#and i know real artists will flame me for this

[theology101]

I WANT TO SHOW YOU GUYS THE SHIPS I DREW

This is the Jefferson-Class Battleship! She’s the largest class (in tonnage - the Tartarus is longer) available to the United Nations of Terra and Venus. Designed by Cai, Patel and Johnson inc. her primary weapon would be that massive Category-9 Coilgun (160 meters by 4.5 meters tungsten-titanium rounds accelerated to a significant percentage of Light speed) and 4 Cat-6 (84 meters by 3 meters) coilguns, she is a behemoth, especially with her compliment of 48 fighters and 12 bombers to bat for her in scraps.

The most important one in my story is the Moscow, commanded by Admiral Aleksandra Sokolov-Meyer, her first officer is Captain Thomas Hitch, navigations, sensors, weapons and comms officers (and also Aleksandra’s cast during her pov chapters) are Commanders Eliot ‘Ellie’ Swan, Sean Keynes, Aurora ‘Rory’ Margrave, and Alfonso Mendez.

These are the Zeus-Class Destroyer (on top) and the Himalaya-Class carrier (on the bottom)

The Zeus-Class is 375 meters of basically pure gun with a box taped on the bottom for storage. Built around a a Category-9 Coilgun (160 meters by 4.5), with a massive quad reactor in the rear, she’s what Olympian Industries is known for - focussing as much firepower as possible in as small of a package possible, hence the relatively low fighter counts, 24 fighters and 12 bombers.

The Himalaya-Class carrier (285 meters long) is, like all Monarch’s (or if you’re a grandpa and still call them Nnandi-Eze) ships are generalists. This model of Himalaya, specifically the ‘North Face’ model, has installed more weaponry and armor, with 2 Cat-4s, 2 Cat-3s and 4 cat 2s added. But her 60 fighters and 24 bombers make her dangerous.

Why did I tell you about both at the same time, why its because I wanted to tell you about the Freebird!

Commanded by the Pirate Prince Marcus St. Pierre Delacroix the Benevolent, she looks like a Zeus and Himalaya forged together, right? While not completely, the hump is different but… it pretty much is. Delacroix was a pilot under Aleksandra (Back when she was just a Captain) but was shot down into the Asteroid belt where he’s found by a family of farmers and saved.

Fyi, you can breath on certain parts of the Asteroid belt where there is artificial atmosphere, and grass etc connecting asteroids so birds can fly between

Anyways, the family are sympathizers to the Free Belt Party, which advocates for either the representation in UNTAV or complete seperation. Regardless, they want colonial rule to end. Delacroix becomes a sympathizer pretty damn quick and it takes A Single (1) incident to make Delacroix go pirate. He gets captured after causing some issues, low scale stuff, but his friends and family have enough nepotism and political power to get him pardoned. He’s being taken from the naval base on Ceres back to Earth to face formal trial (and it was planned, that he’d be absolved).

But the second he got a chance, he and some more, much more recent friends, are able to seize control of the bridge - seriously maiming his friend and long time ally Sean Keynes (“Oh I could never kill you… but I can’t have you causing problems and you need working fingers to use a keyboard. And you really won’t want to see this, so I’ll take an eye first.”) and take the ship. Where do you take it, why you take it to a Monarch Shipyard where you ‘Hold them Up’ and ‘forced’ them to graft the chasis of a mostly complete ship. Except twist! CEO Benjamin Adedeyo Nnandi or Monarch was one of the main conspirators in helping Marcus! He just told his boys to do it quick and pretend Marcus threatened them (he actually just did threaten them)

The Freebird is 525 meters long, built around a Cat 9 coilgun, with 84 fighters and 36 Bombers. With the weaponry and the insane amount of fighters lets the Freebird punch above her weightclass.

Anyways guys, what have you been up to recently? It’s been just this for me

[loopyarts]

Shouma Ginzaki, I have so many thoughts on this little guy. That I wish to ramble about him for a bit. Mostly about things that I find interesting such as his character design but also my thoughts on him so far.

For context I am going off from just the demo alone, so I don’t have the full picture of what he will be like in the full game.

First off, the red marking on the characters foreheads seem to have some inspiration in both a red dot called a bindi and traditional Japanese kabuki theatre make up. A bindi has ties to Buddhism and is linked to the Ajna Chakra which is also known as the "third eye" or "inner wisdom". And if you’re an anime fan you might have seen at very least one character with a red dot in their character design. So there might be some pop culture aspects to the inspiration as well. Which is why some of the characters have such dot markings in their battle ready designs.

Another thing worth noting is that the colour red in Japanese culture is a pretty prominent and versatile colour with multiple layers of symbolism. Such as being associated with protection, joy, and strength, but also with passion, power, and even danger etc.

Finally, with Shouma and Mako they both have two dots markings above their forehead. It kinda look similar to geisha dot eyebrows or Hikimayu (引眉). It’s probably just a coincidence but I thought it was worth noting.

