#and by really struggling i mean REALLY struggling

[poisonf0rest]

wrath of the sea god

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Rafayel is a creature worthy of worship. Something born from the deep sea, something incomprehensible, something that should scare you. And yet his siren song only lulls you in closer, and you fear it may be too late to even think about running away. (deep sea monster!rafayel)

♱⋅── word count: 5.8k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, inhuman raf, possessiveness, worship, breeding kink, tw yandere, tw drowning, tw teratophilia, tw thalassophobia

art credit to @/hcneyvae on x, dividers by @cafekitsune

psst, if you want more monster!raf read this next

What does it mean, to drown in something?

To watch the surface break above you, disrupted by the last bubbles of oxygen leaving your lungs, like a lover’s final kiss. To feel the vicious urge to fight, to struggle, to scream even as you feel your final dregs of strength escape, leaving you cold and gnawing and alone. To not feel fear, because even as your vision goes dark the melody is still there, the voice still singing, cradling you gently as you draw blood. To know, perhaps, that drowning was the only way this story could have ended. 

What does it mean, when I kiss you and finally feel like I can breathe again, even if you were the reason I sank in the first place?

Rafayel has been nothing if not the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, annoying, hopelessly devoted, but perfect for you nonetheless. 

Three months into your relationship, and you’ve begun to notice things that are only just slightly… Off.

For one, Rafayel runs terrifyingly cold, and the baths he gives himself twice a day are even colder than he is, and when he teasingly splashes you with it you scream, complaining he’s soaking in the arctic or the depths of the ocean’s abyss.

But the approach of summer means more baths, more moisturizers, and more of poor Rafayel always complaining about how it’s too hot, too dry. His skin gets bumpy, rough, textured patches growing on the sides of his neck, his arms, down his ribs too. Like something coming to the surface, something cracking through the flesh. 

The list of anomalies goes on.

His joints bend just a little too much, his fingers curving at unnatural angles when he moves quickly or reaches for something. His spine rolls more like an eel or a shark than a human’s, like a creature still adjusting to having bones, something he brushes off as old habits from dance or ice skating. Whenever you take flash photos his eyes come out hollow, even the faintest glimmer makes them shimmer like something not meant for the surface. 

It’s becoming more common to catch Rafayel slipping now, uncanny moments where he fumbles and slows down, repeating certain movements or habits, as though remembering them. Reminding himself of them. 

You’re lounging on the couch in his studio, your legs kicked up onto his lap as Rafayel holds a book in one hand, the other caressing your ankle with the gentle rub of his thumb. Something prickles against the back of your neck and you look up over your phone, expecting to see Rafayel still engrossed in his reading. Instead, he’s staring down at you. Watching you, unblinking, for so long that your skin begins to crawl. 

At first, you don’t really mind— willingly lost in the warmth of his gaze, the way it seems to hold so much unspoken devotion, the way his pupils dilate viciously when you finally meet his gaze. But then minutes pass. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t break eye contact.

"Raf," you say, laughing a little, trying to shake the unease creeping up your spine. "You're staring."

His lips quirk, just slightly. "Am I? Can’t help it, cutie."

You hum, expecting him to look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head, something you’ve always considered adorable, the way his full lips pout and innocent doe eyes seem to plead up into yours, studying you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

Then you realize what’s wrong.

"Blink," you whisper, suddenly uncertain if he's forgotten how.

He does, slow and deliberate, like he’s remembering only because you told him. And when his eyes open again, they shine, hollow and flat, reflecting the dim light of the room like something that doesn’t belong in the light.

“Shit!” 

This is the last time you cut steak with a dull knife. 

It’s nothing severe, but you must have nicked a vein in your thumb, because the damn countertop is splattered with blood, a thick stream of it nearly at your wrist as you run for a paper towel. 

Rafayel was supposed to be by the stove, tending to the vegetables busy sauteing, but when you move to rip a sheet from the dowel, you find yourself bumping into him headfirst. How did he manage to cross the kitchen so fast?

His gaze flicks to your hand, brows furrowed. You follow it, noticing the vibrant red already soaking through all the layers of makeshift gauze. Maybe you cut yourself deeper than you though.

"It’s nothing, Rafayel," you say, knowing how worked-up he can get when you injure yourself, fully expecting a dramatic lecture later. 

Turning, you step to throw away the bloody napkins when his fingers close around your wrist too fast. Too tight. Rafayel’s pupils dilate, nearly turning his entire eye black as his body physically follows the trail of blood down your wrist, lips parting just slightly as if—

As if he’s tasting the scent of your blood on his tongue.

"Rafayel," you call to him again, voice shaking. Why is your voice shaking?

He blinks, slow, as if waking from something deep. His grip loosens, but his fingers linger, his thumb dragging just barely across your pulse against the inside of your wrist before he exhales a quiet, low sound from deep in his chest. Something between a sigh and a growl.

“You really should be more careful, miss hunter. You could get hurt next time.”

Neither of you notice the slight acrid smell of something burning in the background. 

The next time it happens late at night. 

After spending the weekend lazing in each other's company, the two of you decided to end the day with a movie, drifting from various positions on the couch to curling up against Rafayel’s chest, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room. The credits are rolling, low music humming beneath the sound of his steady, rhythmic breathing. He’s cold, almost unnaturally so, compared to the sticky, sweltering summer night air, but you can only be thankful for that fact as his chill and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you into something hazy, that liminal space where thoughts slip too easily from your grasp.

When suddenly, it just stops. Rafayel’s body goes still beneath your touch. 

No breath. No movement.

Just complete and utter stillness.

It doesn’t register at first, not fully. Still feigning sleep, you fight to keep your own exhales even, purposefully holding your breath to get your heart to calm from its erratic skip, the hairs on your arms prickling, some primal part of you sensing it before your mind catches up. Wrong.

You shift slightly, pretending to be lost in a dream, just enough to press closer to his chest, to feel the gentle rhythm of where his lungs should be. Wrong.

But nothing comes. Rafayel’s chest does not rise, his heartbeat does not echo against your cheek. The only movement is the gentle circling of his fingers against the tender flesh of your ribs, tracing the curve of bone. Other than that, he is completely, utterly motionless beneath you, the kind of eerie stillness that isn’t possible for a human. A stillness reserved for hunters, for predators. Wrong. 

Something is wrong.

Your pulse kicks, a sharp, violent thud-thud-thud against your ribs, under the tips of Rafayel’s fingers, and in that instant—

Rafayel breathes again.

A slow, deep inhale as if rousing from sleep. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers slipping under your shirt as he shifts beneath you, stretching out his long limbs with an exaggerated yawn like nothing happened at all.

“You still awake?” His voice is drowsy, laced with warmth, so natural you almost believe it.

You nod, pressing closer, trying to shake the creeping chill settling in your bones. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you were too tired, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, your mind playing tricks on you. You were simply tired from the long week. Simply haunted by nightmares that no longer exist. 

But you feel it. The way Rafayel’s fingers idly stroke over your side, slow and soothing, almost seeking out your own heartbeat as close as he could get to it. The way he breathes too deliberately now, a flawless imitation of what he thinks you expect to hear. A rhythm that’s just a little too shallow, a little too perfect. 

Then, there’s something prodding and coaxing into your brain, and instantly, the feeling of calm returns. But your pulse does not slow, because the thought has already settled in the back of your mind, something cold and certain.

He didn’t start breathing again for his sake.

He did it for yours.

Rafayel must have been sculpted by divine hands. A Greek statue given breath, something carved from impossibly white marble and polished by time itself. 

His is a kind of beauty that isn’t soft or gentle, but arresting, almost violently so. One that makes your breath hitch every time he turns to face you, all sharp cheekbones and full lips, somewhere devastatingly between beautiful and handsome, possessing every muscled curve of a swimmer’s body honed by centuries in the depths. It isn’t just his face, his form, his effortless strength. It’s the way he moves. Angelic and otherworldly— graceful, powerful, always with the effortless magnificence of the ocean itself.

And, of course, his voice.

He hums under his breath sometimes, a habit he seems to be letting slip the longer the two of you are together, barely audible in the quiet hours when you’re cooking or painting or lounging together. At first you mistook it for an old record or the echoing sound of the ocean from the open balcony doors, and when you ask him about if Rafayel simply laughs it off, the sound addicting enough that soon you’re laughing too.

But on late nights after sex you hear him humming again, something absentminded and indulgent, like the sound exists only for his own amusement. And for yours. 

Oh, but when Rafayel sings, it’s something else entirely. It’s after an opera the first time you heard it, and any memory of the show prior is dissolved into a monotonous drivel at the music Rafayel makes. You swear you felt it in your ribs, melody settling beneath your skin, an ancient song that spoke to your soul in ways that left you dizzy and aching and yearning for something you couldn’t name. 

It left you hungry.

And still, Rafayel’s paintings hurt the most.

Each one nearly brought to life with each brushstroke, enough that you swear you can hear the crash of waves or the sharp sting of sea-salt, each one that brings a deep, unknowable sorrow and guilt to your core. Each one hurts to look at a little more than the last. 

There’s one painting in particular that hangs in his studio, larger than the rest. A towering, floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of muted blues and violent reds, brushstrokes slashing across the canvas with all the power of a storm at sea.

At first, you think it’s simply a shipwreck.

Then you’re lured in closer.

Bodies tangled in the waves, limbs limp and reaching. Some still clutching weapons, some are already swallowed by the dark. But every single figure seems perfectly content, relaxed, embracing death as they are lulled—just as you are—to the sirens below.

They are not the doe-eyed, half-drowned beauties of fairy tales. They are terrible, glorious, vicious beings. Something between human and god, their bodies half-submerged, lips parted in a song you cannot hear but can still feel, something clawing at your heart, begging you to listen. Begging you to come closer. 

And Rafayel is among them.

It takes you a moment to recognize him, but once you do, you cannot unsee it. The slant of his jaw, the sharp curve of his cheekbone, his lips curled not in hunger, not in rage, but in something unreadable. Something almost mournful.

"Do you like it, cutie?" His voice startles you.

You turn, pulse jumping, but Rafayel’s only watching you with that same lopsided smile, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looks like part of a masterpiece himself, bare shoulders kissed by the low light, the soft glow catching on his collarbones, his throat, his hands. 

"They were hunted." Not a question.

A laugh. Short, humorless. "Of course they were, don’t you know Lemurians cry pearls?"

Your fingers tighten at your sides, but nothing you could think of saying seemed appropriate. After all, what did you possibly have to offer a mourning god? 

You look back at the painting. "And worshipped?"

Rafayel’s gaze lingers on the canvas for a long moment before sliding back to you, eyes failing to reflect the light of the sun as he tucks himself into your embrace, pulling you close. You swallow hard, body naturally yielding to relax into his embrace. You’re not prey, and yet, something in you screams at you to run.

"Is there a difference?"

You don’t answer. 

You think of the way he moves, the way he sings, the way your breath catches every time he looks at you, the way you could drown in the depths of his eyes, the cloudless blue like the ocean at dawn, stained with a red more vibrant than blood. Like a shipwreck. Like a massacre. 

“Would you worship me, cutie?” Rafayel purrs against the shell of your ear, nipping the tender flesh. Your knees buckle, and you’re already kneeling before him, looking up at those same eyes as he smiles at your answer. 

You already do.

You’ve been noticing gaps in your memory.

Not big ones. Nothing you can really say for certain, just little things, things you used to chalk up to your goldfish memory. Forgetting why you stood up. Losing track of time mid-conversation. Finding yourself already doing something before you even register why.

And it always—always—happens when Rafayel is speaking to you.

It’s never forceful. Never obvious. But there’s always a soft hum in his voice, a subtle pull in the melody beneath his words.

You don’t even remember when he began doing it, and that might be what frightens you most. 

You’ve always been weak for Rafayel, giving in as soon as he pouts and complains about how he might die of neglect, how he just needs you so badly, and how, oh, won’t you do this for him? There’s no command. No sharp pull at your mind, no unnatural force prying into your thoughts. Just his voice, smooth and honeyed, curling around your resolve like the tide creeping onto the shore. Gentle. Patient. And before you even notice, you're waist-deep, sinking into something you can’t quite name.

