me?”

Clint smirked. “Oh, you’d be surprised. That glare of hers rivals yours.” This vague description intrigued Natasha and Clint could see the cogs turning in her mind. “She knows what we do and she’s seen my scars. Trust me, they won’t put her off.”

Natasha’s head shot up, staring at her best friend with confusion. Was she that easy to read? Or did he just know her too well?

~~~

With the news of her favourite girls coming back home, Laura had been in a frenzy of cleaning and preparing. Clint had texted to say he was only minutes away so she left the dishes to soak and headed to the porch, anxiously staring at the track beside their house as she waited.

Anyone would have thought she was married to Natasha over Clint by the difference in reactions she gave them. Sure, Clint got a kiss and a hug, but Natasha truly got the special treatment, with Laura scanning her to make sure she wasn’t injured and quizzing her about how she was. Poor Clint was left to grab their bags as the women disappeared into the farmhouse.

Tea was poured and snacks were eaten in the cosy kitchen before the doorbell rang and Laura excused herself, leaving an anxious Natasha on her own for a moment. Muffled voices could be heard but she tried to go against her instincts of listening in and instead busied herself with a loose thread on the tablecloth. She heard footsteps approaching and turned in her chair, ignoring the way her heart thumped loudly in her chest.

The woman who walked in the kitchen doorway was stunning, Natasha couldn’t deny it, and her eyes darted to the patchwork of tattoos that littered her exposed arms. Their eyes met, and Natasha swore she could see the walls up in the other woman’s mind. But it didn’t scare her off. No. It brought her a weird sense of comfort and her body started to relax.

Clad in a black cropped tank and black cargo pants, Y/n hesitated in the doorway, duffle bag slung over her shoulder hitting the wall gently. Laura appeared behind her, gentle hands falling to her shoulders.

“Y/n, this is Natasha, the one I told you about.” The y/h/c girl made no effort to move. “She’s Clint’s partner.” Clearly not much of a talker, Y/n just nodded, not hiding the fact she was scanning Natasha from head to toe. She didn’t trust strangers, but she trusted Laura and Clint who seemed to love Natasha. So maybe she wasn’t a threat.

“Hi, you can call me Nat if you want.” No one called her Nat except Laura, but it was a feeble attempt to make the atmosphere more comfortable. Another nod came but Laura smiled.

“Do you want to go set up? All of your stuff is still exactly where you left it,” Laura addressed Y/n who adjusted the grip on her bag and disappeared down the hall without a word. Natasha’s eyebrows raised at Laura who watched her go, a fond look in her eyes. “She does speak, I promise.”

Natasha shook her head, brushing her off. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I can tell you care about her a lot.”

“She’s like a daughter to me, kind of like you are.” Natasha’s cheeks flushed at that. “She doesn’t have anyone except us, so I worry. She’s a real sweetheart though, she’s just been through a lot. Kind of like someone else I know.”

“I’ll be kind, don’t worry.”

Laura couldn’t help but smile as she stirred her tea. “Oh I know. She already likes you, you don’t need to worry about that.”

Natasha let out a sigh and started to play with the hem of her zip up jacket. It suddenly felt real, the whole tattoo thing. And whilst she weirdly trusted Y/n, it didn’t help ease her nerves any less.

The redhead sensed a new presence before she spotted her, standing in the doorway just like she was before.

“Ready when you are, Nat.” Her voice was slightly raspy from lack of use and she spoke quietly, almost as if she was scared she’d get into trouble. Natasha smiled softly at the sound of her nickname and squeezed Laura’s hand before she followed the y/h/c girl down the hallway of the house she considered her second home.

Clint’s office had been turned into a makeshift tattoo studio with all new equipment and furniture decorating the small space. The tattoo bed had a fresh paper layer on top and Y/n gestured for Natasha to take a seat.

“Ok, do you have an idea of what you want? And where?” Y/n sat down at a small table and picked up her pen before looking at Natasha expectantly.

“I’ve got a couple of reference pictures on my phone.” The small device was handed over and Y/n swiped between them, nodding in approval before setting it down. “The last one is just for placement ideas.”

“I’ll work up a sketch and you can tell me what needs changing.” Luckily Natasha’s design was incredibly simple and it didn’t take long for Y/n to hold up her page.

Natasha slid off the bed and slowly walked over, not wanting to startle the skittish girl. But Y/n just moved over, clearly welcoming the redhead into her space.

“I love that a lot,” Natasha praised, studying the simple lines. “But maybe it could be a bit smaller.”

“I can scale it down when I make the stencil, no problem. But is the design alright? Remember, it is permanent so I want you to be completely happy with it.”

Natasha studied it for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips as she imagined it on her body. Y/n had talent, anyone could see that even from such a simple drawing, and Natasha nodded before she slid the notebook back to her.

“I love it, I really do.”

Y/n nodded, grabbing her stencil paper from a drawer by her leg. She wordlessly began making the stencil and Natasha took this as her cue to return to her seat. She peered around the room, admiring a few pictures that were on the walls. Incredibly complicated tattoos which she guessed Y/n had done.

The young girl sketching away in the corner thoroughly interested her and something inside Natasha was drawn in. She wanted to get to know her because aside from the shy and hesitant exterior she was effortlessly cool and seemed sweet. Maybe Y/n could be the start of Natasha’s project to make friends.

“If you lie back on the seat and lift your shirt, we can make sure this is exactly how you want it before I start.”

Natasha took a deep breath and slowly lifted her shirt and lowered the waistband of her sweatpants so her hip bone was exposed. She shivered despite the room being warm, fully aware that her nastiest scar was on full display on her lower stomach.

But Y/n didn’t care. Or at least she didn’t make it obvious if it bothered her. “Is it ok if I touch your hip?” She asked, looking Natasha straight in the eyes. The redhead almost melted at her words, not used to ever being asked that question.

“Of course, do what you need.” Y/n’s fingers were soft and delicate as she placed the stencil on Natasha’s skin. She didn’t touch anywhere she didn’t need to and worked quickly, making sure it was fully stuck down before stepping back to allow Natasha to step over to the mirror.

Although it wasn’t permanent, Natasha’s heart was racing as she saw the way the black ink stood out against her pale skin. The symbol was small but perfect in her eyes, and she turned back to Y/n with a grin.

“It’s perfect!”

“Then I’ll get started.”

Due to the design being so small, it took no more than fifteen minutes for Y/n to complete. Her hand was incredibly steady and Natasha’s pain tolerance was so high she barely felt it. The room was silent aside from the faint buzzing, no conversation stemming from either woman. Questions spiralled around Natasha’s head but she knew this wasn’t the place to ask them.

Completely lost in her head, Natasha failed to notice the silence or the fact that her hip bone was no longer burning. Y/n kept working, wiping away the excess ink and making sure she hadn’t missed a spot. But it was perfect, as usual, and she gently tapped Nat on the thigh to snap her out of her head.

“You’re now free to look.”

Natasha grinned and hopped off the bed, holding up her shirt again as she looked in the mirror. Tears almost sprung to her eyes as she admired the finished product, and they probably would have tumbled down her cheeks if she had been alone.

A small spider sat on the front of her hip, legs slightly bent. It looked so delicate on her skin and for the first time in her entire life, Natasha actually liked looking at herself in the mirror.

“It’s so beautiful,” she began to ramble, unable to tear her eyes away. “You’ve got real talent Y/n, I can’t thank you enough. It’s so perfect.”

Y/n blushed and couldn’t stop the smile that graced her lips, catching Natasha’s eyes in the mirror and making the redhead freeze.

Her smile.

The young woman hadn’t smiled the entire time she’d arrived, but seeing her now was like a breath of fresh air. Smiling looked so good on her and Natash couldn’t get enough.

“If you want to show Laura, you can, but you’ll need to come back so I can wrap it safely.” Natasha glanced at her new addition and nodded, but hesitated once she was by the door.

“I think you should come too. The artist and her artwork.” Natasha spoke with a smirk and Y/n couldn’t ever imagine saying no to that woman. So she nodded again, her usual response, and meekly followed her back down the hall, pulling off her gloves as she walked.

Laura was already waiting for them in the kitchen and she placed her reading glasses in her hair to get a good look at Natasha who still hadn’t dropped her shirt down. She’d never seen the Russian with such a wide grin before, her usual collected expression completely out of the window.

“It looks beautiful, Nat, truly. You did such a good job Y/n.”

“You never told me how talented she is!” Natasha stepped to the side to allow Y/n to come forward, but the humble woman stayed where she was, already hating the attention. She didn’t see her art as talent, more like a form of escapism. But it made people happy and that was all she wanted.

“I wanted you to see for yourself,” Laura replied. “And besides, she never believes me when I tell her how good she is.”

“You’re really easy to tattoo. You don’t squirm or cry like other people do, so really I should be thanking you.” Laura was taken aback by Y/n’s comment, not used to more than three words coming out of the girl’s mouth. But the more she observed her, the more she saw her change. The darkness she’d noticed since Y/n was a teenager had lifted a little and she seemed a lot less guarded, looking over at Natasha with a soft expression.

And Natasha looked back at her just the same, purely in awe of how gentle she was. As Y/n gestured for them to return to the office and offered to hold Nat’s shirt, Laura felt like squealing like a child.

Two of her favourite people in the world had found each other and, despite both being so broken and fragile, fit together so perfectly it was like they were made for each other.

Natasha was strong enough and sure of herself enough for the both of them, and Y/n treated her with such delicacy and care that it slowly broke away Natasha’s trust issues and allowed her to open up. And Natasha’s protective nature came out around the other woman, wanting to keep her safe from the world.

With a quick word about going to show Clint, Natasha disappeared into the front yard with her newly wrapped hip, leaving Y/n to find Laura again. The older woman welcomed her with a hug and pulled a chair close to her own.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Y/n kept her gaze on the crossword Laura was doing, not wanting her eyes to give her away if she looked up. “She’s nice.”

“Hey,” Laura said softly, carefully taking Y/n’s hand in her own. She didn’t miss the way she flinched but unfortunately she was used to that by now. “You’re not back there. You’re allowed to like her if that’s what you want and feel. She’s a good person, but so are you, you don’t need to be scared.”

Y/n’s eyes followed where their hands were clasped up to Laura’s face, trying to find any hints that showed she was lying. But all that came back was the soft and caring face she’d grown to love, one that didn’t lie to her and didn’t hate her for who she was.

“I don’t like her like that.” Call her a hypocrite for lying, but Y/n had her reasons. Loving a woman was still unnatural in her eyes, despite her contrasting feelings that longed for it.

“Y/n…” Laura’s ‘mom’ tone was one she was used to and she knew she was caught out. “I’m not asking you to tell me now, but you deserve happiness, as does she. And I haven’t seen either of you that relaxed in a really long time. So please don’t push her away.”