Shouma number is nine but interestingly enough it is written in upper capital Chinese Hanzi instead of Japanese Kanji. which is probably on purpose because in Japan the number nine is considered an unlucky number because the pronunciation (苦) (ku) is similar to (苦) (suffering). The association with hardship, pain and ties to bad luck/misfortune overall contributes to the negative reputation behind this number. Similar to how the number 4 similarly avoided in Japanese culture.

While in Chinese the number nine has the opposite reputation with it being associated with good luck/good fortune and can also mean long lasting and represents the maximum level of martial happiness and longevity. I just think that is a nice subtle detail in his uniform and weapon design overall with his number being nine and all. 

This probably means nothing but nine or more correctly eight phases of the moon can spiritually is often associated with cycles of growth, release, and renewal. Also the number Nine is symbolically represented by change and having a very empathic and compassionate soul. In numerology the number nine is usually linked to things such as completion, idealism, and a strong desire to help others. Which mostly fits Shouma personality in terms of his ideals and morals.

Also his star/zodiac sign Pisces is often associated with compassion, empathy, creativity, imagination and strong intuition but also a deep connection to the sub conscious. But also the weaknesses of the sign is being indecisive, sensitive, prone to escapism and their own inner turmoil. And melancholy behaviours feelings of sorrow and poignance; where they would rather go through and meditate on deep emotions such as despair/sadness rather than have no feelings at all.

Overall, the zodiac sign Pisces is very emotional driven sign and I don’t think it is a coincidence that Shouma as a character is written to be very driven by his strong emotional feelings and thoughts.

Anyway, this line of dialogue stuck out to me while playing the game demo. There seems to be a bit of a moon theme going on here? Or at the very least I think that the moon might be an important plot beat for this game story.

Which also lead to me noticing Shouma’s mecha also has some moon imagery on its design via the shoulders pads. Another interesting thing is that the chest of the mecha is designed with a Shiba Inu face notable a black one.

Shouma’s dog is probably not a literal black shiba ha ha. Although, his weapon having the chest be of the head of a black dog reminded me a bit of the Chinese mythology of the black dog called Tiangou/the heavenly dog. Which in the myth Tiangou either eats the moon or sun causing an eclipse but the moon is more notable one. Which could have inspired some design aspects to Shouma weapon perhaps.

Real quick, I will say that I haven’t looked too deeply or check to see if other characters have a subtle moon theme to their designs. Also, if you look closely on images of the other characters weapons they also have an although I will say a more subtle animal theme going on in their weapon designs as well.

Now onto his character design. First off, his backpack resembles a Kame/turtle shell get it because he’s hiding in his shell and need to slowly come out of it. Man, you gotta love the creativity Rui Komatsuzaki puts into his character designs overall.

Shouma’s boots also have a bit of a turtle-like pattern and with them being green, it looks like he has little turtle feet. His boots also partly resemble wellies, which are commonly associated with children at least in fiction giving him a childlike feel to his design. Plus they’re also outdoor boots and are usually quite popular with dog walkers as well.

Finally, his cap in terms of shape resembles either a frog, bear or hamster which adds even more to the animal theme to his overall character design.

I’m honestly curious with how Shouma’s dog, which is most likely a Shiba Inu and Sirei are connected somehow and it’s also interesting how he’s the only one that didn’t technically fight. Like there has to be a reason for it right? I also think Shouma is more important than he gives himself credit for, although I may wrong who knows. 

I don’t know if others have noticed this but Shouma to me seems to be a very peacemaker type of character. He doesn’t like conflict and always puts others comfort and needs first before himself a far good amount of the time. Plus, the way he talks about his dog in optional dialogue. Makes him appear to have a selfless and kind hearted soul underneath all the self esteem/self deprecation issues of course. 

I also think Shouma appears to be pretty good at reading the room and how others might be feeling. On the rare occasion he chimes in, he has some pretty possible ideas and theories on what might be happening in the current situation. But given how many times he’s gets shot down or told he’s stupid for thinking or saying anything at all.

Which probably breaks his confidence to where he feels he shouldn’t have said anything at all. Which is why he’s just accepts it and doesn’t push against it. Because he truly believes he can never be right on something but also insists on being a peacemaker making him unable to truly take on conflict.

Overall, from what I’ve seen so far, Shouma seems to be a very gentle soul. Who is way too harsh on himself but I do have faith that he will develop as a person as the story progresses. It probably won’t be perfect and I don’t expect his self esteem problems to just magically go away, that takes time. Honestly, Shouma so far is very relatable to me as someone who has gone through similar hardships as a teen.

Shouma has so much potential to be such a lovely and compelling written character overall and I look forward to see what the writers have in store for him in the full game. (He’s so autistic coded to me but that could just be me projecting a little onto him ha ha…)

Lastly, gameplay wise Shouma has the potential to be pretty op as a unit depending on how his abilities and moveset functions in the gameplay mechanics. 

He is a counter defender and his ability shut-in gives 1+ attack with every emery that hits him. Which could have potential to be stacked if his ability can get even stronger. Reflecting back attacks is his key, so Shouma ideally will probably excel being throw at enemies head first and focus on crowd control. 