"Let’s go to the beach," Rafayel suggests, fingers lazily tracing patterns against your thigh.

You frown down at him, in the midst of filling out a hunter’s report when he snatches your computer away, replacing it with his own head plopping down in your lap. 

You glance at the clock, it’s already six pm. Late, not to mention the drive is an hour away. And you have a mission early in the morning.

"I can’t," you say.

He hums, thoughtful. "Mm. No, of course not." He turns his head, pulling your sleep shirt up just enough to kiss your stomach, lips cool against your skin, grazing your hip as he speaks. "But," a pause. A slow, indulgent breath. "Wouldn’t it be nice? Just us. Moonlight on the waves. I could take you out past the shallows, show you things no other human has ever seen."

You close your eyes. You can picture it too easily. The salt in the air, the sound of the tide pulling you both forward. His hands on you, weightless in the water, his voice a hum against your throat. A melody entering your brain. 

"It’s a Tuesday," you murmur, weaker now.

Rafayel begins sitting up, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So what?" Another to your jaw, "Work is so boring, you don’t need it anymore. Not when you’re with me." You feel him smile, sucking a mark right against your pulse. "It’ll be worth it, promise."

You should say no.

You should.

You should shut out the idea of indulging him, of the welcoming feel of sand beneath your toes and the gentle curl of the tide. And how nice the fading sunlight feels on your skin. Because you’re already standing at the shoreline, waves licking at your ankles, the city far, far behind you. Rafayel’s fingers laced with yours, his smile easy, teasing as he pulls you forward. 

You don’t remember driving here.

Your pulse stutters. "Rafayel."

He turns to you, eyes dark, unreadable, his mouth curving into a wide smile, a sweet gummy one that has too many teeth. Rows upon rows, like a shark’s, gone by the time you blink. "Yes, my muse?"

You swallow hard. The words tangle on your tongue, and you forget, just for a moment, why you were about to say them.

But the worst is when he begs.

Because it doesn’t feel unnatural, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Because it feels good.

You don’t realize how much you’re giving him until your body won't stop trembling, until you’re wrecked and obedient, until he’s cooing praise against your skin like you’re something precious. 

“Can’t–” you sob, barely getting the word out. “Can’t cum again. Please, Raf, Raf, please don’t.”

Your hands scramble for his head, still buried between your thighs, tugging violently against those sweat-slick strands of hair as you all but scream as he whines into your cunt in protest.

You’ve lost track of how many times he’s made you come, lost track of how long you’ve been beneath him, beneath his touch, beneath the spell of his voice. Time means nothing, just a rhythm of sensation and need.

All that you can feel is the hot layer of sweat making the sheets stick to the sharp arch in your back, the painful overstimulation of your clit as Rafayel moves to suckle against it once more, lapping greedily as you kick and push at his shoulders with a cry. You can’t take it, not again, not when you’re already raw and aching and falling apart.

"Just one more time, cutie," he begs, relenting just long enough to kiss your marked-up thigh. "Please? Look s’cute like this, taste even sweeter."

Rafayel’s pale skin glows faintly where his lips brush yours, a ripple of bioluminescence that pulses in time with your heartbeat. The dull blue light blooming along his veins, casting soft, eerie shadows across the sheets, a reminder of the alien beauty woven into his flesh and blood.

You’re sobbing, shaking your head as the entire room spins around you even without the extra stimulation. But Rafayel simply unlaces your poor trembling hands from his hair, unfurling your fists and kissing your palm before intertwining your fingers together, pinning them to the bed as he leans in closer. His hands are cold, an icy restraint to your feverish skin, and you shiver, goosebumps prickling along your arms.

"Last time, promise."

You don’t believe him. You shouldn’t.

But Rafayel’s voice is addictive, liquid gold, sinking into your skin, forcing you to relax against him just enough for his mouth to reacquaint itself with your swollen clit, immediately making you scream again as your hips mindlessly buck, writhing to get away, to find mercy from his touch as you fight to hold onto the last scraps of your fraying resolve.

“Don’t.” His voice is a purr, a low warning against your flesh as his hand tightens, pressing your wrists together, bruising. “Don’t run from me. Don’t make me chase you.”

Your body stills, responding to his command before you can even process what he's said. Surrendering as he hooks your ankles around his neck, forcing you up onto your shoulders as his tongue delves back into your cunt, curling inside you, savoring every spasm, every quiver. It’s a slow, indulgent kiss, his tongue is colder than his lips, drooling and messy as he brings you closer and closer to the edge for the nth time. 

"You’d never leave me right?" His voice once again sings like a promise against your skin. "You can’t. You wouldn’t, she’s too sweet for that—" His nose grinds against your clit and you moan, seizing. "Always so needy, always taking me so well. Practically made to worship me."

You're babbling nonsense now, incoherent. Rafayel coos, kissing you through it, one hand never letting go of yours as the other greedily gropes up the plush of your ass, your breasts, and he watches with rapt fascination as you arch for him. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and wonders absentmindedly how it is you humans produce milk. How he could get you to do that for him.

A deep trill vibrates through him at the thought, more felt than heard, a sound that curls around your ribs and settles there. 

“You know that you’re mine, don’t you?” he breathes, voice dipping lower, “Mine. Made for me. Nothing else in this world could satisfy you like I do. You’ll never need another god.”

Rafayel’s words slip into you, twisting through your mind, settling like truth in your core. And just like that you shudder, body tensing, and you’re cumming again, hard.

Squirting across Rafayel’s awaiting mouth and jaw as you scream his name like a prayer, cum dripping down his heaving chest. Rafayel moans, lapping at the mess, and you feel his devotion in the way his entire body trembles as he consumes you, as he claims you, his offering, his sacrifice. His beloved bride.

His fingers subconsciously trace your empty ring finger. Worshiping it, memorizing it.

You don’t even realize you’re still nodding as his fingers loosen their grip on your thighs, finally setting you back down on the bed as a pleased little sound spills from his lips. His tongue drags up your limp body, lazy and lingering, kissing every inch of you, bringing your hand up to kiss your ring finger as well.

Nuzzling his face between your breasts, Rafayel looks up at you, eyes glowing, too bright, too colorful, too gorgeously inhuman.

When sensation finally returns to your legs, the haze of pleasure fading and your breath evening out, you’re revolted by the feeling of something releasing its hold on your mind. Shuddering, you press a hand to your temple, trying to shake off the eerie feeling of something slipping out of your head.

Rafayel watches you, tilting his head, his fingers brushing lightly down your arm as he pushes himself up on his elbows. Grabbing your chin, he swallows any questions you might have asked, kissing you with the same reverence he did your clit and every inch of your body before, the taste of you still on his tongue. When he pulls away, his expression is soft, almost tender, even as his hand curls back around your ankle, a possessive shackle.

“You’ll never need another god,” he repeats, the words sinking into your bones, echoing in your mind. His fingers tighten, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because you’re mine.”

And yet, you’re the one who can’t seem to breathe without him.

You suppose it should scare you, knowing Rafayel isn’t human. Even if you have yet to understand what a Lemurian really is or wants, what Rafayel’s true form really looks like, what or who truly resides in him. 

You suppose it should scare you that despite not knowing any of this, you listen to his every whim regardless. 

The ocean is calm tonight, with the full moon hanging directly overhead and her silver providing the only light over rolling waves. You’re floating on your back, eyes closed, weightless in the gentle pull of the tide, safe knowing Rafayel couldn’t be far away. He never is. 

At least, you can only assume that’s still the case. Since the ocean itself is dark enough that it blends in with the horizon, dark enough that you wouldn’t be able to see your own toes should you stop floating, the only sounds are the gentle crashing of waves on the distant shore. 

Rafayel was untraceable in the water, his powerful twenty-foot-something Lemurian form outpacing yours as soon as he hit the water, cutting through the black waves with a grace that should be impossible for a creature of that size. That was nearly an hour ago, and only an occasional singing that seemed to both surround you and come from deep within the ocean served as reminders that your lover was never far away.

There it is again, that distant sorrowful song, and you try and hum along, not realizing how far from shore you’ve drifted. 

Something brushes your ankle.

Jolting upright, you spit out a bit of salt water from your scare, scanning the horizon as you tread water. Rafayel is nowhere in sight.

Of course you don't even realize he's been circling you, tail cutting above the waves before twisting around your kicking legs. Laughter echoes into the night, sweet and addicting, enough to have your body relax involuntarily into the cold rock of the waves. Enough to send every other sea creature swimming away in terror.

Then, warmth. Hands, familiar and steady, slide up your bare ribs. There wasn’t even so much as a splash as Rafayel swims closer, arms pulling you in tight, nuzzling deep into the crook of your neck as you feel the entire length of his tail tighten like a coil around your body. He could drown you before you'd even remember to scream.

Rafayel kisses up your neck, savoring the taste of sea salt, arousal, and fear against the broad, cold length of his tongue. It feels rougher than usual. 

“Need you, cutie.” A trill, something deep and low, vibrating in his chest as his entire body tightens its grip around you. Grinding up against you. “Need you s’bad.”

His voice is a low, syrupy murmur, words dripping into your ear with the same fluid grace as his body winding around yours. You shudder, pulse thrumming as the coil of his tail tightens, the powerful muscle shifting against your skin, keeping you perfectly in place. The realization should terrify you. Perhaps it should terrify you more that it doesn’t. 

But Rafayel’s still nipping at the delicate skin of your neck and jaw as that soft, mournful hum resonates from his chest. The sound vibrates through your bones, familiar and soothing, seeping into your mind as easily as seawater through the crevices of a sinking ship.

You shiver, the sensation of his touch and the water deliciously cold against the heat pooling in your belly.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, turning you so you straddle only a fraction of his enormous tail, clinging to his shoulders and the scales that now rest there. “Hate that you can’t swim with me, can’t see my home.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, the same playful lightness you’ve heard a thousand times. But beneath it lies a deep, aching hunger that has his clawed fingers pressing into your ribs, hard enough to draw blood.

“I-It’s not exactly possible,” you stammer, voice shaking, breathless, the world narrowing to the feel of his enormous body wrapped around yours, the prodding of something slimy and thick between your legs, the soft vibration of his hum still echoing inside your head. “I can’t breathe underwater like you, Rafayel.”

He pouts at that, tail flexing, shifting, and you feel two other appendages begin to caress your thighs, gently snaking around them. Not that you could see what exactly they were, not with how impossibly dark the ocean is, left completely to his mercy. 

“Poor little human,” Rafayel coos, feigning sympathy as his hands begin to wander, cupping and squeezing roughly at your breasts. A constant fascination he excuses for the fact that fish don’t produce milk and thus have no need for such… interesting appendages. “Your silly human body isn’t much fun. Too fragile. I can fix that.”

His words send a chill through you, something prickling at your spine—but then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, stealing the breath from your lungs as his fingers tangle in your hair. His inhumanly long tongue invades your mouth, rough and tasting of salt and sea, and you melt, hands clawing into his shoulders as he swallows your moan, fucking his tongue down your throat. 

His tail shifts again, something sharp nicking your inner thigh as you gasp into the kiss, only allowing Rafayel to press in closer, deeper, grinding against your core.

Your body reacts on instinct, earning another low trill, hips rolling to meet the pressure, Rafayel’s hands still busy pleasuring your chest as something else forces your legs wider, guiding his cock to grind against you once, twice, fighting the tense ring of muscle as you quiver. 

“Please, cutie. Please let me in, my sweet darling. Please, please,” he’s rambling, begging so sweetly into your lips as you feel the jagged cut of his teeth trace down your neck, collarbone, grazing your nipple, licking up the drops of blood as your flesh splits as easily as rotten fruit on the edge of a knife. “So good to me. Always so good to me.”

You barely recognize the moan that leaves your throat—something needy, desperate. And at that sound Rafayel shudders, something else writhing against your pussy as it suddenly pushes in, thrusting and sucking gently at your entrance before following a rhythm he knows will make you fall apart. 