Y/n didn’t know what to think. How could she? Her whole life had centred around hating who she was, so how could anyone ever like her like that? It messed with her head and Laura could see that.

But what was Natasha if not a life saver. She came strolling into the kitchen, her tshirt now tucked up into the band of her sports bra to allow her tattoo to be on full display. Y/n smiled slightly at the sight.

Sinking down into the chair beside her, Natasha noticed the clasped hands of the women and wondered what she’d interrupted. But that wasn’t her place to ask, so she turned to Y/n.

“How can I pay you? How much do you charge?”

Y/n shook her head frantically, pulling her hand away from Laura. “Nothing, honestly. You’re a friend, it’s no big deal.”

“Absolutely not. If you won’t take money, at least let me repay you another way.”

“Nat-“

“Dinner? How about you let me take you to dinner next week. You’re from the city, right?” Y/n nodded, her brows creasing. She turned to Laura for help but the older woman just smiled widely and nodded, giving her as much non verbal encouragement as she could. “Please, Y/n?”

She’d said yes before she could even process what was going on. After all, they were just friends going to dinner. People in the movies that she’d seen did it, so she could too.

What was so wrong with that?

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Tangled Dreams [W. W]

Willy Wonka x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

[Timothée masterlist]

note: I decided to combine these two because they are quite similar! I hope the ending doesn't seem rushed, I really appreciate your patience and please tell me if you liked it.

Special greetings to @kpopgirlbtssvt and @broadwaybaby123 ily pretty!

As you fell towards an unknown place through a stone tunnel, you thought that there were two things you wished you had done the day before: check the hole in your bag to avoid losing all your money and have read the small print of the contract you had signed.

If you had done both, you would have avoided ending up in the mess you were in, with the seemingly kind woman who had greeted you telling you that you owed more than ten thousand sovereigns for charges you weren't even aware of. She had said that you would work for a sovereign a day, however, she hadn’t said what that job would be and before you could ask, Bleacher had already pushed you through the hole in the wall.

You hit yourself when you fell on a wagon full of white fabrics and quickly got up to understand where you had arrived. There were fumes, water, and everything smelled like detergent, so you knew it was the laundry room, but the place was desolate.

Would you have to do everything alone? How was it possible? Suddenly you felt very scared thinking about how long you would have to be there to pay off your debt. You had left your home to look for better employment opportunities so that you could develop all your artistic skills, since living in a small town it was almost impossible to practice with your brush. You were supposed to meet other artists, learn from them, buy new materials... you didn't have to end up where you had.

As the minutes passed and you had more time to think about things, the situation was getting worse. You had no one in the city who could help you, you were completely alone, without money, with debts, without food... between all of this you felt your breathing starting to accelerate and you knew you were about to experience a nervous breakdown.

That happened when you were in high-stress situations and, honestly, you hated it. Your heart began to beat like crazy with no way to stop it, you felt like you were sweating and everything around you seemed to start to suffocate you. So when you felt a couple of tears forming in your eyes, you thought that you just wanted to disappear into the wagon full of sheets where you were.

The shock didn't let you think properly and that's why you couldn't even hear the voices coming from the other room, which suddenly turned into the presence of a group of unfortunate workers.

"Oh, hello?" muttered an older man with glasses. He was accompanied by a woman dressed in blue work overalls, another lady, and a curly with a flashy suit “New here?”

Even though she seemed kind, you couldn't take the words that way. You were scared and soon everyone realized that.

“Girl, are you okay?” the woman with overalls was quick to say, with the same kindness as the man, and after that everyone approached your direction.

You wanted to talk, but you couldn't, and apparently the proximity of the group only made you more nervous. While you were trying to contain your sobs they were looking for ways to calm you down, to no avail.

After a few seconds another couple of people appeared in the place and from the corner of your eye you could observe them: she was a pretty little girl and next to her was a young man wearing a coat and hat. He noticed right away that something wasn't right and he walked in your direction to find out.

“Well, hi,” he greeted you. Everyone looked at each other with a combination of pity and concern, as if you were a helpless kitten in a box “How about we give her some space? She looks scared”

The group did as he told them and then the only one left near you was that man. He didn't say anything for a moment, as if analyzing your behavior, and then he leaned slightly against the box to watch you.

“I'm Noodle,” the girl murmured now, still keeping her distance from you. “What's your name?”

“Y/N” you managed to say. You were still looking into the green eyes that were also watching you carefully.

“It's a pretty name,” he complimented. You were still struggling to breathe a little when he held out his hand to you. “Do you want me to help you out of there, Y/N? So we can talk. We are all here to help you, don't be afraid”

Willy misjudged your appearance and thought that you were quite young, even though you were the same age, which is why he allowed himself to speak to you so cautiously.

You carefully took the hand he was offering you and then the man helped you out of the wagon, practically carrying you outside. Once you were outside his arm carefully wrapped around you and guided you to a couple of chairs, where you sat down and he sat down too.

“Breathe,” the boy urged you, realizing that you were still sobbing a little. He wasn't touching you anymore, but he was watching you carefully “Can you get some water, Piper?”

You realized that the first woman who had spoken to you was named Piper, and while you were working on regulating your breathing she disappeared down the hallway. The boy whispered soft instructions: inhale, exhale, and with that you managed to calm down until she returned with the glass he had ordered for you.

"Here you have"

You took it and drank slowly, being careful not to choke, until you felt better. You were suddenly aware of everyone's expectant gaze and you shrank in on yourself with some pity.

“I'm sorry for all this,” you murmured, now that you were more composed. “It's just that when I fell here, everything was alone and I felt very… scared.”

“That's how we all felt the first time,” said the older man, to reassure you. “I'm Abacus Crunch.”

“Y/N,” you repeated, even though everyone had heard it the first time.

“This is Piper, Lottie, and Larry,” the boy next to you murmured, smiling gently at you. “And my name is Willy Wonka.”

That last one was the one that settled in your mind the most. Willy Wonka.

“How did you end up here?” Lottie asked kindly.

Everyone listened to your story carefully, now that you had managed to calm down, and a couple of sympathetic grimaces appeared on the faces of your new companions as you spoke. They told you, in broad strokes, their own reasons for ending up there and it turned out that these weren’t very different from yours.

“We were all fooled just by not reading the small print,” Larry said bitterly, even though he was supposed to be a comedian.

“For now we will just assign you a room and… you can rest, okay?” the little girl named Noodle murmured, trying to be as friendly as possible.

“Mrs. Scrubitt told me that I would have to work here every day to pay off my debt, is that true?”

They all shared a knowing look, debating whether or not they should tell you about their recent escapades to sell chocolates, and then Willy made the decision for the rest.

“You don't have to worry about anything. We'll be out of here soon, all of us. Just sleep and tomorrow we will explain to you, okay?” he murmured gently.

There was something about his smile that calmed you greatly and you were grateful that there was someone like him in that place. They all seemed to be good people, actually, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.

Noodle took you to an empty room where you could settle in along with your few belongings and right or wrong, you thought that at least you had a roof over your head that night.

Once you slept for a few hours and when morning finally arrived, they took care of updating you on the activities they had been doing to settle all the debts that existed with the cruel woman who had deceived you.

“We move through the sewers and come back here before Scrubitt does the roll call, at night,” Abacus explained to you. He was something like the leader of the place, probably because of the years of experience he had “If you help us with sales, then you will enjoy the benefits too.”

“You mean I can leave here?” you wanted to corroborate. Willy nodded enthusiastically.

“You arrived at a fairly opportune time, the business seems quite prosperous and if we continue like this, we will be gone in… a month and a half, maybe two months,” he estimated. It all sounded pretty good and at least they had the decency to tell you, so they could include you in the plan “Are you in?”

You thought it was risky, but if it meant a chance to leave, of course you'd take it. After all, those people had been trapped for years, what assured you that you wouldn't have the same fate? As you saw things, actually agreeing to help them was your only option.

"Of course. Just tell me what to do, I'll learn quickly” you exclaimed and everyone was happy with your response. Especially Willy.

“I'll take care of it myself, take it for granted.”

You took the hand that the man was offering you, as if you wanted to formally close the deal, and then everyone rushed to get the things you needed for the day's sale ready. As you watched them go from here to there you thought that you would have to get used to that hustle and bustle, but somehow it comforted you to know that now you were no longer so alone.

“Thank you for helping me,” you exclaimed in the direction of the light-eyed boy, who had stayed next to you. “At this time and yesterday too. I was quite worried and I just… panicked”

“Oh, you don't have to thank me for anything” he smiled at you sincerely “I know how ugly it is to be scared, so if another day you feel like that just tell me. I am always happy to help”

For a man who had only known you a day, he turned out to be quite the gentleman around you. Or maybe it was just that he behaved that way naturally.

“All ready?” Piper spoke and you knew it was your cue to leave for wherever your destination was that day.

And of course, just like everyone else when Willy came into their lives, from that moment on your whole world turned completely upside down.

Becoming friends with Willy Wonka wasn’t a task that required much effort, so after a few weeks the two of you were practically inseparable. To this we had to add that when he discovered that you were the same age, his sympathy towards you only increased, to the point of turning into a clear interest in you, although not in the way that most would expect.

Maybe he was rushing, but he had started to like you in a… romantic way? Maybe. He didn't know much about what it was like to be in love, but he knew that he had begun to feel something different in his chest for you. After all, you saw each other every day, at all hours, so it had been inevitable to know a lot about you.

You had talked to him about your life before arriving in the city, living in a modest village, about your dreams and the skills you hoped to improve with time and practice. Willy, in turn, had told you about his mother, the story of him making chocolates, the aspirations and desires he had to become the owner of a shop in the gourmet galleries... in short, everything that was truly important. Sometimes you spent entire hours, when you weren't working outside, talking and so you already knew a lot about each other by that point in your story.

That was why when, after a few weeks, your sleep was interrupted by a nightmare, the first thing you thought was to run and seek comfort in the arms of your friend. It was no secret that Scrubitt had been being particularly harsh with everyone there and although most of them were already used to it, you and Willy were the ones who suffered the most from those verbal attacks. She was quite trained in the art of being mean.

So maybe it was that he yelled at you a little worse that day, or it was just that you were too sensitive because the police almost caught you when you went out on the streets to sell the chocolates, but either way your mind had taken care of shaping everything that happened to create that bad dream.

When you knocked on his door you feared the thought of bothering him with your presence, however, it was too late to chicken out because almost immediately he had already peeked out of the room.

“Y/N?” he asked, slightly confused. From the lucidity with which he spoke you knew that he probably hadn't even been sleeping “What's wrong?”