Shouma will probably work best with the more frail units. Leading the enemies onto him while doing chip damage and letting heavy hitting units dish out the big hits. He’s also will probably have good synergy with the healer/support units as well but overall. I think he will probably be one of the better units in the game due to his ability to do crowd control in a game, where crowd control is key. Also depending upon on how his ability works he could also be quite a decent boss slayer as well. 

Anyway, that concludes my little slightly mentally ill ramble on him. OvO’)

[canidbutch]

people being outright hostile and nasty about caramel and damocles are kind of like. Willfully Ignoring The Point.

[nelyoslegalteam]

Hi hello, here have an excuse to talk about murdoc harfoot-brandybuck of the easterly inn <3

jaz i love you so much you KNOW i have been waiting for someone to send me this EXACT ask. how the FUCK do i explain the character i have been playing for three years now.

so murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn is my player character from my friend group's adventures in middle earth campaign (loving referred to as the mirkwood campaign), gmed by the absolutely wonderful @potatoobsessed999. he's very much still evolving, even as we get closer to the campaign's conclusion, as he absolutely has been over the last three years, but i will attempt to describe him, is he is my absolute favorite of my (like two) tolkien ocs, and may very well be my favorite oc of mine of all time at this point.

murdoc, as his name makes apparent, is a hobbit. he has been raised by his uncles and aunt, a family of upper-class inkeepers, as the heir apparent of the family inn. before i knew anything else about who i wanted him to be, or who he was going to become, murdoc was meant to embody the idea of home. he's creature-comfort, he's hospitality in its purest form, he's the maker of stews and the finder of comfortable places to sleep and the brewer of teas. this is the absolute core of who murdoc is: where he is is his home, and who he's with are his people, and he will do absolutely anything and everything to keep it all safe.

when murdoc was about the hobbit equivalent of a teenager, his more adventurous uncle got it into his head that he too should have a great big adventure just like his drinking buddy and idol bilbo baggins, and up and moved the family inn out of the shire and to a northern corner of mirkwood.

when murdoc was about the hobbit equivalent of, say, a human eighteen-year-old, he began to have extremely disturbing prophetic dreams.

so what do you do when you're a foresighted hobbit in the middle of a famously dangerous forest whose aforementioned foresight has every last bit of you screaming that it is now your responsibility to keep this place and everyone in it safe? you join an adventuring party, serve as an emissary of radagast the brown, have a sort of falling out with radagast the brown over realizing that his boss is evil and nobody believes you yet, adopt the ghost of actual maedhros feanorion (who is possessing your best friend's sword, as one does) as your new dad, and do a bunch of arson and protective rage murder as you develop greater and greater paranoia about whether you will be able to see coming the threats you will need to see in order to keep the people you care about alive!!!!!!

some more fun things about murdoc, in no particular order:

yes the fact that his name is Like That is on purpose. he's a pretentious piece of shit who named himself. his name is extremely reflective of the fact that he is just Like That. (also his partner is a huge nerd who got way into hobbit history around the time murdoc was picking his name and it is just as cute as it is stupid)

languages that murdoc speaks, in the order in which he learned them, include: westron, fucking spider, quenya, and sindarin. he has the most perfect most annoying feanorian accent when speaking in quenya. yes, i rolled to determine this.

(in murdoc's defense, he learned quenya because he wanted maedhros to be able to speak his first language with someone, and it was something to bond over.)

maedhros helped a very afraid and traumatized murdoc begin to interface with his foresight by acting as an anchor point for him while dreaming, to help him develop greater control over what he sees in them and to use his foresight on purpose.

murdoc did use the realization that this meant that he can see maedhros in his dreams as an immediate opportunity to hug him ;w;

murdoc's foresight cannot see nazgûl. anna, my beloved gm, has used this for effect emotional and horrific.

murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn does in fact introduce himself to everyone he meets as "murdoc harfoot brandybuck of the easterly inn"

this resulted in murdoc being put on the entire-ass council of mirkwood because everyone assumed that this was an important title and the easterly inn must be a small fiefdom

murdoc did not correct anyone about the fact that the easterly inn is very much not a small fiefdom

murdoc has a +13 intimidation, making it his highest stat. i'm not sure what stats our gm gave to @jaz-the-bard for maedhros, but we have talked about it at some point and murdoc's is apparently higher

murdoc has a feat that lets him vanish into thin air. it's not magic or anything. he's extremely not a ringbearer. he's just That sneaky.

has a rivalry with one of The Eagles^tm. over hospitality.

fire motif fire motif fire motif

his primary weapon is an enchanted dwarven bow. he shoots flaming arrows.

lover of a good molotov cocktail to solve all his problems very fast

special interests include teas, cooking, and linguistics!! likes to research all the local plants and come up with tea brews that remind him of people or places, or pair well with certain things. came up with a brew for himself that he only shares with people he trusts and cares deeply for. i do in fact have little snippets for points at which he has shared it with each member of the party.

i did once storyboard an edgy animatic for him to the killers' jenny was a friend of mine. i am still very proud of it, and lament that i cannot animate. or do art at all.

i have been playing this character through a literal global pandemic, the completion of two entire degrees, my first adult job, and literally so much other life stuff. sometimes i think about how long i've had him for and how much he's changed, very organically, in that time, and get entirely too emotional about him tbh.