“Rafayel, wait, cold. It’s cold—” 

“Shh, you’ll warm it up.”

You can only moan in response, clinging onto Rafayel like a lifeline as the ocean surges around the both of you, your limbs trembling and useless as one of Rafayel’s hands goes to circle your clit, matching the tempo of his thrusts as you come undone with a silent scream.

“Say it again for me,” he whispers, reverence dripping from every syllable. His eyes—too blue, too bright—burn into yours, possessive, adoring, hungry. And when he looks at you like that, how could you ever refuse? “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Your heart stutters. There’s a pull, something deep and heavy, sinking into your chest. The hum returns, curling around your thoughts, coaxing you to say the words, to give him what he wants. What you both want.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word slipping past your lips before you even realize it. “Yours.”

Rafayel’s pupils narrow into slits, and his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and savage. His tail tightens, grinding against you with purpose now, every slow roll of his hips sending another shockwave of pleasure through you, something else beginning to press up against you as well as the first intrusion begins to retreat from your poor overstimulated pussy. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, teeth scraping against your pulse, marking delicate skin of your throat. Something under the water coils tighter, pulling you closer, keeping you where you belong.

No. 

“Yes.”

His laughter is the last thing you hear, soft and sweet, washing away every other thought before the roar of the ocean swallows you whole.

The cold is instant, biting, sinking into your bones as the saltwater tears into your nose and mouth. Panic claws up your throat as your chest seizes, lungs heaving uselessly, instinctively, drawing in nothing but seawater.

Instinct demands you thrash, but Rafayel is there, hugging around you like a devoted lover, like a predator with his kill. He drags you down deeper, enraptured, scales scraping against your skin as his body locks you against him, pressing you against the seafloor as the two of you hit the bottom, soft sand floating under your back. 

How easy would it be, to leave you full of his brood and writhing, before dragging you to some island far, far away. 

He’s dazed at the thought, still inside you, still thrusting, still playing with your body as if you aren’t suffocating, as if the way you kick and claw at his back, nails tearing into flesh and fins, is only a sign of pleasure. You feel him shudder, and it isn’t just from the tight, helpless way you squeeze around him.

It’s your eyes that Rafayel can’t seem to look away from. They’re wide, wild, locked on his face with desperate, pleading terror. Adoration. Fear. Love.

So human, so fragile, and all you can focus on is him, the rest of the ocean blurring into a black abyss.

Rafayel adores it, finally being the epicenter of your attention. 

A low, pleased rumble vibrates through his chest, pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue of his eyes until they’re black and endless, reflecting your horrified face right back at you.

All the screaming has left you dizzy, and Rafayel moans, pushing deeper, grinding his enormous tail against your overstimulated clit as your throat convulses around a silent moan as you watch the bubbles leave your throat. 

Smiling, Rafayel’s lips curl, exposing sharp, jagged teeth, feeling each shudder, each pitiful, heaving spasm as your lungs beg for oxygen. He wonders how they must feel, those delicate sacks of air tightening, twisting inside you.

Pressing his palm against your chest, right over your heart, Rafayel feels the stuttering beat as it races then begins to falter, slowing to a delicate pulse under his touch. 

He could watch you like this forever.

Your nails rake down his arms, leaving raw, bloody scratches as the world begins to go dark. He shudders, his cock twitching inside you at the sting, the way you keep fighting even as your movements grow sluggish, your limbs growing heavy. Your chest heaves one last time, and then your eyes leave Rafayel’s, rolling back as your lips part in a silent prayer. 

No. No, don't look away from him.

It makes Rafayel frown, wanting your gaze focused on him alone, wanting your attention back. He wants it forever. His tail coils, possessive, hugging you tight with all the devotion of a human lover as he finally, finally leans in, pressing his mouth to yours.

His hands come down to caress your jaw, fangs nicking your lips as he forces them apart, kissing air back into your lungs. 

And you breathe in again, sobbing into the kiss, body trembling, clinging to Rafayel like he’s your lifeline. You do what he knew you would. You kiss him back. Desperate, dazed, pushing closer as though you don't realize there's no where else you could go, the deep, endless dark of the ocean yawning hungrily above you both. 

He's close, so close now. Body nearly aglow with that eerie, deep-sea light, casting shadows onto your body as you welcome him even now, desperate for warmth, for safety, for him.

“Mine,” Rafayel sings against your lips in a language you cannot understand. Savoring the way you still arch up to kiss him again and again, desperate for his air and his touch despite it all. Despite knowing what he is. Despite knowing what he wants. “My mate.”

When he finally cums he feels it breach your womb, he feels you swell with it, feels it stick with how eagerly your body welcomes him, his perfect little human.

And for the first time, you truly wonder if you were meant to survive loving something like him.

[queer-queen-bean]

(good lord I ran out of tags I got so heated if you want to hear more about The Drama™️ of early protestant reformers and philosophers PLEASE tell me I will provide EXTRA CREDIT READINGS AND A POWERPOINT)

OK this is an excuse for me to be a little pretentious/pedantic, but I figured others might also want the opportunity to be a little pretentious/pedantic, so I'm making a poll out of it!

My pretension: I like reading (duh!), and I'm OK with a little inaccuracy for the sake of artistry. I mean, there are definitely authors who never bother to google basic terminology in a field, or try to write convincing history (or fantasy) without actually knowing much history...but if an author I otherwise like gets a little detail wrong about some specialist thing, I'm not likely to even notice. Except! If the thing is about boats/sailing. Examples below, but first, the poll:

I'm sure there's some technical mistakes (especially related to boats I'm less used to, like tall ships) that still slip by me. But I've had a couple times recently (different books/authors) where I was reading and enjoying myself and was suddenly twitched out of the story by an inaccuracy. One book where someone was asked to secure the boom after a tack (on a nice 45-ft modern sloop) which already doesn't make a ton of sense, and then she moved to a strange place in the boat to apparently do this. Another where the author twice mixed up jibing and tacking in dialogue (on the lines of "Don't sail to close to the wind or you'll jibe!" At least once the speaker was supposed to be an expert sailor).

Anyway, I still enjoyed the books overall, but I noticed both times I literally had to stop reading a think for a second, like wait, was I imagining it wrong? No, it's the author's fault! So now I'm telling you all about it.

[holyblonded]

roots | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: how everything came to be

warnings: death, deadbeats, negligence, alcoholism, verbal abuse, mild angst

notes: i’ve had this in the drafts for a while ngl but after edits i am not completely in love with the way it’s written so expect some edits

Alexia sat at the top of the bleachers, her sunglasses perched on her nose and a Barcelona scarf draped loosely around her neck. Lluís sat beside her, arms crossed, his expression neutral but his eyes keen as they both observed the game below. Alexia's focus, however, was locked on a specific number, the smallest figure on the field but commanding attention with every step.

Your piercing gaze scanned the field like a general surveying a battlefield, your voice sharp as you barked orders to your teammates. "Tina, drop back! Clara, cut off the right wing!" The players around you adjusted immediately, moving in sync with your commands.

"She's good, no?" Lluís broke the silence, glancing sideways at Alexia.

Alexia didn't respond immediately, leaning forward instead as she watched you dart forward, evading a defender with a quick, almost casual step-over. The ball seemed glued to your foot as you weaved through the midfield, your movements effortless yet deliberate.

"She's better than good," Alexia finally said, her voice thoughtful. "Who is she? And when can she move up?"

Lluís chuckled, clearly expecting the question. "Her nickname is Estrella, she doesn't like her real name much. ‘About to turn 14 in a week. She's been in La Masia her whole career, but..." He paused, watching as you executed a perfect feint, sending the keeper the wrong way before slotting the ball into the top-right corner. "The coach says he can't keep her here any longer. She's getting bored. And if we don't challenge her soon, we risk losing her passion."

Alexia tilted her head, her eyes never leaving the field as the final whistle blew. Your team erupted into cheers, swarming you in celebration. You grinned as you high-fived your teammates, your joy evident but contained, poised, even in victory.

"Well," Alexia said, standing and pulling her scarf tighter. "Let's go meet her."

You had just finished shaking hands with the opposing team when the coach called your name. "Estrella! Come here for a moment."

Jogging over, your cleats clacking against the pavement, you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand. As you neared, you noticed two figures standing just behind him. One was familiar, Lluís, the couch of senior team. But the other...

Your steps faltered as recognition set in. The woman in sunglasses and a Barcelona scarf was unmistakable. Alexia Putellas.

"Hola," she said, her tone warm but assessing as she extended a hand. "I'm Alexia."

You froze for a split second before fumbling to shake her hand. "I know who you are," you blurted out, immediately cringing at your lack of composure. "I mean... it's an honor."

Alexia's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Nice to meet you, Estrella. I saw your game. You were incredible out there."

Your cheeks flushed, and you struggled to meet her gaze. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from you."

Lluís chimed in, "Estrella's been a standout at La Masia, but as I was telling you earlier, it's time for her to face new challenges."

Alexia nodded, her gaze flicking back to you. "He's right. You're ready for more."

Your eyes widened. "Do you mean..."

"We'll talk details later," Alexia said gently. "But for now, enjoy the win. You've earned it."

You nodded quickly, a shy smile breaking across your face. "Thank you. Really."

As you jogged back toward your teammates, Alexia watched you go, her expression thoughtful.

"She's special," Alexia said to Lluís. "But she's still a kid. If we bring her up, we do it carefully. No pressure, no spotlight. Just the game."

"She's lucky," Lluís replied, glancing at Alexia. "Not every young player gets someone like you looking out for them."

Alexia adjusted her scarf, her eyes still on you as you celebrated with your team. "It's not luck. It's responsibility."

The sun had barely risen, casting a pale golden glow over the streets of your neighborhood, but inside the cramped apartment, it was already chaotic.

"Mamma! Alexia is here. I'm leaving," you called out, slinging your worn training bag over your shoulder. Your voice was steady, though you knew what kind of response you'd get.

From the kitchen, your mother's voice rang out, sharp and slurred. "Gesù, vattene e basta. Che bambina fastidiosa. Vattene, Étie—ragazza. Vattene e basta! (Jesus, just leave already. Such a bothersome child. Leave, Étie—girl. Just go!)"

The distinct crash of a glass smashing against the floor made you flinch. You didn't even need to see her to know what was happening. You could picture it: the empty wine bottles from the night before, her hand fumbling for another as the day began. It was 7 a.m., and she was already drunk.

You sighed, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "Love you too, Mamma," you muttered under your breath, more out of habit than sincerity. With a heavy heart, you slipped on your slides and opened the door. As you stepped outside, the weight on your chest lifted slightly, if only because the sight of Alexia standing next to her car made you feel safe again.

A smile instinctively rose to your face as you ran straight into her open arms. For a moment, everything felt better.

"Bon dia, mi Estrellita. Dormir bé?" Alexia asked softly, holding you close before gently guiding you to the passenger side of her car.

You shrugged as you slid into the seat, your gaze fixed on the dashboard. Normally, Alexia's morning question about your dreams would spark an animated, winding tale of everything the Sandman blessed you with the night before. But today, there was only silence.

Alexia frowned as she buckled her seatbelt, glancing at you. "Niña, are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, Ale," you replied, your voice flat, almost robotic.

"¿Pasó algo con tu madre? (Did something happen with your mother?)" she pressed gently, her concern evident in the soft tone of her voice.

Your deep sigh was all the answer she needed. Alexia's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles white as she stared straight ahead. She didn't push for details, but her heart ached as she pieced together the fragments of what she already knew about your home life.

Alexia knew enough. She knew your mom never came to your games. Never dropped you off. Never picked you up. She knew you relied on your best friend from the boys' team to take you home on weekends, and that sometimes you didn't even bother going home at all. The one time Alexia had seen your mother was enough to solidify her feelings—she remembered how your mom had yelled at you over nothing, the cruel tone cutting into you as you stood in silence.