“I had a nightmare,” you explained “Can I stay with you for a while?”

It didn't take Willy more than half a second to move to the side so that you could go inside and once you were there he invited you to sit on the deteriorated bed, where he also took a seat. The next thing he did was stretch his hand open on the mattress, offering you the option to take it if you needed it. You did it, partly to feel something to anchor you to reality and partly because you loved the feeling of his warm skin against yours.

“Do you want to talk about what you dreamed?” he asked softly.

“It wasn't anything too terrible, but it's just… Aren't you going to laugh?”

"Of course not. I would never do it,” Willy assured you, moving a little closer to you as if he wanted to keep the matter confidential. “What is it about?”

“It's just… I don't know, it was a strange dream. I dreamed that things were getting complicated with this whole business of selling chocolates and that's why I stayed here for years like Abacus or Piper. I mean, I really appreciate that you're trying to help us all and I know I'm the one who's been here the least and maybe I can't even complain, but… I've been afraid of something bad happening since I got here. And I dreamed that the chocolate cartel was hurting you, that's why I got very scared and I..."

“Hey, hey,” Willy murmured as he extended one of his arms to you, when he saw that you were about to burst into tears.

He hated seeing people cry, perhaps because of his compassionate and kind nature, but he hated seeing you cry, especially you. The first time you guys met he didn't want to be too invasive in terms of personal space because he didn't know how you were going to react, or he didn't even know if a hug would help you calm down. But now that you knew each other better he had also learned a few things about you, so he felt confident in holding you down if you were feeling bad. Like right now.

“I'm sorry, it's just that with what happened today with the police I feared the worst. It's not that I just love you because you're going to help us get out of here, it's that I really appreciate you and I don't want anything bad to happen to yo... to all of us, I mean”

Willy smiled moved at your concern and let go of the hand he was holding yours to hug you properly, without you objecting at all.

“But nothing bad is going to happen, dear. It was just a bad dream”

He calling you that pet name warmed your face, so you just let yourself be sheltered by his kind arms and nodded against his chest, a little less worried now that you had spoken it out loud. You stayed in that position for a few minutes, with you listening to the constant beat of his heart and with him enjoying the pleasant weight of your body against his.

“Were you making chocolates?” you asked quietly, noticing the ingredients spread across the table in his room. He loosened his grip on him slightly so you could get a better look.

"Yeah! Do you want some? Maybe that will make you feel better. Chocolate always makes me feel better” he smiled.

When Willy saw you nodding he rushed over to grab a couple of the treats and then shoved them into your hands, hoping you could enjoy them as much as he did. He was definitely right when he said that chocolate would make you feel better.

“Do these have nuts?” you asked, feeling the crunchy bits between your teeth.

"Yeah"

“I love nuts” you confessed. You had already told him before and he had made sure not to forget it, so a little smile crossed his face when he saw that the candy was to your liking. “Thank you for the chocolates. And thanks for listening to me, I… I definitely feel better”

“I'm glad to hear that”

“You're so sweet, Willy. I'm serious"

“It's no wonder. You deserve all the sweetness in the world.”

Your gaze fell on him immediately and you gave him a couple of seconds in case he wanted to take back those words. However, he didn't do it.

“Well, it's nice that you think that. Not many people are nice these days.”

“Like Scrubitt, for example?” he joked and you laughed.

“At first I felt very angry, you know? But at least now I'm happy to know that despite all this bad situation, I was able to meet someone like you."

Suddenly the urge to tell you what he felt appeared in his chest and he was honestly surprised by the impulsiveness of his thinking. There hadn't even been anything that triggered that desire, it was just his brain together with his heart that were asking him to say that out loud.

Were you going to be scared? He hoped not. Maybe he should just refer to his feelings in the hopes that you'll put the missing pieces together, or maybe he should just stay silent, or maybe...

“I have never met someone like you. You are very special to me"

You couldn't help the shy smile on your mouth and Willy settled for the excited gleam in your eyes.

“Ow, are you serious?”

"Yeah. And I think I like you a lot.”

You assumed, like everything he did, that this was just another courtesy on his part and so you responded as kindly and friendly as you could.

“I like you too, Willy.”

“And I think you're very pretty. In every way” he continued.

You didn't know if he was trying to flirt with you or if he was just being nice, so you just laughed with flushed cheeks and shoved another chocolate into your mouth to try to calm your nerves. You wanted to tell him that he was handsome to you too, but instead you murmured:

"Are not you sleepy? I can leave if that's the case, I didn't even think about…”

“No, you can stay,” he said quickly. He really seemed to want you there with him “Did I say something wrong?”

Of course he hadn't said anything wrong, how could he?

"No. I just thought you were tired and I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted. “And I appreciate that you think I’m pretty”

The way he was looking at you and the question he had just asked you made you think that maybe what he had told you about liking you was something like he really liked you. In the romantic, cheesy way you swore wasn't possible.

“I like that you are here, but I don't want to keep you if you are tired.”

“No, no” now you said. You were acting so awkwardly that your brain was screaming at you to do something to fix it, but your thoughts were interrupted by his eyes landing on your lips “What?”

There was something different in the atmosphere that had settled in from one moment to the next and could be felt with the fingers on your hand.

“Can I confess something to you?” he asked in a whisper. “And you promise not to be scared?”

“That depends,” you said nervously. Those kinds of secrets could range from the illegal to the wildly strange.

Luckily, what he longed to tell you was nothing on that spectrum.

“I think I like you a lot,” he repeated. But this time you understood perfectly what he meant.

You were burning with shame at the direction the conversation had taken and you looked at your friend with fear, not knowing how to respond to his confession. You knew you reciprocated those feelings, but you didn't feel the courage to say it. Fortunately you did have the courage to lean towards him and press your lips against his, because of course, from your strange logic that would be less embarrassing.

Now it was Willy who blushed noticeably and using the same reasoning as you, decided to mask his nerves by kissing you back again. Although he didn't say it explicitly, it was notable that he had never kissed any woman and the thought of it being his first kiss made you feel touched. He tasted like chocolate and inexperience, but he was perfect.

“I like you too,” you admitted between his lips, just as if you wanted to make it clear to him that the feeling was mutual and that he shouldn't have any fear about it.

While you were kissing him, your mind kept thinking that all that had happened thanks to one of your nightmares and, for the first time in your life, you felt grateful for that bad dream.

taglist: @dyieying @reallysparklychaos @silverchainbee @amethyistheart @shadowygladiatorlight @lavendarhearts @lou-multifandoms

[dn-imagines-in-2023]

DATE NIGHT

Light

Is pretty open to whatever you want to do. If you ask him to choose, he'll go with the classic dinner at a nice restaurant and maybe go to a museum or something.

He's a very good conversationalist. He loves to learn so he's very easy to talk to; he remembers details.

'Oh, they hate this color, I better pick a different tie.'

If you're doing something fun, he'll have a good time. But he's not a fan of the 'lay around on the couch' kind of dates, they make him feel unproductive.

L

He LOVES the lay around on the couch type of dates. They're a good safe option for him when it's not safe for him to be in public.

When it is safe for him to be in public he's completely shameless. All of his habits and quirks are out on display for the whole world to see and he does not care if he gets judged for it.

So if you can't handle the secondhand embarrassment of your boyfriend having his bare feet out for free, you're going to have a bad time.

If you do go out, he likes quieter, more private dates. A library, a park, places that aren't too crowded or chaotic.

Cafes and bakeries are always a win for obvious reasons.

Misa

She really goes all out. You have to schedule your dates with her, because they can be like 6 hours long.

She's a big fan of classic romantic dates. The 'dinner and a move' kind of thing.

I think she would absolutely love to take you to a masquerade. A chance to experiment with fashion and dance with you all night? She'd be all over it.

She would also like shopping dates. She loves to pick out clothes she thinks would look good on you and will let you pick out things for her too.

Takes lots of cute pictures through the night and displays her favorites in her room.

Mello *NSFW mentioned*

He’ll only go on dates with you on his off time- work always comes first. He has to beat Near by any means necessary, that means his love life comes second to that. In another world where everything was resolved neatly, he would likely be more willing to engage in romance.

Mello loves an adrenaline rush. His favorite dates are always a little risky and you always end up sweaty and out of breath (in a good way.) 

I imagine he would like taking you out for drinks and going dancing- probably to raves rather than nightclubs. 

The dark is a nice excuse to hold your hand- so you don’t get separated of course. 

When you’re so exhausted and dizzy you can’t see straight, he’ll call you both a cab and you’ll do everything short of have sex in the back of it.

The real fun starts when you both get upstairs ;)

Matt

Matt loves relaxed stay-at-home dates. You hop on multiplayer on a really relaxing game like stardew valley or minecraft and just lay in a snuggly pile of blankets together. 

I think he would also like dates where you make something together- trying a new recipe, or making an art project. It might not turn out great - he doesn’t have a sophisticated palette or a lot of artistic skill, but he would have a lot of fun.

He doesn’t mind going out once in a while, but he doesn’t like dressing up. He hates wearing ties. He’ll do it occasionally for your sake, but it’s not his favorite.

Near

He doesn’t really do specifically set out *dates*. You both just… end up in each others company.

It’s never a case of ‘Let’s set aside this Saturday at 7 for a date night.’ Usually, you just end up in his room while he’s working, you distract him, and you two end up spending the next six hours talking.

I imagine he would like that type of date, where you sit and have a really, really good conversation for hours and hours.

Especially since you’re one of the only people in the world who can really keep up with him.

He might bring out something for you two to work on together, some of his toys, puzzles, models, etc.

He likes meticulous, detail oriented work. Introduce him to knitting/crochet and you two can sit and knit together for hours. (embroidery would also work for this.)

Matsuda

Silly goofy guy.

He likes new experiences, he’s willing to try just about anything once. So if you have a really wild date idea, he’s probably down with it.

If he’s the one to come up with the date, he tries to put some thought into it and make it personal to you. But he has trouble coming up with new ideas so he tends to stick to what he knows - you two have a dedicated date night restaurant you both like.

I have no idea why, but I imagine he would love live theater? Like specifically musicals. Take him to see Hairspray, he’ll have the time of his life.

[masked-tornado]

All about Allen Alagona

Overview:

Basics

Allen's backstory

Allen's personality

Allen's relationships

Allen's relationship with Deuce

Allen & blot

Allen's previous life

Allen's magic

Fun facts

OFFICIAL ALLEN X DEUCE POSTS:

1 // 2 // 3

1. Basics

Allen is a Ramshackle freshman who comes from another world (¾ Italian, ¼ Japanese) and "has no magic".