murdoc operates, i would say, from a very genuine sense of care for others, eclipsed by a rather marked lack of estel. for about the whole three years i've had him, i would say i've felt genuinely none from him, and i did not think it was there.

the last time i played him however, i did.

anyhow!!!!! this post would not be complete without this lovely art of our party - i don't know that the artist we commissioned is on tumblr, but "hey can i share this?" was met with an enthusiastic "go for it!" so!! on top is my boy, and left to right down are the bearer (@thymo-leonta), déorwyn (@shadowkat2000), ríros (@jaz-the-bard, who also plays maedhros), and ioreth (not canon ioreth jdjdndn, whose player is definitely not on tumblr).

anyhow i love my party and this game and my friends and my stupid murder arson hobbit inkeeper boy so so very much <33333

and thank you jaz for literally just giving me an opportunity to talk about him lmao, get you friends who send you asks about your ocs even though they literally know so much about your ocs >:p <33

[aleksatia]

🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.” 

A pause. 

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

 “—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin. 

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

[withmyloveasyourgarden]

ALL I EVER DO IS BURN UP FOR YOU

LOKI LAUFEYSON X F!READER

A mishap on a mission, rivals that don't hate each other as much as they pretend to, and a well meaning visit to the god of mischief's door that brings about something you never expected. [18+. Sex pollen/aphrodisiac fic. 6.2K. Re-uploaded from my old blog.]

It starts with an argument. 

With you and him hissing insults and bickering like children over who's more suited for such a high stakes mission. With your hands itching to bury deep into ink spilled curls, if only to yank his face back from where it's obnoxiously tilted close to yours and watch those mocking, glacial eyes widen in shock. 

You had put the work in, assembled all the information and hunted relentlessly for the location of the weapons lab only for him to sweep in at the last moment and use mortality against you. It's an excuse that strikes a dangerous match in your blood, heats your skin to an unhealthy temperature whilst your eyes narrow to vicious slits.

"You mortals are frail and weak, too easily breakable. I'm obviously a much better choice, what could their feeble minds possibly create that will harm a god." 

It makes you nearly scream that the others vote in his favour. Rage, ugly and knotted, sticking in your chest at the insinuation you should be seen as fragile when you've fought for years among advanced tech suits, super soldiers, master assassins and an indefinitely more likeable god.

You're not proud of the way it burns at you, that it plucks at some pitiful insecure string you've tried to bury by pushing yourself harder, always harder. 

He's made you feel like you're not good enough to be here despite all you've done and it gathers petty venom on your tongue faster than you can blink. 

"Don't come crying to me when you fuck up, I'll be here waiting to laugh in your face when the shit they're packing knocks you of your pedestal."

The words are sharp and scathing, spat over your shoulder before you're storming out and leaving everyone to stare after you. 

You miss the arrogant smirk falter on his lips the moment you're gone. 

** 

Guilt comes to you swiftly. 

You didn't really mean what you said, you hope he succeeds, people's lives count on it and deep down you even hope that he's right and in no real danger. 

It's not like you to lose your temper and be so petulant. It really isn't. 

It's just Loki. 

He's rubbed you the wrong way from the moment you met. His arrogance, his patronising drawl and insatiable need to get under your skin, bringing something immature and half feral out of you without fail. 

Before him you didn't know what it was like to hate someone, to have someone manipulate every nerve you have with lithe fingers until there's flames in your blood and violence in your eyes. 

It irritates you more that he's so fucking pretty, that his body looks like it's been carved from marble in an artist's quest for divine perfection, and that you'd been attracted to him almost immediately until he'd opened that poisoned mouth of his. 

And unfortunately there's still moments where it snags at you like hooks in your skin, where it feels like you could give in to the temptation to claw and sink your teeth into him as he pounds you so fucking hard you see galaxies. 

You feel it when he's pressed, hard and unforgiving, against the soft give of your body. When you've managed to incense him to the point he's prowled towards you, anger cracking in his eyes like chipped shards of ice, until your back has hit a solid surface for him to crowd you up against. 

It's then that the energy between you snaps raw - hits it's most volatile like it's gathering itself to an explosive peak. You both linger in it, let the moment seep thick in the heat until it edges along the line of pain. 

But then someone always eventually draws away and you wonder if there's a dark pit, a chasm of unknown want, in his stomach like there is in yours whenever you do.  

** 

When Natasha appears at your door the first thing you think is that she's come to talk about before. You know she sees more than most people and she's always sneaking subtle questions into your conversations about the God of mischief. 

The second thing you think is that the universe must fucking hate you and your previous guilt had obviously not been enough to make up for your behaviour. 

"You're needed in the lab, they need what you know on the bio weapons made in that place - Loki's been hit with something." 

"Hit with what?" 

"He said it was some kind of dart." 

"Did he say what the liquid looked like? Was it blue or purple?" 

"Blue I think, why?" 

Shit.

**

"Good news, he's not going to die a horrific, agonising death from his systems shutting down one by one." 

"And the bad news?" Thor grimaces, his brow heavy with concern and thick arms folded over his chest as he peers at you.