Since then, Alexia had hated sending you home. She hated that you lived in a neighborhood that wasn't safe, and she hated the idea of you walking alone when she wasn't there to drive you. But more than anything, she hated the thought of what you had to face every time you stepped through that apartment door.

"It's okay, Ale. I'm fine," you repeated, your voice hollow.

Alexia knew you weren't fine. But she also knew when to back off. For now, at least.

She pulled into the training center, and before the car had even come to a full stop, you were out the door. Breezing past Lucy, you sprinted toward Jana and Bruna, throwing yourself into a conversation with them like nothing was wrong.

Lucy raised an eyebrow as she walked over to Alexia. "Jeez, you must be horrible to drive with," she teased, nodding toward you. "Estrella basically sprinted out of your car."

Alexia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I think something's going on at home," she admitted. "I brought up her mom during the ride, and she completely shut down."

Lucy frowned, confused. Alexia took the hint and continued.

"Her mom never shows up. Not to home games, away games, practices—nothing. If you saw her walking down the street, could you even point her out?"

Lucy’s silence was answer enough. She hadn't even realized that she had no idea what your mom looked like.

"What are you planning?" Lucy asked cautiously, already sensing the wheels turning in Alexia's mind.

Alexia's eyes were locked on you, laughing with Jana and Bruna like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders. Her jaw tightened.

"I think you know," Alexia said, her voice resolute.

Lucy followed her gaze. "You're gonna get involved, aren't you?"

Alexia didn't answer, but the determined set of her jaw said it all. She wasn't going to sit by and watch you struggle alone. Not anymore.

Alexia and Lucy walked through the training facility, their steps purposeful as they scanned the area. Spotting Jana and Bruna lounging near the vending machines, Alexia nodded to Lucy.

"Now's our chance," Alexia muttered.

"Let me handle this," Lucy replied, her voice low and dramatic. "I'm great at interrogations."

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because you're so subtle."

They approached the unsuspecting pair, who were in the middle of what seemed to be a heated discussion.

"I'm telling you, McDonalds is better," Bruna said, throwing her hands up.

"Sure, but have you even tried Five Guys? The burgers and the fries are perfection!" Jana shot back, laughing.

"Girls," Alexia interrupted, her tone stern.

Jana and Bruna turned, their expressions shifting from amusement to mild confusion. "Uh, hey?" Bruna said hesitantly.

"We need to talk," Lucy said, crossing her arms.

Jana raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what's this about? Did we mess up the rondo drill again?"

"No, it's about Estrelleta," Alexia said, cutting to the chase.

Bruna's brow furrowed. "What about her?"

Alexia exchanged a glance with Lucy before continuing. "We've been thinking... In all the years you've known her, have you ever met her Mami? Like, even once?"

Jana and Bruna shared a look, their expressions gradually morphing into surprise.

"Actually..." Jana started, scratching her head.

"Not once," Bruna finished, her voice tinged with realization.

"Wait, seriously? Never?" Lucy pressed, leaning closer.

Jana shook her head. "Nope. I mean, we've known Estrella forever. Games, school, everything. But her Mami? Nada. Not even at her birthday party last year."

"Her Mami didn't even organize that party. Remember?" Bruna added.

"Wait, who did organize it?" Alexia asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Lamine's parents," Jana said matter-of-factly.

Alexia blinked. "Who the hell is Lamine?"

Jana and Bruna exchanged another look before bursting into laughter.

"You don't know Lamine? Lamine Yamal?" Bruna said, her voice incredulous.

"Her best friend," Jana added. "You know, the kid who's practically her shadow. How don't you know him? Estrella is practically your kid!"

Lucy shrugged, her confusion mirroring Alexia's. "We've got no idea who this is."

"He's like her brother!" Bruna exclaimed. "I swear, his parents are basically her second family. When she's not with you, Alexia, you can bet she's at his house."

Jana grinned. "Honestly, his mom treats Estrella better than Lamine sometimes. Poor guy probably gets roasted at every meal."

"Okay, okay," Alexia cut in, raising a hand to stop the laughter. "But this doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't her Mami ever show up for anything?"

Lucy tilted her head. "And why haven't we heard about this Lamine kid if he's so important?"

"Because you're old," Jana quipped, dodging Lucy half-hearted swat. “And he’s not on the senior team. He’s still the same age as Estrella.”

Alexia groaned. "Focus, please. If her mom's absent, and she's always at this Lamine kid's house... Something's definitely off."

"Maybe you should just ask Estrella," Bruna suggested with a shrug.

Lucy snorted. "Yeah, because cornering a teenager about their family life always goes well."

"You cornered us!" Jana exclaimed only to be ignored.

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temples. "We'll figure it out. But thanks for the insight... and for introducing us to the mysterious Lamine Yamal."

As Alexia and Lucy walked away, Bruna called after them. "You're going to love him! He's a total goofball."

"I already hate him," Lucy muttered, earning a smirk from Alexia.

It was night time in the Putellas household. Alexia slept peacefully, with Nala lying at the foot of the bed belly up.

The shrill sound of a phone pierced the stillness of the night, cutting through the heavy silence. Alexia woke up with a gasp before letting out a groan. She cursed before blindly answering the phone.

"Hello," Alexia answered the phone groggily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"Ale?" The scared voice of a fourteen year old whimpered on the other side of the phone.

"Estrelleta?" Alexia was now wide awake and sitting up. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I need you to get me. The cops-"

"Cops? Estrelleta what happened?" Ale asked, throwing on a pair of sweatpants with a mismatched sweatshirt.

"My Mamma she-" Your voice got caught in her throat. "She- she’s gone, Ale."

"Mierda. I'm on my way, Estrelleta. Give me five minutes, I promise."

Alexia broke damn near every single traffic law and likely ran a few red lights to make it to your apartment, cutting the usually fifteen minutes into a good five. The apartment complex was littered with law enforcement and ambulances, along with some nosy neighbors and bystanders watching the EMT load the stretcher. But Alexia's eyes immediately focused on you, currently sitting on the curb with a blanket from the ambulance. Your head was in your hands and a female cop attempted to comfort you.

"Estrelleta!" Alexia called out as she made her way towards the girl, not a single officer attempting to stop her when they saw the way you ran into her arms.

"It's okay. I promise it's all going to be okay," Alexia whispered in your ear as the girls body wracked with sobs.

Alexia drove in silence, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly while the other rested protectively on your trembling form in the passenger seat. Your face was pressed against your knees, wrapped in Alexia's oversized sweatshirt, your sniffles filling the otherwise quiet car. Every now and then, Alexia would glance at you, her chest aching as she watched you retreat into yourself.

When she pulled into her mother's driveway, the porch light was already on, and Eli stood at the door waiting. She must've sensed something was wrong from Alexia's frantic phone call. Her expression was etched with worry, but her arms were wide open the second Alexia helped you out of the car.

You hesitated for a moment, your tear-streaked face peeking up at Eli before the dam broke again, and you collapsed into her embrace.

"Mami..." Alexia started, her voice cracking slightly.

"Shh, it's okay. I've got her," Eli said softly, wrapping you tightly in her arms. She guided you into the house, one hand gently stroking your hair while the other rubbed your back.

Alexia followed closely, her hands balled into fists, helplessness written all over her face.

Once inside, Eli led you to the couch, sitting you down beside her as you cried into her shoulder. She rocked you gently, her soft hums filling the space as she murmured, "It's okay, nena. You're safe now. You don't have to do this alone."

"I-I don't know what to do," you sobbed, your voice cracking as you clung to Eli's shirt. "She's gone. My mami’s gone, and I...I'm just so lost."

Eli's heart broke at the pain in your voice, and she held you even tighter. "Oh, my sweet girl. I know it feels like the world is falling apart right now, but you are not alone in this. We're here, okay? You're not going to face this on your own."

Alexia crouched in front of you, placing a steadying hand on your knee. "Estrelleta, look at me," she said gently. When your red, puffy eyes met hers, she continued, "You're with us now. You don't have to figure everything out tonight. We'll get through this together. I promise."

You nodded hesitantly, your breathing still uneven as tears continued to streak down your face.

Eli reached over to grab a tissue, wiping your cheeks with a tenderness that reminded you of your dad. "You've been so strong tonight, nena. Just let yourself rest now, okay? You're safe here. Always."

Alexia stood, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over your shoulders before sitting on your other side. She wrapped an arm around you, her touch firm yet comforting.

Between Eli's warmth and Alexia's steady presence, a small glimmer of security began to seep into the cracks of your shattered world.

For the first time that night, your sobs quieted, leaving only the sound of Eli's soothing voice and Alexia's soft reassurances as they held you, grounding you in the knowledge that you weren't alone.

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: WHO ARE YOU GONNA DATE NEXT? ᯓ★

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

I. II. III.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

Get your own super detailed, in-depth personalized paid reading from me HERE! it would really help me out!😊🦋

My KO-FI link: HERE🫶🏻

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

⋆✴︎˚⋆ Pile I

OH- OHHHHHHHHH (I HAD to do this🤓) The moment I flipped these cards, I had to take a deep breath because WOW this spread is screaming romance, romance, ROMANCEThe energy here? Soft, dreamy, emotionally available, and actually willing to communicate their feelings like a functioning adult. (Shocking, I know.) This is the kind of person who has main character energy, but not in an obnoxious "look at me" way—more like a "low-key mysterious but actually an absolute sweetheart who accidentally makes people fall in love with them" type. They are also giving ‘hopeless romantic with a heart of gold’ vibes, but also kinda shy and dorky at times.

They’re deeply in touch with their emotions, thanks to all this Cups energy, which means they feel things deeply. We’re talking someone who sends you “thinking of you” texts just because, who remembers tiny details about you that even you forgot, and who probably makes killer playlists based on your mood. (OML😭) They might even be the type to write poetry or play an instrument. (If this person owns a guitar and has ever strummed it while looking out of a window dramatically, I will scream.) They’re also super romantic. They believe in love. Like, BELIEVE believe. They’re not out here for some casual nonsense; they’re here for the feels. If they’ve been hurt before, they’re still hopeful and open to love instead of being bitter. (We love emotional maturity.) Physically i am seeing doe-eyed, soft-smiling, artistic cutie vibes. BABE. BABE. This relationship is so soft, so wholesome, so emotionally fulfilling. You know how in movies there’s always that one couple who makes everyone else sick with how adorable they are? Yeah, that’s y’all (i’m really NOT jealous) . They’re also a partner in every sense of the word meaning they work with you, not against you. This is the type of relationship where you two build something real—where there’s growth, teamwork, and a deep friendship underneath all the romance. If you’re struggling, they’re there to support you. If they’re struggling, you’ll actually know about it because they communicate. (A rare species, truly.) They’re most prolly a Water sign/ has strong water placements or just very emotionally intuitive. If you have someone with these placements around you, then this is your sign.  3 out of 4 cards are cups so i believe Y’all might bond over something artistic—music, painting, poetry, photography, film, something that requires emotions to create.They fall fast and hard—so if you’re used to people who are distant or confusing, this is gonna feel like a whole new world. This is the kind of love that feels like a warm hug after a long day—safe, sweet, and real. 

this person is a walking green flag. Soft but passionate. Romantic but stable. Playful but serious about love. This is the kind of relationship that feels safe and exhilarating at the same time—like home, but with butterflies. If you’ve been manifesting someone emotionally available, thoughtful, and ready to go all in for you…well, here they come. Oh, and one last thing—the fact that three out of four cards are Cups? That’s no accident. This person is MEANT to stir up your emotions and bring you into a deeper love experience. It’s not just about dating; it’s about feeling something real again.