He's an aspiring illustrator and musician who doesn't seem to have success no matter how hard he tries. Whenever he attempted to gain attention on the internet before, all he ever received was ignorance and hate. Nowadays, he's too scared to try again.

2. Allen's backstory

Allen is an intersex boy and was born with lower testosterone levels as well as a mostly "female" outward anatomy.

Having suffered from a genetic anxiety disorder since his childhood, Allen was never really able to enjoy things. Once he got into school, he was mostly used for his good grades and ignored otherwise.

However, things got much worse when puberty started: Allen's body was feminine and muscular at the same time, and he towered over his classmates. His resting bitch face didn't help with people finding him intimidating and scary... and soon, he was not only ignored, but actively avoided and made fun of. He got pushed around, insulted, and told that "a freak like him" could never be loved. Nobody invited him to hang out, people pretended to have crushes on him in order to fool him, and all the "friends" he ever had badmouthed him behind his back.

Allen couldn't tell anyone about how hurt he was — boys weren't supposed to cry and act all whiny, and he would prove that he was indeed a boy by being all tough.

Trying to escape from the bullying at school, Allen put all of his feelings into art instead — a thing he was told he was "gifted" at — and started sharing it on social media. However, as he watched other artists blow up and build entire fanbases, absolutely nothing happened to him; he was either ignored or insulted for his art, seemingly never being good enough to earn compliments. Combined with the fact that Allen compared himself with other artists a lot, he slowly started losing confidence in the one thing he enjoyed and thought he was skilled at.

That wasn't the only thing Allen "wasn't good enough" for. As he got older, the topics at school progressively got harder, and the model student started struggling with them a little. His grades dropped from As to As and Bs, and that was somehow already enough for his teachers to blame him. "What's wrong?", "I expected better from you" and "stop slacking" were just some of the things Allen had to hear from them. He began studying even more in an attempt to satisfy them and prove his worth to himself, but nothing seemed to work out, and instead, it all led to Allen having a burnout.

At this point, Allen started believing that he was possessed. How could one single person have so much bad luck and be hated this much solely for trying to live his life...?

...and why was he even trying when he was never good enough for anyone anyway?

It was then that Allen decided to give up on everything. His grades never satisfied his teachers no matter how well he did, so why should he work for them at all? His gentle personality was never appreciated, so why should he be kind? Fights hurt him, so why shouldn't he fight back?

Allen slowly became a delinquent. He started skipping class almost every day, finally dared to cuss, and got into lots of verbal fights with the people who formerly bullied him. Those who already feared Allen before were now absolutely terrified of him, and soon, rumors about an actual possession started spreading.

The headmaster couldn't stand watching the process of one of her most valuable honor students turning into a delinquent and eventually kicked Allen out of school for his shenanigans.

Allen knew he wouldn't attend a school ever again due to what it had done to his health, but at the same time, he was in desperate need of that graduation if he ever wanted to have a proper job. He tried to blackmail the headmaster into giving him his graduation by threatening to expose the school for how they covered bullying and even allowed teachers to be bullies, but ultimately, Allen got nothing out of it.

He had nothing but his parents now. He had no friends, no confidence, no future. He was likely possessed, doomed by the universe.

Allen lost the sparkle in his eye; he wanted nothing more than to disappear. But the thought of his parents' grief forced him to stay alive. Every day was torture and reminded Allen of how much of a failure he was, and he progressively grew angrier...

...until he started imagining himself in music videos every time he listened to songs.

That was when Allen had an idea. He couldn't be violent, so why not channel all of his hatred and wrath into lyrics and make his own music? This time, he wouldn't post anything online in a long time, instead taking things slow.

Things slowly got a little better — Allen was able to start a hormone therapy, dyed his hair, changed his overall appearance, disassociated himself from his old self, and learned to control his anger through writing and other methods he figured out for himself. However, the emptiness, anxiety and hopelessness remained, and Allen was stuck with depression.

Just the day when Allen wanted to finally buy a software to produce music with, he woke up in a coffin in a strange world...

3. Allen's personality

Allen is widely known to be friendly, lowkey, mature, calm and helpful. People admire him for his good looks and determination, and some even consider him to be perfect due to the fact that he is additionally "good at everything". He also avoids fights and more heated discussions and instead serves as a mediator most of the time, earning him a fair amount of respect at NRC.

Allen has an easy time getting along with people and, while he rarely engages in deep conversations, generally enjoys talking and spending time with others, even if he's not close to them.

The truth: this is a mask.

Allen is an extremely flawed person but skilled at hiding it. He doesn't do anything he's bad at in public, only voices reasonable opinions, uses white lies in order to not accidentally hurt people, and hides all of his mental struggles as much as possible.

Not only does the real Allen envy everyone who is in some way more successful or "better" at something than him, but he has also developed a superiority complex to cope with his insecurities. He even feels this way towards some of his friends, yet doesn't dare to speak up on it out of fear of ending up all alone again.

The real Allen writes aggressive songs, has violent thoughts, and hates himself with a burning passion. His trauma and insecurities always get the better of him, and Allen still believes that he's ugly, worthless and not deserving of love despite being one of the most popular people at NRC.

The real Allen also doesn't care about the problems of people and gets impatient extremely quickly (Deuce is an exception — Allen cares about him a lot and is patient with him — as well as other people who have genuinely earned Allen's trust). His primary motivation for helping with bigger issues around the school is to draw attention to himself and finally receive praise.

Allen's biggest fear is to be lonely, abandoned and ignored, which is why he does his best to hide all of his flaws and true opinions on people — he doesn't want to risk being disliked now that he's finally appreciated somewhere.

The only person who knows the real Allen (and who he is 100% honest to) is Deuce, who doesn't judge him at all and instead understands him.

4. Allen's relationships

5. Allen's relationship with Deuce

Ever since day one, they've been best friends who always know what the other is thinking/feeling and do almost everything together.

Having the same experiences in a mirrored way, Allen and Deuce are able to understand each other better than anyone else could and naturally help each other because of it. Allen is able to assist Deuce with studying while making sure that he doesn't overwork himself and provides him with healthy outlets for his delinquent tendencies, which helps Deuce mature and grow calmer. Instead of trying to change Deuce, Allen helps him see the good in his flaws and use them to Deuce's advantage while fully supporting his goals and making sure that Deuce doesn't lose himself. Deuce, on the other hand, simply loves and admires Allen the way he is, which helps Allen slowly accept himself more. Being around someone who's so similar to himself and genuinely supports, understands and adores him also manages to fill the void in Allen's heart at least a bit.

Due to Allen's tough vibes, determined personality, intelligence and pretty appearance, Deuce fell for him extremely quickly (it was basically love at first sight for him). Allen fell for Deuce during book 4 when he realized just how much he missed the boy. After hesitating with a confession for a long time due to how it could possibly affect their friendship, Allen and Deuce eventually start dating some time after book 7.

Before I go on an eternal ramble about these two, here are some posts from my Deuce x Allen blog explaining their relationship further:

How they help each other

Why I ship them

Relationship timeline

Facts about them

6. Allen & blot

Allen feels his body get weaker and is somewhat out of touch with it in Twisted Wonderland. At first, he isn't aware of what the reason might be, but things resolve themselves... in the worst way possible.

During every breakdown occuring after these symptoms, a part of Allen's body changes. At first, he merely cries black tears, but then his hair turns another color, followed by another body part every time... until Allen is fully convinced that his demon is slowly taking over.

These occurrences are, in fact, mini overblots building up to Allen's first proper overblot, in which he assumes the form of a demon prince with fire-based magic and massive claws.

Due to his overall physical and mental weakness as well as the fact that he's not from Twisted Wonderland, blot affects Allen extremely easily and in a different way than with mages.

But why can he accumulate blot if he's not a mage himself? Well...

7. Allen's previous life

Unbeknownst to everyone, Allen is the reincarnation of Asterope, an infamous mage from Twisted Wonderland.

Asterope was an exceptional mage said to have been blessed who had weather-based powers but couldn't fully control them due to his impulsive personality. As a result, he accidentally slaughtered a village through a tornado in a fit of rage caused by being excluded and bullied, and became a wanted criminal as a result. He ran away, assumed the identity of "Alan" and joined the Silver Owls, only to be caught when he found out about his sole friend's death and accidentally caused another tornado. Asterope then got executed, and to this day, he's known as nothing but a villain.

Nobody is aware that Allen is Asterope's reincarnation and supposed to fix his legacy until Allen dies after being stabbed during a friend's overblot. A storm is raging outside the school during the entirety of Allen being in a critical state and eventually dying. While his body is already dead, Allen's mind intensely relives the moments from both his current life and the one he had as Asterope. Ironically, his strong blot accumulation and Asterope's desire for wanting his legacy to be fixed through his "successor" eventually bring Allen back to life, leaving him with mere permanent tattoos... and the ability to use magic.

Shortly before Allen awakens, Asterope speaks through him, talking about his legacy. Later on, Allen and his friends do their best to figure out what exactly happened.

8. Allen's magic

Allen has fairly little control over his everyday magic due to both his mood swings and the fact that he's entirely new to this kind of thing. However, he is eager to learn and improve so he can hopefully reach an average skill level.

On the other hand, Allen's Unique Magic is incredibly powerful and can only be countered by the strongest of mages when they're concentrated. "The Calm Before the Storm" traps a being in a tornado that drains them of all their physical and mental energy, often causing the person in question to pass out. It can be used on living creatures from all worlds.

Fun fact: Allen discovers his Unique Magic before he can use normal magic at all.

9. Fun facts

Allen is three days older than Ace.

Allen is good with animals and children.

Allen's natural hair color is black.

Allen is considered to be one of the prettiest people at NRC, but isn't aware of this.

Allen collects plushies and Deuce gifts them to him regularly.

Allen loves Shiba Inus.

Allen likes motorcycles and blastcycles.

Allen is an only child.

Allen loves his parents but is distant from the rest of his family.

Allen has photographic memory.

Allen eats instant noodles a lot.

Allen can't cook, but is willing to learn how to cook egg dishes for Deuce.

Allen doesn't have a lot of stamina.

Allen has problems falling asleep.

Allen is generally bad at sports, but can run fastly and dance very well. He does, however, suck at ballroom dance.

Allen is often called a twink, and he's very curvy for a skinny guy.

Allen has long eyelashes.

Allen received chest surgery during book 5 and now has scars.

Allen prefers coffee over tea.

Allen dislikes pastries.

[grapejuicestyless]

Unforgettable

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n Y/l/n is a classic rockstar with a magnetic pull and a bad reputation with men to her name. Turns out Y/n might not be such a bad girl after all and the men she used might have not been the truth.