"He could possibly die of… something else." You wince, feeling the awkwardness of embarrassment flooding your tongue. "The thing he's been injected with is an aphrodisiac, a really fucking strong one, they basically manipulated it to cause as much pain and discomfort as they could to make victims more pliant to what they wanted." 

Thor stares at you for a long moment, face blank whilst you watch him working over the information you've given him, then suddenly he blinks, once, twice. 

"You're saying Loki needs to fuck someone or he'll die?" 

"Possibly, I'm not– I'm not one hundred percent sure, okay." You sigh. "That's what happened when someone human was injected, your brother is a god. The effects could be different– milder maybe." 

"So there's a chance he could be fine?"

"Yeah but I'm not a scientist or a doctor, he should really get… checked...out. Wait– Thor, where the hell is he?" 

You hadn't even had a chance until now to notice the presence of a huffy, irate raven haired god was missing from the situation. 

His brother had practically snatched you up as you'd ran towards the lab, his face panicked as he'd word vomited a thousand and one questions about the drug, its effects and the danger it posed to Loki. 

But as you peer around the suddenly quiet god of thunder now, there is definitely a rather worrying absence - the lab empty besides the doctor. 

"Oh, he's in his room." Thor confesses awkwardly, one of his large hands scratching at the the back of his neck whilst he offers you a sheepish smile. "I tried to bring him here but he was somewhat violently against it, he threatened to stab me again." 

You snort. 

Of course he did, the overgrown fucking child. 

Trust Loki to be injected with a lethal substance and rather than be monitored for potential risks to his health he'd prefer to pout in his room. 

"Thor, someone needs to go there and bring him down - this is serious." 

He grins then, charming and radiant, and god help you because you know it's coming, both of you fully aware of the soft spot you have for your blonde Asgardian friend and the fact you can't say no when he asks you for something so politely. 

"I think my presence will do nothing more than irritate him further." He says, soft ocean blue eyes pleading at you. "Maybe you can go and try and lure him out? He's always more easily persuaded when it comes to you." 

Highly fucking doubt it, you want to scoff at him. If anything the mere sight of you is enough to set Loki off on a tangent. 

But he's staring at you all hopeful and sweet and there's nothing you can do but curse these two gods that have clearly been sent to be twin pains in your life. 

"Fine." You grit instead. 

**

You're not sure how long you pace outside the door before he calls to you. 

Long enough that he berates you for trying to wear a hole through the floor, his voice dripping in amusement and a tinge of something rough that your mind doesn't register until it's too late. 

He's the epitome of composure when you slip inside his room, causing you to frown as you narrow your eyes and scan the length of his body. 

He's still in full leathers, his legs stretched across his bed and ankles locked whilst he leans back regally against the headboard. 

There's something you can't put your finger on though, something not right about how he looks, not even a hair out of place or a scratch on his leathers to say he'd just returned from a mission. 

It's almost too perfect. 

"Come to laugh in my face, have you darling?" He drawls, smirking when your eyes snap to his face. "It's a shame then I must tell you I'm perfectly fine." 

"They told me you'd been injected with something." You say quietly, gaze still searching for something out of place whilst you edge closer. 

"Ah and you thought you'd come and witness my suffering did you? Thought you'd see a god brought to his knees by some mortal drug? Apologies for the disappointment." 

You shake your head and stare at him in disbelief. "Loki no." You argue softly. "I came to bring you to the lab, the drug you've been injected with could seriously harm you, you need to be tested and kept under observation." 

He scoffs, a petulant thing as he rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. "I take it my brother sent you in hopes a pretty face would sway me. I will tell you like I told him, I am fine, I have no need of your doctors." 

His voice tries for nonchalance, arrogance even, but there's an underlying coldness you detect that seems unwarranted and leaves you feeling frustrated. 

"Why are you being so unreasonably stubborn." You grit, your hands curling to fists on top of your hips whilst you stride towards the bed and glower down at him. "We're only trying to help you, how about you try being grateful."

"Why are you being so irritatingly stupid." He spits back. Long legs swing gracefully off the bed and land either side of yours, the blue of his eyes pulsing dark as his lips pull back and bare teeth. "I do not need your help, I do not need some silly little midgardian doctors poking and prodding at me whilst I'm expected to just lie there vulnerable." 

Oh. 

Oh fuck, you have been stupid. 

Shortly after the arrival of his brother, Thor had filled you all in on some Loki's history. Told you quietly, guiltily, that whilst he wasn't completely innocent of the deeds he'd committed, they hadn't been entirely his doing either. 

It had been enough to make you shudder, for sympathy to bloom in your heart despite everything, at the thought of the kind of torture that would have to be inflicted upon a god to make him crumble to another's will. 

Of course he would be wary of someone wanting to draw bloods and hook him to machines and do any other tests they had in mind. Of course it would bring back terrible memories for him. You feel wretched for not understanding sooner, your eyes softening and the frustration bleeding from your body quicker than it had arrived. 

"No one is going to hurt you Loki." You murmur gently, letting his gaze narrow to suspicious slits as he searches your words and face for the barest hint of a lie. "We just want to make sure you're okay, that's all, I promise." 