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⋆✴︎˚⋆Pile II

First off, this person? Chaotic. But like, in the best way possible. The Fool and Page of Cups together are giving ✨ golden retriever energy ✨ with just a sprinkle of emotionally confused poet vibes. They’re the type to send you ten unhinged TikToks at 2 AM with no explanation and then disappear for three hours because they had an existential crisis. They’re playful, optimistic, and have this lowkey naive, wide-eyed way of looking at life, but don’t be fooled—Strength is here, meaning they know how to handle their emotions. They just choose to exist in this dreamy, slightly reckless way.  I’m getting someone with a youthful look, no matter their actual age. Soft features, expressive eyes that basically scream “I have deep thoughts but I get distracted by cute dogs”, 

Okay, so, Page of Cups and 7 of Swords? Babe… this is giving situationship that could turn into a masterpiece or a disaster, depending on how you play it. There’s gonna be a lot of dreamy, flirty, almost cinematic moments where you’re both caught up in the fantasy of each other. But here’s the thing— with 7 of Swords meaning there’s a hidden element to this person. Not necessarily in a bad way, but you might feel like they’re holding something back. Strength is telling me you might end up being the one keeping this relationship stable—because this person? Yeah, they’re fun, romantic, and spontaneous, but they need someone who grounds them. Otherwise, they’ll float off into whatever alternate reality they live in. You might find yourself teaching them how to actually deal with their feelings instead of turning everything into an inside joke or a quirky monologue.

This connection? It’s got potential. I am getting ‘JUST KISS ALREADY’ vibes from this spread so many times. But also, This person might have commitment issues at first, or they just don’t realize when they’ve caught feelings. This relationship will be fun, unexpected, and maybe a little messy at times. You’ll never be bored, but you might have to decide if you’re willing to wait for them to fully step up and be emotionally present. If you do? This could turn into one of those soulmate-tier love stories that start off as chaotic best friends and then evolve into something real. This person is gonna make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and you’re gonna make them feel like home. Just make sure they don’t get lost in the clouds before they realize what they have with you. 

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⋆✴︎˚⋆Pile III

Picture someone who walks into a room and the air literally shifts—not in a dramatic, "I’m better than you" way, but in that "damn, why does this person feel like a wish come true?" kind of way. The Star as the headliner of this spread? BABY, this person is ethereal. 

They’ve been through their fair share of life lessons—some of them painful as hell—but instead of becoming bitter, they’ve transmuted all that pain into wisdom and grace. (Honestly, teach me your ways, mysterious heartthrob.) They’re a dreamer, but not the delusional kind. I have a strong feeling that pile 3 already know their person at the very least, they’re connected to your past in a really poetic way. The 6 of Cups is screaming, "This ain't no random fling—this is destiny, baby!" There’s a familiarity about them, like the feeling of revisiting your childhood home after years of being away. There’s also a chance that this person is deeply sentimental—they might keep old love letters, hoard little trinkets from meaningful moments, or be the type to remember the exact date you first texted them "lol" and took it as a sign from the universe. They’re a romantic, but in a quiet, "let me show you, not just tell you" kinda way.

Physically? ELEGANT. LUXURIOUS. GOURGEOUS. 10/10. I also have the feeling that for some of you, this person might be quite rich as well. They could be successful or at least super stable and independent, but there’s something soft and sentimental about them, like they love deeply but don’t fall easily. One thing i would say that they don't fall easily. 4 of Pentacles is telling me that they guard their heart like a bank vault. Not in a "toxic, emotionally unavailable" way, but in a "I don’t just give my energy to anyone—I need to be sure" kinda way. They might be financially stable or working towards major success, so they protect what they’ve built. At first, they might be reserved, taking their sweet time to open up, but once they do? BABY, THEY’RE ALL IN. Slow-burning but SO rewarding. This is the kind of love that feels like déjà vu, like you were meant to find each other.  And the thing is, you’re worth the risk to them. Your connection makes them feel safe enough to let go of their tight grip on control. This isn’t a surface-level situationship—this is intentional, slow-burning, "I want to build something real with you" love.

(Also, be ready for someone who spoils you subtly—not in a flashy, Gucci gifts every day kinda way, but in "I remembered you liked that obscure indie artist, so I got us front-row tickets" kinda way. 🥹) BUT one more thing, also think They’re going to be verrryyy slow to say ‘I love you’—but when they do? Oh, it means something. This is the kind of person who will show you they love you 100 different ways before they ever say it out loud.

So to summarize, This person? They’re rare. And once they choose you, they’re choosing forever. So, uh, when’s the wedding?

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog—it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[capquinn]

Idk if you watched but I just watched Kylie Kelces podcast episode where she talks about their kid being a parrot and repeating things fans have said and it made me think of Bug doing that to Quinn one day being like “daddy… are you Quinn Hughes?? everyone keeps calling you that” and Quinn finding it so funny lmaoo

It happens so casually, Quinn almost doesn’t catch it.

You’re curled up on the couch, nursing Cub, half-watching as Bug and Quinn sprawl out on the floor with a puzzle. Bug is stretched on her stomach, little legs kicking lazily as she sorts through the pieces. Quinn is right beside her, propped up on one elbow, watching like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, like she’s doing something much more impressive than putting together a few cardboard shapes.

And then —

“Where does this piece go, Quinn?”

Quinn snorts out a laugh before he even realises what’s happened.

You glance over just in time to see his head snap toward her, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching at the corners. His initial reaction is pure amusement, like did she really just say that?

“What did you just call me?”

Bug doesn’t even blink, still focused on her puzzle, flipping over a piece with careful concentration.

“Quinn.” Her tone is easy, matter-of-fact, like she’s been calling him that her entire life.

Quinn lets out another short laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe it.

You hum from the couch, stroking a soothing hand over Cub’s back, biting back a smile. “Sounds right to me.”

Bug finally peeks up, her little brows furrowing as she takes in Quinn’s expression — his wide eyes, his mouth twitching with barely contained laughter — the way you had spoken with that funny lilt in your voice.

She looks between the two of you, clearly trying to gauge what, exactly, is going on.

And then, with the same casual ease she’d had before, she says, “you are Quinn Hughes, right?”

Quinn lets out another quiet chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. He shifts to sit up properly, fully invested now, eyes still bright with amusement.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, his voice dripping with playful patience, like he’s trying to reason with a very small, very misguided person. “But you don’t call me that. You call me daddy.”

There’s still that laugh behind his words, the corners of his mouth twitching because it’s so comical to him — the way she just keeps saying it so easily, so confidently, like she really thinks she’s cracked some kind of code.

Bug's little eyebrows pull together, her head tilting just slightly as she looks up at him, all perplexed innocence.

“But… everyone else gets to call you Quinn,” she argues, her voice lilting with confusion, like she’s just uncovered the world’s biggest conspiracy.

“Mommy does. Uncle Lukey and Uncle Jacky. Nana and Grandpa.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing just a little, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Even the people on TV.”

She blinks up at him, eyebrows lifting, mouth turning down at the corners in the faintest pout, like huh? Why am I the only one who doesn’t get to do it? It’s written all over her face — the genuine bewilderment, the hint of frustration, the tiny cock of her head like she’s challenging him to explain this nonsense.

Quinn leans in slightly, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter as he tries — and fails — to keep a straight face. “Yeah, Bug. But you’re not everyone else,” he says, voice soft but wobbling with amusement.

Bug’s nose wrinkles. She looks at him like he’s just told her the sky is green. “But… why?”

He tries so hard to be serious, he really does. But the way she’s arguing this, all indignant and earnest, like she’s been dealt the worst injustice imaginable — it’s too much. He presses his lips together, glancing at you, his eyes sparkling with barely-restrained laughter. You just raise your eyebrows, all smug and entertained, clearly loving every second of his struggle.

Quinn huffs out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean… you could call me Quinn,” he muses, his voice deliberately mournful. “But that would make me really sad. And then who would call me daddy?”

Bug’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. Her little face scrunches up, clearly not expecting this plot twist. She glances at you, clearly seeking backup, but you just shrug, thoroughly amused.

“C’mon, Bugs,” Quinn coaxes, leaning in closer, his best puppy-dog eyes on full display. “I like being your dad."

Bug considers this, her little gears turning. For a second, she looks like she’s about to argue again, but then she lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping.

“Okay, daddy,” she relents, the words heavy with resignation, like she’s conceding some massive point. Then she rolls her eyes, turning back to her puzzle. “I guess that’s pretty special.”

Quinn watches her for a second, still a little amazed by how much attitude can fit into someone so tiny. His grin softens, and that look he gets sometimes — the one that’s all warmth and quiet adoration — takes over.

He reaches out, gently smoothing his hand over her hair, fingertips tracing over the soft curls before tucking one behind her ear.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “Pretty special.”

[tirfpikachu]

it's also important to note that non-trans people can be post-gender!! and feel genderless without disassociating from their birth sex/agab in any way. they can choose to take off the gender that was forced onto them from childhood and choose to just be the animal they were born as, no matter how gnc they may be, no matter how little they start caring about social norms for their sex/agab class. and still not be trans at all. genderlessness isn't only a nonbinary thing, and it really shouldn't be if we want to abolish gender roles. some non-trans women and men can even use opposite-sex/agab pronouns or they/them and still be 100% solid in their non-trans identity! gender nonconformity has never been trans-exclusive or gay-exclusive.

cis/non-trans women especially should be reminded that they DO NOT need to stick with gender. while many people can play with gender aesthetics, gender subcultures etc etc gender as a concept has been used to oppress women and transmasc people for centuries. if you are a cis/non-trans woman, you do not need to even identify as trans to say fuck you to gender and think it's fake and bullshit and move on from it. you can be a genderless woman and still 100% be comfortable with sex/agab-congruent pronouns and the category of your body type. you can hate how you're treated for it. you can hate the struggles that come with it. but you can feel pride for it, and you can see it for what it is without the often toxic cloak of gender wrapped around it. many people find joy in being genderless in a trans way, but anyone and everyone can be genderless. it can be a feminist act of self-love and activism. it can be cis men showing allyship to gnc people and ofab/female people for being oppressed and denied basic human rights. they can also process their traumas and actually embrace the gnc parts of themselves as well.

i see a future where cis people embrace genderlessness. where they embrace being genderfuck beauties and gnc isn't seen as an only trans or gay thing to be. it will do wonders for women's rights, ofab rights, lgbt rights and gnc rights. stop telling people they're "eggs" if they don't feel an inner sense of gender - that's a GOOD thing. it means they haven't been corrupted by the patriarchy the way that rightwing brainwashed women/transmascs and rightwing male monstrosities have tried to achieve. stop telling non-dysphoric, sex-congruent cis people that they must be trans or gay if they dress or act a certain way, or if they think gender is bullshit and don't want any of it. we SHOULD be both carving out space for trans folks AND expanding the meaning of what it means to be a cis woman or man.

gender is just patriarchal drag, often toxic drag forced on us. whether you choose to play with aspects of it or ditch it altogether, to destroy the patriarchy we need non-trans people to realize this too. as a detrans woman, i would've saved myself so much pain if i had seen more representation of cis post-gender womanhood. and we WANT people to realize who and what they are as early as possible, whatever they may be. we need genderlessness and genderfuckery to be talked about more outside of trans/gay context.

post-gender gyns, i love you ♡♡

I think cis people should also be their gender of choice. Like, if you're a man, you should get to really enjoy being a man- have fun with it! If you're a woman, take the parts of womanhood that really deeply make you happy. If being a little androgynous or ambiguous or hidden is the part that really makes you happy, you don't have to be trans for that. If you wanna lean really hard into being femme or masc- do it! You have one life in your body, do what makes you happy. Ditch the stuff you don't like.

My sinister queer agenda is I think that everyone should be the gender they like in the way they like it.

[bunni-v1]

What do you think would happen when truthless recluse comes to the spire while smc’s partner exists there too? Do you think the walls move to keep them from meeting or is shadow milk too excited and enamored by his new toy to do so? How do you think the couple handle arguments? Are gingerbrave and the gang confused or concerned? Do they try to make the partner leave the spire?

Okay so I saw both of your asks, but the other is gonna get answered AFTER the poly hcs are done (I will be stealing from you though mwah). This is something I've considered A LOT though, I just didn't feel the need to focus too hard on it since the focus was more on Shadow Milk and I didn't want to shift from him too much.

I think with Truthless Recluse, Shadow Milk is actually encouraging his partner to "befriend" him so to speak. Not that Truthless Recluse really cares all that much to do so. It's more like he really wants his partner to approve of what he's doing, and he wants them to get along with his other half.