Pages bursted from every seam of her notebook, littered in scribbled lyrics of failed beginnings, one night stands and the most innocent poetry writings that reflected the opposite of the devilish woman behind the pencil marks.

Everything about her was shiny. Her glittery deep purplish blue eyeshadow and the highlight on the tip of her nose to the glistening sweat that dripped underneath her top.

She was messy, yet so detailed. Every hair out of place seemed to fit perfectly a top her head. The lazy smear of lipgloss and eyeshadow applied carelessly yet laying in such way that it almost looked intentional.

It was that careless attitude that was so magnetic about her. The rockstar exterior she possessed attracting the innocent into her wild web of her craft.

But, despite her rockstar complexion and her love life reputation, the girl had an undeniable talent that could not be ruined by the poor press that swirled her name.

So it could only be fitting to place the most standout woman there into the cleanest band reputation wise. It was humorous, when it was announced. Y/n Y/l/n, joining Harry Styles for his long awaited Love On Tour.

Harry, who had hand picked her from the bunch of bassists waiting to wow him, was immediately aware of her presence. Her look sharp and eye catching, but her talent even better. She had a skill for her craft that nobody else was even able to come close to achieving. It was almost destiny she had shown up, notebook stuffed full of sloppy writing and bass scratched from her frustration.

Truthfully, Y/n hadn’t really longed to be placed into the band. She didn’t exactly enjoy the bright pinks and pop music that blasted through the speakers. She had only gone to the audition because she had been itching to play. Having traveled the world with some of the biggest inspirations, and by herself on a successful world tour a couple years ago, Y/n found herself bored in her home for so long. She was just about ready to go out a preform to a room filled with angry elderly people who hated all loud noises. Anything to give her the thrill of being in front of the crowd again.

So, when she was emailed one August evening, detailing of an audition for a bassist to join a well known artist on stage, she pushed aside her unfamiliarity with the genre.

It wasn’t that Y/n disliked pop music, it just wasn’t her favorite. She’s spent most of her time closer to a soft rock sound, pulling from past inspirations and old sounds that could be reworked into her work. The glitz and glam of the fresh and new sounding pop music was only something she hadn’t really gotten into, explaining why she felt more nervous than glad she was selected.

Yet, her ability to adjust and charm her way through her lack of experience within the genre was enough to keep her going, placing her where she was now. Standing next Harry, under the intense lights of Madison Square in the middle of one of the hottest summers to date.

…

A year had passed, just about, since Y/n first stepped onto the stage, her bass slung around her neck with a tattered strap that was practically molded to her shoulders. She gave a good amount to the band, adding in bass lines that ascended the songs into a better form of themselves. Making sure not to overpower the other instruments, but to lift them up and amplify how they sounded collectively as a band.

“That was good, that sounded great actually!” I turned back, the side of my lip pressed into the surface of the microphone. My hands found their way around the cord, untangling it to gain some more movement around the stage.

“Why don’t we recollect, get some water and stretch out?” I shot a thumbs up to the sound guy, who had been playing around with some switches behind a small barricade farther back in the arena. After the go ahead was given, the lights dimmed to a soft glow on top of the stage and the heat seemed less intense.

“No way, that’s so cool! Where did you find that, I’ve been having so much trouble looking for a new bass recently.” Her voice was slightly raspy, deeper too, I noticed from the dryness that I assumed was itching at her throat.

I watched her toss her head back, lips wrapped around the plastic water bottle until it crinkled beneath her hands and was left with nothing more than a few stray drops of water pooling at the bottom.

Elin, who she had been conversing with enthusiastically, seemed to match her energy precisely, showing Y/n the same amount of excitement over the new piece of equipment. Eyes gleaming with interest and passion over the topic. It felt warming knowing that work felt less like an obligation but instead was a privilege.

A close knit family that brought a dopey smile to my face at only the thought of it. I listened to them and there insane energy inconspicuously, eyes avoidant of the women and instead settled on the ledge between Sarah’s drums and where the trumpet players would stand later that night where the nearest supply of water was.

From afar, underneath the sound in my head of my aggressive swallowing of water, it sounded like the pair were dispersing. The conversation ended with a faint laugh that dwindled out the longer the conversation ended.

It was a true laugh, sincere. Almost a belly laugh but just not quite there yet. The sound so familiar it was instantly pinned in my mind as Y/n’s.

The common misconception about Y/n was that she was shallow, unfeeling and unknowing of basic relationships and proper manners. The media had poorly labeled the innocent woman, her lyrics thought to be too provocative and explicit. Too in depth and detailed that gossip accounts were ready to start this false narrative about the most undeserving person of the hate.

Maybe it was her careless expressions after completing a hard bass line, or her rockstar style that made her such an easy target for the untrue opinions and thoughts. She had that old grungy thing about her that both made her desirable and criticized, yet she made it work.

Y/n was the sun, in my eyes. A bright, young woman with wisdom beyond her years and heart so full it was overflowing with empathy and sympathy. Her lyrics reflected her past experiences, like any other artist. Her failed relationships that left her in the darkness and her distantly timed hook ups to fill the cold loneliness beside her bed.

Truthfully, she was more like the rest of the industry than any gossiper could comprehend. Her writing abilities expressed so freely, so vulnerable that it caused that discomfort, that pit in the listeners stomach forming with each song she put on her albums. The real truth was that she wasn’t some shallow, sex driven girl who dated guys to write about how they did her wrong. She was a loving woman who loved everyone more than life and was overly naive. She dated trying to find someone who could understand her like she understood everyone else. She spoke what was on her mind completely true and unfiltered constantly. Not fearful of the backlash her opinions would bring. That’s what continues to draw me to her throughout our time together.

“Hey, Harry.” Her voice was sweet, laced with honey and dripping in sweetness. I barely noticed her touch on my shoulder until I looked down at her guitar string scarred hands and found myself smiling.

“What’s up, Angel? What’s going on?” I turned my back to her, head thrown over my shoulder to look back to her face while my hands worked on screwing on the cover to my water bottle.

“You know, the usual. Just wanted to tell you I thought that note change during Sign of the Times was beautiful. You should go for those higher notes more often, you hit them every time.” She was completely honest in her opinions, which is why I held her words dear to my heart.

Y/n had no issue telling me what she thought. She was rather quick to give pointers of what worked better and how to substitute those notes that were strained and uncomfortable. Yet, she did it with such a down to earth point of view. She remained humble, even if everyone here knew she had talents beyond all of ours. She acted like she was just as good as the rest of us, like we were equals.

“I know, it’s just hard with so many people around. Don’t want to fall flat and ruin it.” Shrugging, we walked together to the stairs at the edge of the stage.

“Don’t psych yourself out, Styles. You nail those notes all the time. Your range is unbelievably complex. You have that ability to hit the higher notes every time.” She placed her hand in mine, following me down the stairs cautiously as the last one was always less steep than the rest, causing mishaps occasionally.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” We nodded at each other, silently understanding that the conversation was ending but still taking each other in. It almost felt like something was pulling us closer, eyes growing heavier and smiles getting looser. Breathing sharper.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” It was breathy, the way it came out of her mouth. Almost like it was something she hadn’t wanted to say but forced herself to.

I nodded, watching her eyes crinkle before she turned away briskly, quick to find her escape through the illuminated tunnel. For a moment I felt like a fly in a web that was her creation, stuck in place to just stare as she left.

…

The show was unworldly. An atmosphere so intense and the energy so insane the floor swayed beneath my feet. The shows were structured the same each night, yet each one felt like a completely new experience. It was how the fans danced together in a formation that they’d created during Treat People With Kindness and how they’d share different experiences drawn out on their cardboard signs. It was surreal, something I felt lucky enough to experience with some of my closest friends, my band.

It went by smoothly, as projected to. The lights and the transitions between each songs igniting an excitement beyond no other I had ever experienced. Sarah played the drums precisely, hitting every beat necessary as her husband, Mitch, created the familiar tunes that were the songs of the past few albums. Within in the music, Y/n stood perched just next to Pauli, continuing to support Mitch and Elin within her bass playing.

By the time Kiwi had reached its end, I caught myself looking back to catch a glance at Y/n. Telling myself it was only to get a short moment to observe her living in her passion. Really, deep down I knew it was something more, something that had always been there yet I hadn’t had the courage to admit until that out loud.

…

The dressing room was quiet, after the show. The post show blues, as I used to refer to it as. The ultimate high coming back down with the realization that it was all over.

I let myself peel the sweaty chevron shirt off of my body and kicking off my green Gucci shoes. I left on the mismatched bottoms while ruffling through the pile of clothes packed in my suitcase for a shirt and shorts.

“Hey, rockstar. Trying a new look?” My head raised, turning halfway to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, really going for that oiled up 2000’s boy next door idea.” We laughed, eyes closing at how stupid I must’ve looked to her. Finding it funny and slightly embarrassing as the rose tint spread like wildfire across my cheeks.

Soon, our laughs turned into silence, warm smiles reflecting off of our faces onto the others. It was comfortable, lip caught between her teeth and mine pulling at the skin of my bottom one.

“I heard what you did tonight. Proud of you. I told you, you could hit that note change. Honestly, sounded better out there than at soundcheck.” My heart fluttered.

“I could say the same about you. It’s like you gain more power with each show.”

“Stop it, you just might make me blush.” She stepped closer, merely a few inches left separating the two of us. Her breath tickling my skin, her hands clenched by her sides nervously.

Suddenly, she had lost all that confidence that told the world she could play anyone like a fiddle. Suddenly she lost that fog around the mirror that created the illusion of a rockstar super player who moved from one man to the next, without rhyme or reason. She became what we’d all learned of her. The girl who loved long and hard on the people close to her, and the girl who despite was she was destined by the media to have been, had only had a couple relationships past the one night stands that filled her notebook. She batted her eyes, and I held my breath.

“Y/n…” It was a whisper. A soft murmur beneath my breath, but I was sure she’d heard it.

I found myself slowly reaching for her hand, opening it on top of my palm and brushing my fingers gently over the creases that ran along them before letting it fall back to her side. My eyes lifted from where we touched back to her face. Only to allow myself to find contact again. I let my hand slip around her waist, pulling slowly until our bodies were pressed together. The only thing separating our lips was the small gap we’d placed between them.

“Harry..?” She seemed conflicted, unsure almost. Hesitant.

“Is this okay?” It came out shaky, the nerves reaching a point that could only be cured by her acceptance.

“I…I just…” She thought on it, “I don’t want you to believe everything about me. I don’t want to lose you when you realize I’m not who you think I am.” The confession sounded like it was almost painful to admit.

“Oh.” I blinked, “Y/n, angel, no. I would never think that.” Her eyes were avoidant, her body more tense than moments prior.