His eyes widen for a moment, expression faltering to something raw and unguarded whilst he stares up at you and your fingers twitch with urge to run themselves along his jaw, over his cheek and through the soft looking curls of his hair in some surprising need to offer comfort. 

But then he shutters. His expression turns mischievous and haughty and you can practically sense the sarcastic quip of his tongue before he's even opening his mouth. 

"Worried about me, are you darling?" He arches a dark brow, lips quirking into a smug grin. "I must confess I like seeing you all bothered about me like this." 

You go to tell him to fuck off, go to spin on your heel and march down to the lab and declare that he's absolutely fine, just peachy, his usual rage inducing self. 

But then your eyes flick up on a whim and see the sweat beading along his hairline, dampening the finer hairs and slicking them to his skin. 

That isn't right.

You've seen this man fight, witnessed him slice through countless enemies without so much as a stilted huff of breath let alone physically breaking a sweat. It's something he practically prides himself on, ridiculing you for looking like a dishevelled mess whenever you emerge from battle after him. 

The next move you make is on reflex, a common habit that you resort to without thought. 

You lift the palm of your hand to his forehead to check his temperature, your skin already grazing his before you register his panicked ‘stop–don't!’ and your mind is only capable of offering one thought before the world is suddenly swept out from beneath your feet. 

The typically cold skinned god is blisteringly hot.

Loki snarls the second your hand makes full contact and there's a sudden pulse of energy that ripples through the air, stealing your breath and tingling along your skin. You don't realise what it is until he's grabbed you and caged you beneath him. 

Magic. More specifically, an illusion. 

He's definitely not fine. 

He's panting and shaking, his arms trembling whilst he hovers over you, face shiny with sweat and cheeks flushed fever pink. When he peers down at you, you inhale sharply, the blue of his eyes has all but gone - swallowed whole by the hungry expanse of his pupils.

"Loki." You whisper and a violent shudder racks his already taut body, the movement dragging your eyes lower before they snap back to his face as you let out a startled squeak. 

His illusion had hid more than you'd been able to realise before he'd tossed you on the bed and now the image of him half naked, in nothing but unlaced leather pants that are doing a poor job of concealing the large outline of his cock, is burned into your brain - even as you close your eyes and take a deep breath to try and calm your racing heart. 

Your squeak seems to snap him out of the lustful haze he's in however, a shocked slash of clarity in his eyes when yours flicker back open and pain streaking across his face like it hurts him to drag himself from your body when he pushes away and rocks back on his heels. 

"I'm sorry– fuck– I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to." He gasps and he looks so genuinely distraught that you almost reach for him again, only snatching your hand back when his eyes dart to it's approach and he flinches. 

"It's alright Loki, I'm okay." You soothe, concerned. "I want to help you if you'll let me, just tell me how." 

He laughs then, something croaked and hollow, and removes the heels of his palms from his eyes to stare you down in a way that is mildly flustering. 

"You shouldn't ask me that." He husks. "The things I want - if you knew - you wouldn't ask me that." 

Well fuck. You hadn't meant it like that, you'd been thinking along the lines of taking him for medical help or running to get his brother.

But now-  

There's something about the way he says it, the way he looks saying it, the heat that slips back into his eyes as he mentions wanting, that makes you very much need to know. 

It makes your stomach twist in an intense way, a wicked pang of heat spearing through your belly, the beginnings of a fierce craving, and the words are out of your mouth before you can shove your hand against your lips to stop them. 

"Tell me what you want, I’ll do it." 

He glares at you then, twin shocks of piercing blue glowing from beneath the sweat-damp of his curling hair, nostrils flaring as if you're truly testing the limits of his patience. His head has dipped low, long fingers twisting themselves in the strewn bed sheets in an effort to ground himself as another cruel tremor sweeps through him.  

"What I want." He seethes after it recedes, tossing his head back to pin you with a furious look. "I will not take from you, not like this." 

"Why not?" You push yourself up, confused, and he hastily shifts back, keeping a safe distance between you whilst anger and frustration crawls across his face.

"Because when I take you I want it to be because you want it." He snarls. "Not because of some warped sense of duty or self sacrifice that you and the rest of your idiotic team consider heroic." 

It's endearing, if not more than a little insulting. 

You're heart beats a little faster at the fact he's thought about fucking you, fluttering wildly behind your ribs because he seems to want you just as much as you want him. 

But the insinuation you'd only be with him because it's your job to save people brings a type of rage thrumming through your blood that only Loki has ever been capable of summoning. 

"You think I'd fuck you just because it might save your life? That I'd offer myself to you so intimately just so I could get for a fucking pat on the back for helping you?" You spit, offended. "I thought gods were supposed to be smart, or is it just you that is this extraordinarily stupid." 

The situation feels familiar now, the two of you forgetting everything to return to spewing insults and barbs at each other because neither of you know how to deal with the sticky truth, the undeniable hope that the other one might feel the same. 

And for a moment it works. 