Will he ever admit that? No, of course not silly. But that's really how I imagine it. I also believe that he sees you as a temptation of sorts, a reason to give in to the ways of deceit. If someone as sweet as you is on his side, it can't be so bad right? He will get jealous if you seem too interested in Truthless Recluse. (What "too interested" is depends on time and place, so it's like playing with a ticking time bomb.)

In that case, he does everything in his power to keep the two of you as far apart as possible. Sometimes, yes, this means the spire will shift and change to physically keep the two of you apart. Going as far as to create a literal wall that separates you from him.

As for arguments, I doubt that Shadow Milk takes them well. He loves you, he really does, and he values your thoughts and opinions... but he really struggles to see things from others' points of view. Maybe when he was a young cookie, before his corruption, he'd be more understanding and empathetic. He just isn't really, though, which can cause a lot of tension and make any arguments at all feel worse. Nine times out of ten, he doesn't think it's serious in the first place.

That's not to say he can't come down from his lofty ideals and try to meet you halfway, though. Especially if an argument lasts more than just a few hours. He gets anxious when you're upset with him, he doesn't like the feeling that nips at him through the bite. While he might find it silly, you don't, and his job is to make you smile not cry.

Oh, and if it's bad enough you leave the spire? Even just to take a walk? He won't be having that. He'll float along behind you as you pout and ignore him until you're ready to handle things. He's much more amicable when he realizes you're genuinely upset with him. Then he'll actually listen and try to wrap his head around what might have you upset.

As for him, he doesn't get upset at you. Unless you're doing something like getting between him and his souljam, or actively flirting with PV, I don't think he'd get upset at you. His anger is rarely, if at all, pointed your way so you don't have to worry too much about that kinda thing.

I do think that the main cast would find you a little... insane for your taste in a partner. They'd definitely try to convince you to leave with them -- Gingerbrave even insists on saving you when he first sees you. I think that Pure Vanilla might be the only one who understands a little. Not by much, but he's not outwardly condemning you like Wizard Cookie might. Strawberry Cookie is worried you might be possessed, or that maybe you're like Candy Apple Cookie with a few more screws loose than the girl.

They all do try to get you to leave, but Shadow Milk wouldn't let that happen.

[mashtatosworld]

HII HII can u please do a gd x world-famed kpop idol?? like blackpink-famous iykwim!! and maybe reader being a "junior" in the industry? (eg. them coming from 3rd gen era like bp or basically js young) they met for the very first time at an event, and reader being his junior went excited "omg g dragon?? the G DRAGON???" basically.

idk where to go after that point but perhapss (an idea, take it with a grain of salt lolol) gd was actually lowkey a fan of her instead? like reader was a breathe of fresh air, very talented, on the rise in the industry (did a hollywood thing) or something !!! i hope this part isnt too OOC but UH basically do your magic author!! im going to love anything you write either wayyy xxxxx🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

only girl

summary: in which you're both pretty in pink

You had to physically stop yourself from bouncing on the couch.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and faint cigarette smoke, a combination that somehow smelled exactly like you imagined he would.

Even after two weeks of your evenings spent here, sitting in G-Dragon’s studio still felt like a fever dream.

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, trying to keep your excitement contained as Jiyong sat across from you, casually scrolling through his laptop as if this wasn’t the biggest moment of your career.

“This is the track,” he finally said, pressing play.

A deep bassline rumbled through the speakers, followed by a hypnotic melody. The beat was dark and sultry, unmistakably his sound, but then - your voice.

Your breath hitched.

He had already layered your demo vocals onto the song.

You glanced at him in disbelief, but Jiyong was watching you intently, one hand resting lazily against his lips.

“You like it?”

“Are you serious?” Your voice cracked slightly, betraying your nerves. “This is - this is insane. It’s so good.”

He smirked, pleased.

“I'm glad you agreed to work with me. I’ve been a fan of yours for a while,” he admitted casually, as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire perception of reality.

Your brain short-circuited.

“I- wait, really?”

Jiyong chuckled at your reaction. “You have this energy- ” he gestured vaguely, “- that the industry needs. It's addictive. This is your first solo project, right?”

You nodded, still processing the fact that he admitted to liking your music. You were a part of a girl group that were on the rise to success with a couple of hit songs.

The girls were currently on hiatus as they worked on their individual careers and this was the first time you'd worked on something without them. It was surreal that he chose you to feature on his comeback album after his years away from the spotlight.

“Well,” he leaned forward, eyes glinting, “let’s hope this is just the beginning.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 Six months later, 2024 MAMA Awards:

You were trying very hard to keep a straight face.

Which was difficult, considering G-Dragon was standing directly in front of you, smiling that slow, knowing smile like he knew a secret no one else in the room did.

Because he did.

Your bandmates, however, were completely oblivious, practically vibrating as they struggled to remain composed. You were nearly hit in the face with a light stick.

“Holy shit, it’s actually him,” one of them whispered.

Your leader was the first to recover. “Ah! Sunbaenim! It’s an honour to meet you!”

Jiyong chuckled, bowing respectfully. “I’ve been meaning to say hello.”

As he rose, his eyes flickered to yours, just for a second.

No one else noticed, but you did.

That subtle flicker of amusement, that unspoken acknowledgment.

You had seen each other just last night.

And yet, here you were, pretending this was your first interaction.

“I’m a huge fan,” your youngest member gushed. “Like, actually. Huge.”

Jiyong smirked. “Oh?”

Your bandmate nodded rapidly. “We were literally just talking about your performance.”

Which was true.

Jiyong had just stepped off the stage after his first live performance in years, wearing a custom pink ensemble that had the entire room of idols buzzing.

And coincidentally…

You were wearing pink too.

Your stylist had handed you this dress earlier today, saying it would be “perfect for the show.” But you knew better.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

Jiyong planned this.

It was a silent, unspoken statement - one only the two of you understood.

Your bandmates, still too distracted by his presence, completely missed the way his fingers briefly grazed yours when he moved past you.

A touch so fleeting it almost didn’t happen.

Almost.

And then, just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.

Your bandmate immediately turned to you, shaking your arm.

“Hello?! You love G-Dragon. Why aren't you screaming right now?!”

You blinked innocently.

“Oh, trust me,” you said, lips curling into a secretive smile.

“I was dying on the inside.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your back hit the hotel suite’s wall with a soft thud, Jiyong’s mouth already on yours before the door had even clicked shut.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the silky fabric of your dress - the pink dress - bunching it slightly as he pulled you closer.

“You looked so good tonight,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky.

You smiled into the kiss, fingers tangling in his pink hair.

“You planned it.”

Jiyong pulled back slightly, cocking a brow. “Planned what?”

You scoffed. “The outfits. You knew I’d match you.”

He grinned, shameless. “Maybe.”

You swatted his arm, but he caught your wrist, pressing a slow kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers with yours.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he mused, smirking. “Trying so hard to act normal.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle either,” you shot back. “The lingering looks? The hand touch? Jiyong, come on.”

He hummed in amusement, resting his forehead against yours.

“We’ve been careful for six months,” he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. “You really think people are starting to notice?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But if you keep showing up to award shows looking like my soulmate, they might.”

Jiyong chuckled.

Then, softly - softer than you’d ever heard him - he murmured,

“Would that be so bad, Jagiya?”

Your breath caught.

This wasn’t just a secret fling anymore.

It was something else entirely.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

double dropping in one day? oops. im becoming consumed by tumblr 🤭

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad

[theambitiouswoman]

I think you guys are really smart (I mean that) so much smarter than you seem to give yourselves credit for. A lot of people don’t have the mindset, awareness or emotional intelligence that I see you guys have. I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but you really aren’t normal at all. So if you feel like you aren’t enough or struggle to fit in, that’s a good thing. Because you are most likely way better than what you’ve been taught to believe and/or have been conditioned to think differently & water yourself down by people who wouldn’t even know what it is to be you

[tanddiscord]

I do not actually agree with this.

On some level, sure, but also... I had real trouble understanding social hierarchy, and in fact, where I recognised it, I was fairly obedient to it. It's just that hierarchy is actually really complex. Its not just "person a is above person b, who is above person c" but "Person a and b both have roles and positions of power, and while a generally is considered above b in the hierarchy, in many situations, b will effectively outrank a, (a classic example of this is an article i read once, on norse medieval law, where the wife was generally considered secondary to the husband, but where the wife was the absolute authority for anything to do with the house, and if she told the husband to go sleep in the barn, there was fuck all he could do about it. Now how accurate that article in particular was, is unclear to me, but those sorts of relations are EVERYWHERE, and many authistic people struggle to filter out those neuances, and ends up perceiving it all as noise ("if a is in charge sometimes and b sometimes, then is no one in charge?" is the sort of thinking you end can up with)) I did not understand sarcasm as a kid, at all. It took years of active training to learn it. Now I love it. My father still cannot engage with jokes based on 'lies'. A joke like "what do you call a pile of cats? A meow-tain!" just gets him to go "Actually a group of cats is called a clowder, it comes from the same root as 'clutter' and-", and it can take him for someone to say "dad, its just a joke" for him to go "oh, right, yes, sorry." Not understanding some forms of humour does not mean not having a sense of humour though, my dad loves comedy shows. Some autistic people absolutely are rude. Horribly so. And even those of us that aren't, generally do have vocational moments where, yes, we are. A momentary lack of ability to connect the social dots, leads to rude questions, rude statements, rude observations. This is not a 'actually autistic people are angels who can't lie, you just hate the truth!' thing, its a 'sometimes the brain misfires, and does not realise why something would be rude or hurtful, and they cause emotional harm to others for no good reason' thing. Meltdowns, while never about 'nothing', are not indicators that the people around them are bad people. Are you suggesting that the parents of any autistic child who has a meltdown, due to a problem they are unable to communicate, or overstimulation, or under-stimulation, or any other number of things, are bad people because they did not perfectly handle a person whom it is exceptionally hard to handle? There are people with several doctorates, specialising in this specific part of autism, and even they could not possibly prevent every meltdown if a child in their care had certain problems. There are countless reasons for why someone has a meltdown, and many of them don't make sense, just have to be learned and adapted to, especially with those unable to communicate the problems for themselves. Fuck off with this 'autistic people are perfect actually' bullshit. We're humans. Nothing less, sure, but also nothing MORE, and honestly, insinuating we're more, is MORE infantilising and patronising than the morons that dismiss us for being "retards". "Look, just because Maurice doesn't get your sarcasm jokes doesn't mean he doesn't get humour at all. Try puns, he loves those." is a billion times better a response than. "Maurice is a perfect gem! If he doesn't laugh at your jokes, it's because you suck! Maurice is the god-arbiter of all humour!" Like, what even is that? Come on. If your response to bigorty is just as polarised and factless as the bigotry, and also defines an entire group as being 'this exact way, actually'... guess what, you're also a bigot, you just hide behind "But my bigotry says you're one of the good ones!". Check yourself. Might have ended up a bit harsh here, but also fuck off anyway. I am tired of seeing this sort of stuff all the time.

One of my favourite parts about autistic people is how you can use other peoples' reflections of them like an echolocation bullshit detector. Like they personally do not need to do shit for this to work, they just passively emit their own autistic vibe that bounces off every surface around them, and you can assess another person's level of self-awareness by how they reflect it back.

"Autistic people do not understand social hierarchy" nope, they understand you're supposed to be an authority here, but they won't politely pretend to respect you if they think you're incompetent.

"Autistic people do not understand humour" nope, they just don't politely pretend to laugh to humour you, and you are simply not funny.

"Autistic people are rude" nope, they just don't think it's polite to lie to you, and don't care about trying to tell you what they think you want to hear instead of telling you what they think.

"Autistic people sometimes have emotional meltdowns for absolutely no reason" nope, you're just insufferable to be around and the person with the lowest tolerance of your shit is simply the canary in the coal mine who breaks first.

[prettyangellllll]

Are You Okay?