“Please, look at me.” I let my other hand raise under his chin, pointer finger hooking underneath her chin to raise her gaze to mine, “To me, you are everything. You understand me. You see things that nobody else sees. Y/n, you bring out the best in me. I would have never had the courage to push myself and change that note tonight if you hadn’t pushed me to do it. You have this honesty that makes everyone value your words and you have this power over me that continues to draw me to you. I can not explain it, but believe me when I say you are all I want.” Her eyes fogged with what I believed to be her taking in my sudden confession. Yet, with her realization at what I had just said, she still remained silent and I felt the instant regret growing harder in my heart.

I had been through enough rejections to build a home. Yet, the thought of her rejecting me hurt more than anything I could’ve put myself through.

“Shit..Im sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ My explanation was no use, her hands on my cheeks and her lipstick smearing across my lips in a red hue as her lips pressed hard into mine in a sudden burst of confidence.

My eyes shut quickly, settling into it, only for it to be taken away quicker than I had longed for. Eyes opened in a lustful haze. Yet it wasn’t sexual, but completely innocent and perfect in every sense.

“I love you.” The words slipped passed my lips before I could stop them. A smile growing in a lovesick fashion across her face as my confession Is held in for so long reached her ears.

“I love you too.” She returned the confession, leaning in again to press her lips harder into mine and a heavenly sigh escaping her throat.

It was passionate and loving in a way that I’d never experienced before. The shared feelings were strong, new, vulnerable. A new beginning that both of us secretly longed for.

How funny the public would find it if the news ever broke that their precious bad girl rockstar was actually a giant love bug and an angel on earth. How much of a shock it would be to those who tore her down for her fashion choices and her lack of precautions in the public eye.

She might not be who she was made out to be from the exterior, but the one thing the press had gotten right about the devilish woman who broke too many hearts and dished out too many fights she could handle.

She is unforgettable.

[darlingkaveh]

“writing on the wall” - a love letter to kaveh, inspired by the fansong

synopsis: after being transported from Earth to Teyvat, you’ve been selfishly using kaveh’s skill in art to remind you of home. contains: gn!reader (mentioned). written from kaveh’s pov (3rd person) tw: angst. one use of profanity. unhealthy relationship (can be interpreted however which way; romantic, platonic, etc, and it’s still unhealthy lol). the beautiful art is by ani on x :)

honestly? not my best work, but…i tried. still definitely worth reading imo, though. i’m entering into a minor writing contest due at midnight (it’s 11:32 pm rn). obviously, i don’t have much time to edit it, so out into the world raw it goes.

His head was bent—bowed—as his quill swung, hand poised, crafting a structure from ink and page. His golden hair shone under the first light of dawn, its typically intricate style undone. He was ill, in truth. Ill, with a frenzy that made his hands tremble and his vision shake. His coffee was untouched from the night before, replaced by empty bottles of beer. His lips knew nothing but its bitter sting, and the rest of him was beginning to follow.

Designs laid strewn across his desk, spilling onto the floor. They weren’t his. No, his were grand, opulent—sound. His works were more than mere designs, they were blueprints; they were perfected. They covered these cold, ivory walls, every which way he turned. Yours were mere sketches, fragments of a world long lost, yet you demanded its revival despite it. It was maddening.

He could recall, vividly, when you first approached him. The sky was the bluest he had seen in years. He had been complaining about the heat as he slogged through the market square, juggling a stack of blueprints—since he had fallen asleep in the library working on them the night prior. You had been kind enough to lend him a hand. At the time, he had thanked you with an easy smile. He knew you weren’t from around there—the lilt in your voice was telling—but who was he to judge a weary traveller?

It didn’t take much from you to get him to start talking; the harshness of the afternoon sun was forgotten. It was then this…arrangement—if you could even call it that—began. You were interested in his work, and offered good Mora. To be frank, he jumped at the opportunity. Until then, he had been living off the skin of his teeth.

The first few jobs were innocent enough: converting your sketches into blueprints; something real. Your drawings pictured structures made of materials he had never even seen before. Things like ‘brick’ and ‘concrete’. Not only were the designs puzzling, but they were miserably dull. He had taken it upon himself to liven your work. At the time, he had felt pity for you. Pity, and…gratitude.

Somehow, he knew it was too good to be true.

The sunlight tilted, hitting his eyes, making him wince. The artificial light streamed in from an unknown source, likely some hidden mechanism, and only dimmed at night. Here, he was nothing more than an animal, merely entertained. This space—the ivory walls that caged him—was livened only by his craft, those blueprints every which way he turned. They held the confidence of his hand, yet also the imperfection. That imperfection was what he sought to destroy.

Was it worth it? To toil away, night and day, fulfilling another’s dream?

Hah. He was an artist. A nobody. Perhaps this would make him somebody.

His breath caught. Nearly there. Oh, he was so close. It was almost good enough. Almost perfect. He erased an unnecessary flourish; filled an empty space. At last. He pulled back, taut as his eyes traced those smooth lines and sketched figures.

It was complete.

He rose from the floor, heels aching as he stepped closer to the wall, pinning it up and letting it join the many others.

He hated it.

But he hung it anyway.

He drew back, gazing at what you called masterpieces. They meant nothing to him. Their structure, their flair, their design—all the things which were meant to speak to his soul—were lacking. Because they weren’t of his soul. Not truly. His were the hands that refined the blade, yet yours were the ones that made it.

Something pricked at his eyes.

“Is this what you wanted?” He yelled. “To ruin my life?”

He stood there, in that silence, fists balled and body tense—but the only response he got was from his echo.

His face twisted. He let out a weak laugh as he crumpled to the floor, arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth, his breaths sharpening, quickening. Tears blurred his vision.

You wouldn’t reply. You couldn’t, you weren’t here. And he knew that, so why did he…?

He made a strangled noise, feeling bile claw at the back of his throat, unrelenting, burning, aching—and he screamed before he shot up, tore his work off the wall, and ripped it into shreds.

As the pieces fluttered to the ground, he felt a part of him shrivel up, and…die. Something cold clutched his chest, and he started fumbling, trying to wipe away his tears.

“I…I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Is that what you wanted to hear? God, I…” he choked back a sob, sinking back down, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes, red and raw, shifted to look at his desk, and the endless pile of work perched upon it. Slowly, he inhaled, shuddering as a chill tore up his insides. But when it settled, he picked up his quill, and brushed through the papers until he found one that seemed, at most, manageable.

With the touch of his quill to a page, the cycle continues.

Under the glow of dawn, a broken smile touches his lips, and he reaches for another bottle of beer.

[kintsugi-dragon]

Hanzo's Prosthetics

My headcanons, once again. Warning for talk of amputations, gore-y details (no pictures, just writing), and manipulation.

I'm a firm believer in Hanzo having lower leg (below the knee) prosthetics, no matter what Blizzard says. He would have gotten them after the battle with Genji, with the clan working together to have them made and be top-of-the-line with fancy internal circuitry and silencing and everything they would need to upgrade his abilities.

(Side note: I also refuse to believe that Hanzo fought with his brother who was also trained in the various martial and sword arts together for years - even if we acknowledge Genji may not have attended many of them, we know that Genji was still an incredible swordsman and warrior - and didn't receive any sort of lasting physical damage like scars. Man has flawless skin for no reason.)

A thought (some angst food) that had only just crossed my mind was, "What if his prosthetics weren't actually necessary?"

What if he had sustained injuries that were not grievous enough to warrant a complete below-the-knee amputation? Perhaps muscles and ligaments were severed, yes, but were able to be repaired to almost normal function with normal treatments, especially when you see the medical capabilities that modern/game time doctors have.

Hanzo might have been told that they needed to remove his legs completely because "the damage was too severe to heal normally", and he would have agreed because he was so far under their influence and would agree to everything they told him - he agreed to kill his brother, the closest family member he had since his father died, his brother! - and so underwent the surgery.

The clan would have thought out the pros and cons of removing their leader's legs. Hanzo would have a strange light cast on him; who took his legs? Who was strong enough, skillful enough, to catch the elder Shimada off-guard in a fight to lead to this? Cybernetics may lead to a weakness that could be exploited with the best hackers. On the other hand, cybernetic legs were stronger, more resilient, adaptable, changeable. He wouldn't have to worry about muscle strain or broken bones. Attachments and upgrades could be made at any time.

They could even hide the fact that they were prosthetics in the first place with a good outershell.

So the clan chooses to have Hanzo's legs amputated, even though they could have chosen to have him recover his flesh legs completely. Hanzo would be made into a better weapon, and he wouldn't even know.

In fact, no one would know. They were constructed so well, with the help of artists and prosthetic "architects", that no one outside of Hanzo and the inner circle of the clan would know that his legs weren't flesh.

When Hanzo joins Overwatch, he keeps them a secret there too. Dr. Zeigler knows, of course, but he refuses to walk outside of his room without them on and requests for a foldable wheelchair to be in his room so he can quickly tuck it under his bed when someone knocks on the door.

He hates his legs, maybe after he discovers some audio logs from the clan discussing his amputation - perhaps during an infiltration in Hanamura for an adjacent mission. He learns that he might have been able to keep his original legs, keep his body away from the clan's eagerness to turn him into more of a living weapon. It disgusts him, because he feels like he's hating Genji and Genji's body, which confuses him because it was Hanzo's fault Genji is like this now, and Genji is living this life with more than just his legs gone. Hanzo hates his legs but he feels his suffering is moot against what he did to his brother, so he sticks with them.

Somewhere inside he also knows that his legs kept him alive the decade he abandoned the clan, being chased by assassins and mercenaries and running around. He can't help but be grateful to what the clan did, and he thinks they made the right choice, even if he would never have agreed to it in the first place.

Speaking of the years after his life in the clan - Hanzo was unable to properly care for his legs while on the run and homeless. Sure, he was able to do his daily maintenance and figure out some things by himself, but when larger and more complex parts would fail, he just had to deal with it and find an underground repairer to hopefully fix it. There were a few times he was scammed and left without properly working legs (or worse), and most days were spent struggling to walk or in pain. One of the first things Overwatch did for him (even if there was a lot of tension and anger towards him) was completely tune-up his legs :)

[fallowtail]

So curious what you thought of last night's Ghost episode! I LOVED Trevor's tenderness with Escarghost (lol) but wasn't a big fan of the Isaac storyline. Plus, it was a reminder that the writers really aren't revisiting H-money---even when he thought he was being sucked off he didn't seem to have any sort of special goodbye for her or register her as anything more to him than the other ghosts are, and Hetty was kind of rude to him most of the episode.