It distracts Loki from his pain, from his reluctance to be close to you, touching you, and in one swift move, he lunges. Knocks you back against the mattress and buries you beneath the weight of his powerful body.

"Careful with that mouth, darling." He taunts, dragging his nose across the curve of your cheek before savage eyes lock on yours. "Or I might be tempted to find something other than your poisonous words to fill it. 

You don't rise to his baiting like you typically would, don't hiss and claw at him like a scorned cat because he's too close and his touch is an wholly unwanted offence on your skin.

Instead you do something infinitely worse.

You shock him. 

You say his name, soft as silk, legs parting to make room for him to sink against you and his eyes blow wide - stunned like he can't quite believe you're real and inviting him to cover you entirely, to wrap himself around you like ivy, without an ounce of disgust. 

"That's what I want."

**

He groans ragged like you've wounded him, like you've shoved your hand through his chest and yanked at something vital. 

His hips lurch up subconsciously against yours and oh, it's enough to make your mouth run dry. The quick glimpse of him you'd had is nothing compared to the feel of him pushing against you. 

It makes the tension bloat, electricity crackling upon your skin and you don't know how he isn't half mad with the drug when you feel like you could combust just from this alone. 

He makes a rough, desperate sound in the back of his throat when you wrap your legs around him, eyes burning pitch black and starved as he trails his nose along the side of your face and growls.

"Darling–perfect little thing– tell me to stop. I can't– tell me this isn't what you really want." 

You remove your hands from their bone knuckled grip on his arms, cradling the sharp lines of his jaw and pulling him down to where his lips just ghost over your own.

"I want you, Loki." You murmur. "Let me make it better, let me give you what you need." 

He snaps then, lunges forward and claims your mouth in a punishing kiss, drinking you in so deep that you can barely breathe but you'll gladly suffocate before you even think of asking him to ease up. 

You've never been kissed like this before, with such brutal demand and unyielding need that you could split apart at the seams from the raw heat of it all. 

You tangle your hands something fierce into the silken depths of his hair, give a sharp tug when he scores the pillow of your lip with his teeth before drawing the tender flesh into his mouth like he wants nothing more than to mark you everywhere and with every part of him. 

The pull of his hair draws an inhuman snarl from his chest and his hands turn to steel upon your thighs, fingers sinking in deep and wrenching your legs apart so his hips can slam against your cunt. 

"Loki." You gasp, his name turning to a choked moan on your tongue as he licks and bites at your throat, teeth bared against the flushed skin in a terribly smug grin that you cannot bring yourself to huff about.

"That's it pet - say my name - let me hear how good I make you feel." He purrs. 

You push at him then, push for control and to take advantage of his distraction so you can flip him on his back and fuck, he looks almost criminally good beneath you. Eyes startled, his lips parted in shock before they spread into a sharp, feral grin. 

It's impossible to resist falling back into him, sweeping your tongue into his mouth when he catches you against his chest and swallowing the moans that pour from his lips to yours whilst you circle your hips relentlessly over the thick of him. 

He likes constantly being touched, you've realised, craves it, yields to it, a soft note of disappointment always slipping through his gritted teeth when you remove any part of yourself. 

So you touch him everywhere.

Your hips remain fused to his and your hands never cease roaming, scratching and tracing every ridge and dip of his body whilst you kiss, nip and lick at him until he's a whimpering mess beneath you. 

You slip down the length of his body when it seems like he'll fracture if you take your time with him any longer, gentle hands peeling the leather of his trousers back and down, releasing his cock and wrapping your fingers around the thick weight.

He hisses at the contact, body going rigid and jackknifing from the bed as your thumb grazes up over the leaking head and you begin to stroke him. He croaks out your name like it's a plea to the heavens, his breath falling to ragged pants when you drag your tongue across the slit of his cock before sinking your mouth down onto his length.

"Fuck." He snarls. 

You waste no time teasing him, swallowing him deep into your throat and sucking hard, tongue sliding over the thick vein running underneath as he throbs and his hips stammer against your face. 

There's words, curses you think, in a language you don't understand falling rapidly from his lips and when your eyes flick up to him his are screwed shut, his head thrown back against the pillows, neck beautifully bared and his fingers wound so tight in the bedsheets it's only a matter of time before you hear them shred. 

His eyes snap open to stare at you when you hum in approval around him, his lips parting and a hand shooting out to tangle in your hair. He looks wrecked and it does something indescribable to your chest, your pride, when he chokes. 

"Please." 

You hum around him again and he loses his composure entirely, fisting your hair tight and rocking his hips hard and fast into the welcoming heat of your mouth. You gag slightly at the assault on your throat, thighs clenching as he hisses through his teeth at the feel of it.

You were dripping just watching him like this, every nerve alight and desperate for his touch, thighs shifting again for some kind of friction and this time, Loki notices. 

"You like this don't you, pet?" He grunts. "Fuck, I can smell you - needy little thing - let me help." 

From the corner of your eye you catch a faint glow of green and then you jolt. Lashes fluttering as you moan, helplessly overwhelmed, around his cock.

There's a pressure, some kind of energy, swirling at your cunt, the feeling of tight circles being rapidly drawn over your swollen clit driving you mad, as if he's actually dipped his own fingers inside your pants and was skillfully touching you to ruin. 