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary:

Rafe Cameron may have a tough exterior, but underneath it all, he cares deeply for you. When no one ever asked him if he was okay growing up, he makes sure to check in on you at every possible moment. Every glance, every touch, and every word is his way of saying he cares. In a world where no one ever asked Rafe if he was good, you become the one person he asks over and over. This fluffy story is about Rafe’s quiet, yet deep, care for you and how he always makes sure you’re okay—even when he’s struggling himself.

Warnings: Fluff, angst (in passing), emotional vulnerability

---

The first time it happens, you’re sitting on the couch in his house, scrolling through your phone, trying to find something to occupy your mind. Rafe sits next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. It’s quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that settles over you when you're with someone who means a lot.

"Are you good?" he asks, his voice soft but filled with a quiet intensity you can’t ignore.

You glance up, blinking at him in confusion. "Yeah, why?"

Rafe shrugs, his eyes avoiding yours for a second, like he’s uncomfortable asking. "Just... checking."

It hits you then—no one has ever asked him if he's okay. Not in the way he’s asking. It’s not the usual casual question most people throw around; it’s a deeper, quieter inquiry, one that carries with it the weight of unspoken things.

You smile softly, reaching out to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm good. Really."

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that lingers—a hint of something unresolved. You know, deep down, it’s not just about you. It’s about him, too.

---

The next time it happens is the following week, after a long day of running errands together. You’re both in his truck, driving back to his place, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the windows. You feel the familiar buzz of his energy, like he’s a little more on edge than usual.

As you sit beside him, trying to casually hum along to the music playing, you notice his hand twitching slightly on the steering wheel. The silence between you grows a little thicker.

"Are you okay?" you ask, breaking the quiet.

Rafe's gaze flicks to you, his jaw clenching briefly before he forces a small, tight smile. "I’m good."

You can tell it's not entirely true, but you don’t push him. Instead, you place a hand on his leg, a silent gesture of support. "I meant, are you okay?"

His shoulders drop slightly, and he exhales like he's been holding his breath for far too long. Then, without missing a beat, he glances at you, eyes searching your face. "Yeah, I just—" He shakes his head. "I don't know, sometimes I just wonder if I’m enough. For you, I mean."

You blink, your heart warming at his vulnerability. This isn’t something he’s used to sharing, and for a moment, it makes you feel special that he trusts you enough to admit it.

"You’re more than enough, Rafe," you say gently, squeezing his hand. "You’re everything to me."

And just like that, he visibly softens, his lips curving into a rare, sincere smile. "Thanks," he mutters, but there's something more in his eyes. Something that tells you he’s not just asking if you’re okay for you—he’s asking because he wants someone to ask him, too.

---

It becomes a habit over time. Rafe constantly checking in on you, in his own subtle way. Whether it’s asking if you’re good when you’re lost in thought or casually glancing over at you after a long day, he makes sure to take the time to make sure you’re okay.

But there’s something else, too. Something that makes your heart swell every time it happens.

One night, as you lie in bed, his arm draped over your waist, he mumbles into your hair. "You sure you're good?"

You laugh softly, tilting your head back so you can look at him. "Why do you always ask me that?"

Rafe meets your gaze, his eyes full of emotion you can’t quite place. "Because no one ever asked me. No one ever checked on me. But I’m asking you now. Every time."

You feel the lump in your throat, touched by his quiet need to be seen and heard. "I’m always good when I’m with you, Rafe. Always."

And as he pulls you closer, his face buried in your hair, you realize that in his own way, he’s asking you because he cares. Not just for you, but for himself, too. Because asking is his way of saying, “I’m here. And I’ll always make sure you’re okay.”

[hughesbrothersfanpage]

Stay Home With Me

Jack Hughes x Zegras!Reader

WC: 1.6k

Summary: Jack wants to go golfing with the guys, but you have other plans for him.

Warnings: SMUT! oral (m receiving), dirty talking, brief mention of balls (sorry), F!reader but no use of Y/N, Jack thinks it’s kind of funny that he’s banging his best friend’ sister

A/N: I know I promised a Quinn fluff first and I swear to GOD it’s coming but I’ve been having an AO3 author level bad few weeks and somehow it’s easier to write a bj than anything romantic rn. Also more Hughes!Sister insta edits coming soon!

Jack thinks you’re asleep as he tiptoes around the room getting dressed as quietly as he can. You’re wide awake, though, plotting and scheming to get him to skip golfing with the boys and spend the day in bed with you.

They’ve gone three days in a row now, eighteen holes each time, and you’re dying for some alone time with your boyfriend.

You’re still pretending to sleep when Jack leans over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Bye, baby,” he whispers.

It’s then you pounce, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him down to your chest.

“Oof,” he winces as his arms give out and you trap him.

“Don’t leave,” you whine.

Jack laughs, lifting his face to kiss you softly. “I gotta go babe, the guys are gonna want to leave any minute.”

One of your hands drifts from his back, coming up to gently trace his lips. You’ve got a small pout on your face, and Jack couldn’t possibly find you any more endearing.

“Stay home with me.” Your thumb pulls gently at his bottom lip and Jack feels his resolve begin to crack. He goes to protest, but you’re quick to cut him off. “I will blow you right now if you stay home with me.”

Jack’s mouth falls open. “Right now?” he asks, cheeks burning bright red when his voice cracks from excitement.

“Right now,” you confirm. He pulls himself from you in a flash, nearly running to the door and pulling it open.

“Hey, guys?” he calls out. “I’m not feeling so hot. You go ahead without me today.”

There’s loud laughter from downstairs. “I told you not to eat that sushi in the fridge! It smelled off, man!” Trevor shouts up at him. Jack smirks to himself. If only Trevor knew what he was really up to. Your brother would probably knock his head clean off.

There’s a chorus of ‘goodbyes’ as Jack closes the door. You’re sitting up in bed now, staring at him like you’re going to eat him alive. He can’t wait.

“Take your shirt off, handsome,” you command softly. He ditches his hat and shoes quickly before tugging his shirt up and off. “You’re so pretty, Jack,” you murmur as you stand and make your way to him.

With a hand on his chest you back him up until he hits the wall. You take your time unbuckling his pants and pushing them down, going so slow that Jack feels like he’s losing his mind. You’re even more mean when it comes to his underwear, palming him through his boxers until he’s on the verge of tears. You take pity on him eventually, freeing his dick from his underwear and pressing small kisses around the head.

Jack whines. From base to tip, you trace the vein on the underside of his cock with a flat tongue. His thighs shake with effort, struggling to stand from the feeling of your lips and tongue on arguably the most sensitive part of his body. Jack is a mess of broken moans and muttered curses as you do everything but put it in your mouth.

“Baby,” he whines, well beyond caring how desperate he sounds.

You pull away, replacing your tongue with your hand, stroking him slowly. Your thumb brushes over his leaking tip with every pass, and you revel in the way he shudders.

“I’ve been trying to get you alone for four days, and you’re telling me you can’t handle a little teasing?”

His face burns red at your condescending tone, but his dick twitches in your hand anyway. You rest your face on his thigh, looking up at him with doe eyes as you wait expectantly for his answer. The way you bat your lashes leaves his mind totally blank. All Jack can do is watch slack jawed as you flick your wrist lazily, your grip just loose enough to deny him any real relief.

“I want you to ask nicely, Jack,” you murmur before mouthing at the skin of his hip, leaving a few love bites in your wake.

He whimpers, honest to god whimpers, chewing at his bottom lip. “Please,” Jack croaks.

He cries out when you pull your hand away. “Please, what? Use your words,” you chide.

“Put it in your mouth baby, please,” Jack begs.

You smile up at him. “See? Now was that so hard?”

Any reply he might’ve come up with dies on his lips as you take him into your mouth. He throbs as you swirl your tongue around the head.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so good to me,” he grunts.

You hum as you take him further down your throat, using your hand to make up for what doesn’t fit. One of his shaking hands grips the edge of the doorframe, and the other tangles itself in your hair. He guides your head as you suck him off, grunting softly when you hollow your cheeks.

The feeling of your mouth is dizzying, and you look so pretty on your knees for him that he’s already embarrassingly close. You pull off for a moment to catch your breath.

“You’re incredible,” Jack moans as you stroke his cock.

You smile but don’t answer. Instead, you duck your head and run your tongue over his balls. “Oh, fuck!” Jack yelps. You can only hope that all of the boys are gone, because if even one of them is home, the two of you are fucked. “You are so fucking hot. I don’t deserve you, I-“

You cut off Jack’s rambling by taking him back in your mouth, as deep as you can handle until he hits the back of your throat. His hips thrust involuntarily, and you gag around his cock. You take it like a champ, breathing through your nose and never letting up your pace.

“Fuck,” Jack cries. “You’re so fucking good, I’m so close baby.”

You caress his thighs softly as he nears the edge, putting all your focus toward blowing his mind. His hips stutter, and he cums down your throat with a loud groan. Slowly you pull away and stick out your tongue to show you swallowed.

Jack helps you up from your knees and kisses you gratefully. He tries slipping you some tongue, but you pull away.

“Jack, I have blowjob mouth. I’m gonna brush my teeth, you get back in bed. You’re mine for the rest of the day.”

Jack grins as he nods. “Yes ma’am,” he replies.

He looks so good when you return, sprawled over the bed in just his boxers, hair falling perfectly over his face. You want to devour him all over again.

By the time the guys get back from golfing, you and Jack have fucked in your bed, the shower, and the kitchen.

The kitchen had been a close call. You’d both still been panting, reveling in the afterglow of really good sex, only just pulling your underwear back on when you heard car doors slamming. With a shriek you’d bolted back to your room, stumbling hand in hand up the stairs with Jack who couldn’t stop laughing.

Now you’re laying together in bed, trying to catch your breath, in absolute stitches over almost being caught. When the burning in your lungs subsides, you sigh and snuggle into Jack’s open arms, suddenly exhausted.

“Tired, baby?” he asks, brushing some hair away from your flushed face.

“Mhm,” you mumble, pushing your face into his neck.

His hands slip under your (his) tshirt, rubbing firm circles over your overworked muscles. “We can take a nap,” he says quietly.

“Mmm.”

Jack can tell you’re on the verge of passing out, so he just smiles and continues to massage your back. Your bliss is harshly interrupted when someone bangs on the door.

“What?” Jack yells, annoyed.

You’d forgotten to lock the door, so your brother pokes his head in. Thank god the covers are pulled up, hiding your nearly-naked lower bodies.

“We got lunch. You feeling any better?” Trevor asks.

Jack nods, biting back a smart comment. “Yeah, had a migraine but it’s better now,” he says instead.

“That’s good, man,” Trevor replies. “Well, we got pizza. Come down before it gets cold.” He goes to shut the door, but pauses. “And for the love of god, Jack, put on a shirt.”

Your cheeks burn, hidden in Jack’s neck. You haven’t moved an inch, hoping Trevor assumes you’re asleep and leaves. It works, and you prop yourself up a little as you hear the door click shut.

“For the love of god, Jack, put some pants on too!” you giggle, snapping the waistband of his boxers.

“Hey,” he whines. “I haven’t had pants on all day and you haven’t complained once.”

“I have to put on pants too,” you try to compromise. “No one wants to see the hickeys on my thighs.”

Jack scoffs. “I do!”

You kiss him softly before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “Well then you better come with me and eat lunch. After that, I’ll take my pants off and we can have that nap I was promised.”

Jack reaches for the pair of sweatpants he’d left on the floor that morning when getting changed and pulls them up his legs. By the time he gets a shirt on, you’ve slipped back into your pajama pants and one of his old sweatshirts.

“Shit, babe, my legs,” you groan, unsteady on your feet, thighs burning and more than a little sore.

Jack grins, beyond proud of himself. “Keep it together, sexy. Your brother would freak if he knew what we were up to while they were gone.”

You shake your head as you reach for the doorknob. “He still hasn’t forgiven you for the first time he walked in on us. He nearly punched you.”

A small smirk makes its way to his lips. “He did punch me, after. And it was totally worth it.”