Long reply incoming because I have a lot to say about the current status of H-Money and you gave me an excuse to think about it >:) Loved it, but I love all the episodes- there really hasn't been one I've walked away from disliking outside of a some "aw, I wish they had done that differently or gone into it more" disappointments here and there haha. Shelly the Escarghost was a stand out snactor who portrayed this ethically dubious snail very artistically and he is a very good boy who deserves to slowly rotate his way up the shaft over the next few days. The Isaac plotline did fall a little flat for me but I don't hate it at all and I am genuinely really interested to see where they're going to go with it. Hetty and her desire for appliance erotica may be one of my favorite moments of the season, lol, and the Jay & Pete shotgun argument is delightful.

(read more because this got a little long and i don't want to clog the tag)

Re: H-Money, I don't see it that way personally, but I also view them as a ship a bit differently than it seems the current main consensus/desires for them has turned into this past year- I do not personally think they are currently secretly in romantic love with each other, and are still at the stage where they're still working through realizing and understanding that they're actually friends and that they genuinely care about each other and do have things in common. Him not having a monologue for her specifically doesn't ring as anything that "dooms" the ship or whatever to me personally- if anything I think him pronouncing a deep affection for her or having anything meaningfully specific would be pretty out of character at this moment- their canon relationship isn't the same as what their fanon one is, the canon one is going muuuch slower and is not really as standardly romantic as people seem to want it to be, which, don't get me wrong, I love the fluffy fanon stuff, I really do, I've written some of it and encouraged a lot of the others!- but their canon-dynamic of ["enemies" to friends with benefits to exes to girlfriend/boyfriend to "exes" to friends with benefits again to exes again and now back to friends who are maybe sleeping together again (no idea! could be, could not be, i love the mystery!)] is endlessly more fascinating to me and I do think it's something important to keep in mind that what the show is doing with them is not the same as what the fandom is doing with them haha. Hetty was rude to him, but, well, that's just...Hetty, her social skills despite being a socialite are...not the best, and I do think she actually was genuinely trying to express interest and empathy for him, just in a very...Hetty-like way, lol. Hetty is rude, Hetty is blunt, she makes inappropriate comments, that's just inherently part of her character and mutually part their relationship, even- like yes, she makes the comment about his dog being wormfood by now ("sorry, your dog is 35 years old, my bad" absolutely killed me) but it followed a scene where she is gazing at him very empathetically and tenderly and giving him space to be vulnerable with them about his guilt and grief, and gives Alberta a scolding look for commenting about his friends body dumping him, lol. (For a toss of hope for you that is not just me going "I don't see their relationship the way other people do" LOL a lot of their current interactions are very interesting to read into if you want to read it through the lens that they're sneaking around again, because this sort of behavior is exactly what they were doing last time!) Keep in mind this is only episode 6 of 22, we have a long way to go just yet, we're not even at the half way point! Thank you for the ask & I hope any of this makes sense <3

[lockpickingliar]

DUHH THE YELLOW ROSE GUY™️ HAS INFECTED ME WITH A VIRUS!

@duhhtheyellowrose Listen I was thinkin'. You had the absolute Gall to put Byakuya in my head and I was thinkin' and thinkin' and thinkin' and like...

What IS Affluent Progeny as a Talent™️ even!?

Like, listen, like—

I keep mulling it over and every Talent I can possibly think of is like, a measurable skill, y'know? Baseball Star, Pop Idol (i.e. idol-specific skills), Programmer, Biker Gang Leader, Moral Compass, Doujin Author, Gambler, Martial Artist, Soldier, Detective, Swimmer, Fortune Teller, like...! They are all irrefutably some kind of skill to be done, with the exception of Luckster.

The Luckster I can forgive strictly because the entire point of the title is that the holder is otherwise unremarkable in every way. Makoto's Just Some Guy Who Got Lucky. Like that's the Point. He's not SUPPOSED to be Talented by Hope's Peak's definition.

Even in the other games:

In SDR2 we've got Imposter, Cook, Photographer, Swordswoman, Traditional Dancer, Musician, Nurse, Team Manager, Breeder, Gamer, Mechanic, Gymnast, Yakuza, and Princess with the exception of once again the Luckster and Hajime (a nobody).

In V3 we've got Adventurer(/Survivor), Pianist, Tennis Pro, Maid, Artist, Aikido Master, Anthropologist, Inventor, Entomologist, Supreme Leader (Different From Princess imo), Astronaut, Assassin, Magician, Cosplayer, and Detective with the exception of Robot because Audience Insert Gimmick Or Whatever.

So what's up with the Affluent Progeny???

Literally like it's not a Talent really, because it it's core the dictionary interpretation of an "affluent progeny" is literally just like. A "child of wealth." Even if he did "win" the name of Togami head of household through a battle royale or whatever (if you accept DR:T as a Thing), that's not how inheritance works and that doesn't turn inheritance into a measurable skill, y'know?

So it's like.

Out of all the Talents, this one is fake as hell??? Like. It's a Talent in name only, almost like it was bought out by the Togami family for the Prestige Points to have a Talent that only they can have, and making it seem that much more like an actual skill by having their weird contest thing to validate its existence or whatever?

Genuinely like I blame @duhhtheyellowrose for this 100% for getting me thinking about the actual legitimate semantics of it but like. My turn to Pepe Sylvia:

Ultimate Affluent Progeny isn't a real Talent™️

It's a title the Togami family made up and paid Hope's Peak exorbitant amounts of money to make real for the Prestige because They Are The Togami Family, of course they'd be Ultimate just by virtue of Being A (fucking) Togami.

ALL THIS TO SAY...

Is Byakuya even necessarily Talented™️!?

Which is not meant to be a dunk! I know, I know, he's very intelligent and good with stocks or whatever and racked up his own little fortune all on his own, but that... has nothing to do with being an """affluent progeny""".

No, I'm asking specifically in the realm of the Hope's Peak definition of Talent™️ and what that entails for the person who earns the title of Ultimate in their Talent. Does that make him talentless like Hajime??? Is that why Yellow Rose Guy's take that he hates his fucking Talent and hates his fucking life works so well? I'm like-

What would HAPPEN? if a genuinely talentless person just had the pressure of Talent slapped on them for literally no reason. Not even like the Luckster, because at least they KNOW they're Normal outside of like. Luck.

Just like imagine it! You're Just Some Guy, and your entire life you've been shoved in this role of being Better Than Everybody Else because you're Rich or whatever, and now you've got this spiffy Ultimate title dropped on you like a pressure cooker of expectations and responsibility even though the title itself means fuckall beyond the fact You Are A Togami.

Sure, sure, you're good with stocks and you're pretty intelligent when it comes to investing, but that doesn't ACTUALLY matter you're not the Ultimate Stockbroker, you're the Ultimate (FUCKING) Togami. Whatever THAT means!

This guy is just told he's expected to be amazing but literally isn't (and that's not a bad thing but like, the implies).

I'd be fucking miserable too! God why the fuck is Byakuya so goddamn sad Yellow Rose Guy is right whY IS THIS ALL IN THE GAME!?

[gonetoforks]

Introducing; my version of Rise’s Venus de Milo! (OUTDATED; adding the canon design for BM’s assistant!)

(she/her/thon/thons) She’s about 9 ft tall since she’s equally based off of Frankenstein, IDW Venus and the OG Venus de Milo. more info about her and her life under the cut! (Like, a lot more info, she’s been living in my head since last April) (She’s a year old and I’m only now revealing her info!) (HBD Venus!!)

Her Family in the Hidden City

Big Mama had her made by a scientist/patron of hers during the first 2 seasons as a synthetic competitor for her Battle Nexus, but after her change of heart in the S2 finale, she took thon in as her heiress and daughter to try and do something right for a change. It’s very hard for her. Her parenting style is a good balance of gentle and stern but she thinks praise is a good replacement for emotional vulnerability and it’s turned Venus into quite a megalomaniac. Venus just calls her “Mama” and BM calls her “Veedee” (If she calls thon “Venus,” thon’s in deep shit)

Time wise, after the movie she’s physically at age 1.5, 2 years old, though mentally thon’s about where Leo and Donnie are, 16. (Still very young, please keep in mind she is a child and has big eyes like the teenagers in the show, she’s just tall. If you sexualize her I will send you to the shadow realm. BEHAVE.)

Venus also sees the doctor that made her, Dr Shelly, as her father, and they’re quite close. She spent the first few weeks of her life in his home, mostly in his library where she filled her head with everything most people know intuitively. She often can recite information she has no memory of learning, these first few weeks were less like learning and more like remembering information but from no memories.

Venus’s closest friend & surrogate older sister is Jennika, who works as Big Mama’s assistant (and a fine artist!) under the codename “Frida.” The 2 spend most of their days on diplomatic missions in the Hidden City mafia underworld and managing/restructuring the Battle Nexus to be more ethical. Venus is a naturally studious academic who loves philosophy, literature, and of course, renaissance art, so adults tend to think she’s mature, but only Jennika really knows how naive she can be. Jennika misses her human family, so they’ve really latched onto each other.

She picked her name out herself. When thon was first revived, Shelly rushed up to her and almost addressed her with a name starting with V but stopped himself before he could say it in full. Changed his mind and said that he supposed that name probably wouldn’t fit right now. So she had a preference for a V name.

Thon’s Physiology

It’s quite the mystery how he did it, but the secret to Venus’s sentience is a machine that manages to convert any matter she digests into energy in the form of empyrean. This is why she was mostly kept a rapunzel-like secret for the first few months of her life before she had Jennika as a bodyguard. Nobody knows about her heart except herself, Jennika, Shelly and Big Mama.

If she bleeds or cries, it glows bright green, so she hates both because thon feels like she’s drawing attention to herself. She’s insecure about most of her organic parts anyway and pushes herself to appear stoney, inorganic and perfect. (The consequences of idolizing and wanting to emulate a literal goddess statue, skill issue) It’s not like her fears are completely unfounded though, she has no idea where Shelly got her dead body parts.

If she’s too stressed, the seams on her upper arms bleed and they fall off like a gecko tail. She kinda looks like the og Venus do Milo statue when that happens, it’s a bit gruesome.

To represent her need to balance the organic/inorganic parts of herself, thon’s biggest dreams vs realistic expectations for herself, her right hand is organic (and based off the 2012 turtles) while her left is robotic. (& made to look like big mama’s claws in her spider form)

Goals & wants

She wants to overthrow the council of heads and rule the Hidden City as president. (Through a democracy of course!) She sees them as ineffective and useless, she went to them during the Kraang invasion to tell them something needed to be done about the alien invaders but they did nothing and said to let the turtles handle it. She’s grateful everything turned out well but she still has a grudge against them and the way they run things. Big Mama thinks she’s silly and Jennika thinks she’s a mentally unwell, workaholic, megalomaniac but pizza supreme as her witness, thon’s gonna do it.

Thon wants to be a good, ethical leader/politician (oxymoronic, I know lmao) and sees the increasing amount of Battle Nexus estate Big Mama entrusts her with as practice for managing yokai society. She would love “the Good Place.”

She also wants to know more about Jennika and for her to reconcile with her father.

Venus’s arc

“Your life is your own, ok?!” She struggles with dehumanizing (de-turtle-izing?) herself because she believes it makes her greater, more fit to achieve her goals. When the fact that she’s a mortal, breathing, living being, that can’t possibly be anywhere near divine like thon thinks she needs to be hits her, she spirals. Thon desperately needs to learn that being imperfect is a necessary gift, that she is “the protagonist of her own life” and that you don’t need to be a great person to do great things, you just need to be a person.

She’s very studious and seen as intelligent and mature for her age, but when she’s put in real life situations after meeting her cousins, the turtles, she has to learn to to manage imperfections and embrace them.

She’s quite based off of MP100 and Barbie haha.

For this internal conflict I was inspired by how the original character’s depiction back in the 80’s was really,, dehumanizing? if that’s the right word? Misogynistic very much too. I find the message that; “no matter what other people think of you or what you think of yourself, you will never be anything more or less than a regular being” both comforting in itself and a neat subversion of the original VdM since one of my favorite aspects of Rise’s writing is how subversive it is.

I can’t wait to show you more of her! Esp how she interacts with the Mad Dogs!

Bonus; Design Details!

All the turtles have shape motifs; square, rectangle, circle, triangle, her’s is a Raindrop shape! Combined with her electric motifs she’s a bit of a storm cloud lol

The Turtles’s shells are s-shaped and follow the curvature of a human spine, I draw Venus’s shell really distorted and disproportionate to this since she’s inorganic.

Similarly, while the other turtles shells and plastrons are like boxes that contain their whole torsos, thon’s kinda just sits on top of her torso, where her plastron ends and her legs begin don’t line up. It started out as an anatomical error but i liked how it made her look distorted and off somehow. (Kinda gruesome, but it kinda helps her look like a bloated corpse, which is what she is aksjks) To be clearer, the difference between how the mad dogs’ shells/plastrons/bridges(sides) are attached to their bodies vs Venus’s is like the difference between a bodysuit and a t-shirt.

[slasherstories123]

You're "New Beginning" story that you made for me was so beautiful, that I cried. I was hoping maybe when you have the time, you could do a part two? Where the S/O and Vincent date a lot, and that she bought Vincent a new sketchbook and artist pencils.

Bo wanted her back, even though he said it's over, he got bored. Until he caught her actually dating Vincent after he climbed through the window with a small bouquet. The S/O refuses to go back to him of course, she loves Vincent now.

If you don't want to, you can just delete it and ignore it

New begging pt 2

Word count: 1.6k

Tagslist: @dootys @callmemeelah @fluffy-little-demon @mehidktbh @slash3rl0v3r @the-anxious-youth @beanbagbitch @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @mrs-heelshire @oneofvincentscandles @sleepypersonblog @alexxavicry @beel-mcburger @slasherscrybaby @sadskies @bunnysenpai31 @emychan @pink-apollo @misscaller06 @l0sercat @naxxsstuff @charliedawn

Ever since the break up with Bo, it tore you apart, but his twin was there to bring you back up, you didn’t want to be with Vincent just yet, and he respected that. Waiting for whenever you were ready, when you did, he was happy, Ecstatic. Honestly, he treated you better than Bo did, you two always spent time with each other in the basement where he worked, or crafted. Even teaching you a few drawing skills. Mainly, you’d watch him draw or paint, always putting his hair in a braid or ponytail so no art products would get in it. He was grateful for it, grateful to have you for himself. You were happier with Vincent. Compared to Bo, he’s sweet and gentle.

Since Lester came to town, you decided to get groceries and other items from stores, thanking Lester for taking you as you got back home. Waving at the truck pulling off. You put up all the food that belonged in the cabinets and fridge, leaving a certain bag out. Black hair tickled your neck as you put up cans of soup, giggling to yourself, knowing who it was. “Hello to you too Vince.” Turning around, you hugged your boyfriend. His arms wrapped around you, returning the hug, chin resting at the top of your head. “I got you something,” You pulled away to grab the bag, smiling at the small head tilt he gave you, taking it to see what you got. It was a large sketchbook and sketch pencils. You paid attention to his art supplies, seeing that most of his sketchbooks were filled and the pencils were low.

“I thought you could have a bigger sketchbook, plus it was on sale, made me think of you.”

The man smiled under the mask, gently tilting your head upwards so his masked lips could kiss your forehead, his way of saying thank you. You kissed his mask cheek. “You’re welcome, Vinny.” You took a good look at him, his back was still kinda hunched forward, indicating that he’s been sitting in a chair for hours. He looked sluggish. Tired even. “Is this your first time coming out of the basement since I left?” You cupped his masked face ever so gently. He shamefully nodded, hair tickling your nose, you rubbed it so you wouldn’t sneeze. “Vinny you gotta learn when to take breaks, your health matters.” His soft hands grabbed your wrists, thumbs rubbing against your veins. He understood.You hated it when he didn’t take breaks or would spend up to hours working on art or sculpting figures.

His forehead rested against yours, making you laugh. Looks like he really missed you today. Sounds of plastic filled both of your ears. Vincent turned around to see his twin brother at the door with a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, wearing the blue suit he’d always wear at the church. Tilting his head upwards to look at the two of you. He stood there silent. You had a feeling that you knew what he wanted to say. You whispered to Vincent, giving him the bag and telling him to go downstairs, you’ll meet him down there.

He looked at Bo and complied, nodding his head and leaving. Now that you two were alone, you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms. “Bo?” You spoke. The man took a few steps forward, handing the flowers out in your direction. “I…” He paused, you moved your hand in a way telling him to continue. “I want you back darling.” “I’m not your darling. Not anymore, you had your chance and you blew it. Badly.” He was taken back by the response.

“Come on Y/N don’t be like this…”He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Okay?” It was rare for Bo to even apologize at all, so it caught you off guard, only a little. Shaking your head, you pushed the flowers to his chest. “I will accept your apology, but I’m not getting back with you, as you can see, I’m with Vincent, and am much happier with him. Like I said, you had your chance, plus, you were the one that broke up first, remember?”

He didn’t say anything, eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t describe. Plus, he never acted like he wanted you back until now. It was like he didn’t care at first, but got bored. You weren’t gonna make that mistake. He might do the same things again, you weren’t going to fall for it.

“So, you can take those flowers, and give it to the next woman that comes to Ambrose, I’m sure she’ll love it like I would’ve done.” You gave him a smile, patting his shoulder, leaving the man alone in the kitchen to pounder in his thoughts. Ever since the breakup things have been weird, especially since you had to stay with Bo in order to play your role in getting the victims to trust you, but after a while everything was fine. You thought he was fine, going back to his old self since he didn’t have to worry about a partner, who knew he'd turn around and try and ask you back despite him breaking up first.

As you left the kitchen, you ran into Vincent, just by his body language, you could tell he was guilty. You sighed. “You heard everything, didn’t you?” He nodded slowly. You hugged him, feeling slight tension be released from your shoulders. “Just know that nothing is going on. I’ll always be with you.” His body slightly tensed up, but hugged you back, Glad that you chose to stay with him. “Now come on, I’d like to see more art you made since I was gone. After that, you’re taking a nap, it looks like you need one.” You could tell he was happy at the sentence, head slowly nodding. Plus, a nap sounds good. Holding your hand to guide you to the basement, where you could praise him for the beautiful art he’s made.

[smilesrobotlover]

*crawling into your inbox* Smiles do you have any drawing tips? Everything I’ve drawn recently I’ve just not liked at all and I’m strugglin ;-;

-Sky Floor

Yes! I can try to help!

First things first, there’s a YouTuber named Excaliblader who gives AMAZING art tips. He focuses a lot on anatomy but he also talks about sketches, art motivation, and art styles. His tips are super simple and so easy to understand but also incredibly helpful. He’s an nsfw artist so the examples he uses are a little suggestive but they’re not explicit, but he knows what he’s doing and he’s helped me a lot with anatomy.

As for tips from me, experiment! And when I say experiment I mean push yourself to the edge. Draw things you KNOW will suck. Draw with your left hand, play with different face shapes, experiment with crayons, anything to try something new that you can expect to look bad, if that makes sense. The reason why a lot of my art has different brushes and things is because if I do the same thing over and over again I start to hate it. I need something new to do with drawings. And when you find something that you ENJOY doing (like a certain style, a new brush, etc.) you’ll get so motivated to do stuff with it! This may also help you unlock new skills with art because you’re pushing yourself outside your usual domain and discovering new things. Let’s say your characters have the same face, so you decide to experiment with different facial features. You can start small with downward turned eyes, round eyes, or triangle shaped eyes, just anything to make the eyes distinct. Or you can start with noses. Small button noses, long straight noses, bumpy noses, wide noses, all of that. Soon you’ll be able to draw all kinds of features confidently if you keep at it. But that’s just an example. Also drawing old people, people with extreme features, or just copying an art style can help. You’ll never improve if you do the same thing over and over again. You’ll be good at that one thing! And you may improve with some things in there, but if you want to do more, you’ll just have to do it.

Something I always say is to look at all kinds of tutorials on how people draw and experiment with those. Some draw their faces with a T shape, others add a lot of guidelines. See which one works for you. There’s no right way to draw; if it’s quick and efficient for YOU then it works!

And another thing, art isn’t easy. When you’re drawing, it’s hard to tell how much progress you’re making because from your perspective, you can’t see the road you travel on. If you’re feeling unmotivated and feeling bad about your art, turn around and look at the progress you made. Redraw old art and see how much you improved. Comparison is the thief of joy if you compare yourself to others, but if you compare yourself to your past self, it’ll make a world of difference. You’ll be able to see how far you’ve come. You’ll be able to see the things you were able to achieve and improve upon by actively redrawing something old and comparing it. That’s something that helps me a LOT when I’m feeling bad about my art. I cant tell you how motivating it is!

One more thing that really helps is tracing! Now, tracing someone’s art work and then posting it and claiming it as your own is bad. Obviously. But tracing actually helps your brain know WHERE things are supposed to go. Your hand is able to figure it out as you do it! Tracing real life photos help a LOT with anatomy, and if the artists allows it, tracing good art to help you learn is good! Again, don’t post it as your own. But it’s a great way to learn! It’s best if you trace a photo, and then use that trace as a reference photo, cuz you’re learning how to use a reference in two different ways!

Idk how to help with your issue specifically (I’m at work so I can’t sit down and draw something alas) but these things help me when I’m struggling! And even then I barely know what I’m doing XD