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

Your monster husband had always been lean, years of fighting in a war and not having stable access to food made sure of it. But now that the war was over he was finally eating regularly and relaxing, finally filling out and it almost seemed to bother him. (M!moster (troll) x gn!reader)

————

“And what is this?” you husband’s best friend teased, playfully grabbing at your husband’s hip.

You sat around the fire with your husband, his best friend, and a few others. It was always nice being back in your husband’s village instead of the capital city, he always seemed more relaxed at least. You were dwarfed by everyone there, the only human in the circle of trolls. Everyone else towered over you by a few feet, various shades of blue skin, and long elephant-like tusks.

“What is that supposed to mean?” your husband asked back and batted his friend’s hand off his hip where he was was pinching him.

“You’ve gotten soft!” his friend laughed, “You really don’t spar with me anymore, and looks like you’re eating well. I guess married life suits you.”

You shot his friend a look. You wouldn’t say that your husband was scrawny or unhealthy looking when you first met him, but he certainly was on his way there. His friends had all mentioned at one point or another that he had often skipped meals and really wasn’t taking care of himself, but that had changed after you got married, having you to take care of forced him to take care of himself.

His eyes were brighter now, and he didn’t look so exhausted all the time, he just looked healthier now. Sure he lost some muscle definition, and definitely was a bit soft around the edges now, but it did suit him. He looked happier.

“When we get back to the city you really should start sparring with me again, it’ll be fun!” his friend continued.

“Last time you two sparred you busted his lip open and sent him home bruised up” you interjected.

“Because he’s out of practice” he said.

“He’s an advisor, not a guard, leave him alone.”

A few days later you were back home in the city and back to your usual routine. You looked over your shoulder as you climbed into the bath to catch your husband looking at himself in the mirror with a sour expression on his face.

“I think he is right, I really should start sparring again” he said.

“Why?” you asked.

He turned around to face you and pinched at his side for emphasis.

“So? You look good. You look healthy” you countered.

“But I have never been able to grab my side like this.”

“So? And up until recently you also never ate three meals a day or had time to relax either. You look good my dear” you motioned for him to come over.

He sat at the edge of the tub and you kissed along the outside of his thigh and immediately you saw the tension drop from his shoulders.

“Come here, stand in front of me” you said. You sat up on your knees in the tub and leaned on the edge. Happily he followed your directions and you ran your hands up the outsides of his thighs before letting them come to rest on his hips. You tugged him closer and kissed along hips and tummy.

“I do not like that either” he said.

“Hm?” you answered without taking your lips off his skin.

“This” he pinched at his stomach, “This is new.”

“Because you’re happy and relaxed and actually eating. That’s just life my dear, and proof that you’re finally getting to live yours now that there’s not a war going on. And anyways, I happen to think you look better than ever” you trailed your kisses lower, stopping just at the base of his erection.

He was caught between his self loathing and horniness at this point, still struggling to complain that his stomach was no longer flat only to be cut short when you ran your tongue along his cock. You let your hands dig into his hips and gentle knead into the thin layer of fat he had gotten since he was no longer constantly traveling and fighting.

Once you reached his tip, you looked up at him while leaving your lips against his sensitive skin. He was heaving and panting already, it was always so easy to get him worked up.

“See? Just can’t keep my hands off of you anymore with how good you look” you teased.

He whined at you, too distracted by your lips on him to even begin to think of anything to say.

Slowly you swirled your tongue around his tip before finally taking him into your mouth. There was no way you would ever be able to take all of him so instead you had gotten used to wrapping a hand around whatever would not fit. Usually you would use your other hand to play with with balls, enjoying how heavy they felt in your palm and how they’d tighten and twitch when he came. Instead you kept your other hand on his hip, rubbing small circles with your thumb to remind him how much you liked him getting a bit soft around the edges.

He was never loud. Always just little whines and whimpers, just soft, sweet little sounds while you toyed with him. You showed him some mercy this time, keeping a steady pace with both your mouth and hand and letting him quickly become undone. The first spurts of cum always startled you, typically splashing the back of your throat before you adjust to the flood of it. Happily swallowing down it all before licking him clean and wiping your mouth off.

He leaned down and nuzzled his forehead on the top of your head, his tusks tapping either side of your head as he moved. “And really, you still think I look good?” he asked as he went to stand back up.

You reached you to grab one of his tusks and tugged him back down to your current eye level, “This is by far the sexiest you’ve ever looked” you told him and pressed your forehead to his.

He didn’t say anything, but you could hear how loud he was purring. He settled into the tub behind you, his legs on either side of you and you gently squeezed and played with his thighs. A lot had changed since you were first married, and this was just another welcomed thing.

[thewackypegasus]

i know that as a player, a lot of times i struggle to figure out my character early on if it isn't a character i've already spent an extensive amount of time writing and roleplaying with in other contexts. i play pre-established ocs fairly frequently for this reason, bc i enjoy being able to get really into character and often feel awkward at the table with characters that i do not already thoroughly understand

but this means sometimes when i am playing a character who isn't a pre-established oc, i get asked a question about them that i don't know the answer to. and sometimes it takes me an awkward amount of time to think of something i like, or sometimes i just come up with something kinda generic just to keep the story moving. and if i hold myself to a standard of "professional dnd player" i feel like i'm not prepared enough, my character isn't good enough, or that i've otherwise ruined a potentially pristine performance. but if i'm not thinking about that, i find that i'm actually having a lot of fun, and enjoying hanging out with my friends and getting to develop my character as the story develops

It's good to remember that one shouldn't necessarily model oneself after high profile actual play GMs because unlike most regular GMs they are getting a paycheck out of running games and also have a lot of crew helping them create props and make the job less labor-intensive for themselves.

But another good thing to remember is that their players too are getting a paycheck out of playing their games and thus they have an extrinsic motivation, separate from the game itself, to really engage with their characters. The quality of their performance has material consequences for them in a way that simply does not exist for your friend Derek when you're running a game for him.

And many players, me and Derek included, would feel completely disengaged in the type of gameplay that most high profile actual plays showcase.

[arcaneswitch]

Hottake (?)

If we're operating under the assumption that Jinx is alive, then she absolutely got a better *ending* than Vi. And it's really sad when you think about it.

Jinx essentially :

- Gets to be known as Zaun's - and maybe even Piltover's too - hero (this was Vi's dream originally).

- Gets to say her final goodbye to their father, face to face whilst being cradled by him. (Vi only got to hold him briefly before he attacked her).

- Probably has the door open to a relationship with Ekko, someone who has proven his love and devotion to her by literally letting himself get blown up multiple times in order to save her life despite all she did.

- Most importantly, she gets a new fresh start, away from all of her trauma with no strings attached. Obviously, she'll still struggle, but she's in a much better place.

Vi, on the other hand :

- Is perpetually blaming herself for her sister's death.

- Has a father in law who holds disdain to her at best and is openly discriminatory at worst.

- Is entirely financially dependent on someone who has shown very little loyalty to her (the first time street). Due to the writer's refusing to acknowledge Caitlyn’s harmful actions to Zaun, she and Vi don't feel like equals.

- Has no support system (other than Caitlyn and maybe her father). She has no ties to her home (burnt down)/family(all dead). I dont know if ekko even fws her anymore, especially if she's an enforcer). She's technically having a "new start," too, but she doesn't get to escape her past like Jinx does.

They really wrote Vi as the most tragic character without even meaning to. Oh, my shayla 😭

[familyagrestefanblog]

Ladybug's Lucky Charms in Werepapas

Let's talk about another detail that people kinda REALLY wanna ignore about Marinette's decision in the Werepapas akuma battle. It's the fact that she hand-waves away FIVE Lucky Charms until she finally goes with the sixth:

No, that is NOT irrelevant. Marinette is not supposed to disregard her Lucky Charms left and right because they're trying to tell her what she's supposed to do. That's Lucky Charm 101 in an akuma battle.

I'm not gonna pretend like I know for 100% certainty what they all tried to tell her, but

1) a couple of them can be easily interpreted in very relevant ways.

And 2) I don't NEED to know what exactly they all mean because it doesn't need to be PROVEN that Marinette isn't supposed to cherry-pick her Lucky Charms. We've known since s1 how this works and it's still done like this in s6. Thanks to not being limited anymore to 1 Lucky Charm, she gained the luxury of sometimes just getting to summon one for the purpose of whooping ass instead of solving the actual situation - which is still a lucky charm's REAL purpose - but that doesn't change the fact that you're supposed to listen to the Lucky Charm, not the Lucky Charm to you!

Under special circumstances like a final battle, sure, use additional ones to whoop ass. But you can't just switch out the problem solving Charm with a purely ass whooping one which is what Marinette did here in "Werepapas". It's fine when you do that in an extremely dire situation, but a normal akuma battle is no dire situation. Especially not when the only real stakes there are is being reckless with Adrien's amoks!

She's supposed to use whatever she gets and that'll lead her to the right solution. Not going through a whole line of Lucky Charms until she gets one where she finally likes the first thought she gets from it because of how little it challenges her self-preservation (makes you wonder if having unlimited Lucky Charms now isnt the worst thing that ever happened to her. Now she can just ignore whole Lucky Charms until she finally gets one that tells her something closer to what she wants to hear instead of listening to the CHARM)

Let's take a look at her 6 Lucky Charms:

From my recollection (so correct me if I'm wrong), while the teapot sometimes shows up here and there as filler Charms it was firmly established and used several times as a visual cue for Marinette to go to Master Fu.

Obviously, she can't do that anymore, but she has Alya as co-guardian, Luka who was trained by Su-Han, and even Su-Han himself as Celestial Guardian who now does whatever she wants.

In a situation where Adrien's amoks are the akuma object, it's a pretty logical thing to happen that her first Lucky Charm tells her to get Guaridan-related help. She has the option, all the needed support, and all the resources, but doesn't use it because it wouldn't be nice having to face the baggage that could come with it.

And even if you wanna say "She didn't get help because she didn't wanted the new Butterfly to possibly find out that Adrien is a Sentibeing!" Then that excuse still falls flat because obviously Adrien's LIFE is supposed to be more important than preventing that secret from coming out. The secret has no value if Adrien is DEAD.

Afterwards she gets a fan and this obviously could VERY likely mean that she's supposed to get Felix involved because he's the Miraculous holder of the Peacock. And by "VERY likely" I mean "I doubt there is a likely chance that it ISNT a hint to get Felix".

I won't even elaborate on this further. Her second Lucky Charm tried telling her to get Felix when Adrien's amoks were on the line and she ignored it. It is what it is.

For the third and fifth ones, I personally don't know what they could mean because I already struggle recognizing what exactly they are supposed to be. Though, they do have recognizable shapes. I bet other people could look at them and know where they've seen these objects before in the show.

Then right between these two, the fourth Charm Marinette summons is an unicycle (that for some reason isn't polkadotted, but screw it)

An unicycle like she summoned back in season 2 "Sabotis", the episode in which Alya became Rena Rouge for the first time. Meaning this one pointed to getting Rena's help.

For me, this is one of the most interesting ones regarding Marinette's feelings of not wanting to face the Lucky Charm's solution to instead protect all her secrets. But if anything, I would want to give it its own post and not half-ass it here. Cause there are a lot of layers to this one.

And, of course, the last one: the scarf. It's alongside the fan the one for which the fandom does casually acknowledge the symbolism of it being a call back to 1x01 "The Bubbler" where Marinette now infamously made the decision to let Adrien believe that it was his father who made the scarf for him - and not her - because of how happy it made Adrien that his father finally "cared":

I don't think I need to explain why it makes sense that this is the one s6 Marinette cherry-picks to finally work with. The poor scarf has been made into the symbol of Marinette wanting to keep pretty much everything about Adrien's family a secret from him. Including him being a Sentibeing. I miss the good old days when we dreamed of the scarf being set-up to become the catalyst for Adrien to write off his father as a useless deadbeat who isnt worth his time and love.

So, unfortunately, of course this is the one she goes with now. Even if it means taking the risk to kill Adrien. Anything to keep the secrets save and lies unnoticed. How tf did we GET here?