It's so much. His cock driving into your mouth whilst his magic thrums relentlessly against you. Your eyes roll back when he slows this thrusts, matching his pace to that of the phantom fingers plunging inside your walls. 

"That's it, darling." He praises breathlessly when you whine around him, eyes never leaving your face. "Want to feel you cum just like this. Taking both my cock and my seidr so well, fucking filthy little thing." 

His words strike a match that ignites something cataclysmic in your gut and you're done for. Your orgasm is cresting without hesitance, barreling towards you unapologetically fast until the muscles of your belly clench tight, the intensity making your head spin until your shuddering and moaning around his cock.

It tears a sound you've never heard in your life from Loki, something raw and wounded and so utterly blissed out shoves it's way out of his throat and then his fingers are curling almost painfully tight, yanking you down to the base of his cock as he pulses and spills hot on your tongue. 

You swallow him down the best you can before his hands are clawing at your arms, hauling you up to his chest so he can bring his frenzied mouth to yours whilst he trembles. 

"More." He bites out. 

**

Pleasure makes him burn possessive. 

It makes him roll you over and crush you with him, cage you with his body as his teeth carve marks into your skin and usually talented hands rip clumsily at your pants.  

You choke on a half shriek, half moan as he stuffs you full of his fingers - spears you open and strokes you to madness, his voice a dark, lustful whisper snaking in your ear. 

"So fucking tight, darling girl - bet that sweet little cunt looks so pretty stretched out on my fingers - be a good girl and cum for me again - cum for me and I'll give you my cock." 

God yes, you need it. You'll go fucking insane if you don't.

You think he will break you just like this, that he’ll pull another lightening sharp orgasm from you with his fingers alone, but then he's suddenly drawing them from your slick warmth. Ignoring your frustrated whine to shred the clothes from your body as if they are nothing more than paper and pressing the broad width of his shoulders between your thighs.

He shoves his face into your cunt before you can fully recover from what the sight of him between your legs does to your ego, drives his tongue through the evidence of your previous release and swallows it down with a gut wrenching moan of satisfaction. 

It is both worshipful and humbling.

He lays himself at your mercy like you are divine only to remind you that he can have you pleading and praying with a mere flick of his tongue. His fingers curling back into you whilst he seals his lips around your throbbing clit and sucks, making you buck wildly into his grinning mouth as you cry out and rake your nails across his scalp in a way that has him shuddering. 

It's rabid and feral the way he eats at you, tongue swirling wet and messy over your clit and his fingers twisting to reach a spot that has your body caving in on itself.

He thrusts knuckle deep until you're wailing. Hiccuping his name as the orgasm builds in your belly with terrifying velocity and then he's nipping at you just a little bit sharply with his teeth, offering that hint of pain that makes the pleasure burn darker, wilder, than it ever has before. 

You arch from the bed with a breathless, wounded sound, unable to scream, unravelling magnificently as he groans and licks you through your orgasm like a man that has known nothing but starvation his entire life. 

And when it has all plateaued there is nothing left but an unrepentant desire to have him entirely when he slithers back up your body, sharp features endearingly pleased and his pretty mouth still shining with your release as he pushes you back into the bed and slides his cock teasingly against your wet cunt. 

You go boneless. Pliant in a way that feels like exquisite submission, that threatens to drive Loki wild.  

Your legs part wide for him, pussy fluttering, still pulsing with aftershocks whilst he catches at your entrance and then he's pushing inside you, a guttural moan bubbling past his throat, and the blunt stretch is so fucking good that you can't breathe. So right that your mind reels with it.

He drops to kiss you as you struggle to keep your sanity, nose nudging softly, adoringly, against your own, and when he pulls back his eyes are striking. Endless pools of crystalised blue blown wide with reverence. With deep seated hunger ready to devour you whole.

You both groan as he presses the final inches inside you. 

Your legs weave around his waist so you can take him deeper and he inhales sharply, yanking himself out of you until only the thick head of his cock remains. You wonder dazedly if maybe he intends it to be a punishment, that maybe his old smugness is more intact than you thought and he intends you to beg for it, but then he's snapping back into you with a rough cant of his hips that almost winds you, splits you open with a deliciousness that has you gasping.

"Oh my god–" You whimper and it's like any semblance of restraint he was still valiantly clinging to evaporates as his entire body trembles. “Loki–you feel so–fuck–”

He buries you beneath him, snares his hand into the locks of your hair and sinks his teeth into your throat whilst he rolls his hips, grinds them in a maddening push and pull, pressing in so fucking close as if he wishes to never leave you at all.

It's like he's lost to the sensation of you, the tight warmth of your cunt and the praise that pours from your lips whilst he chases that frantic need to be sunk deep over and over. 

“I can't–I can't go easy on you–I'm sorry.” There is strain in his voice now, a lovely tortured tone, as if he was losing his head completely. 

You cling to him desperately. Nails scoring crimson lines and small crescen moon marks into the milk pale skin of his shoulders as he fucks you like he wants you to splinter, like he wants you in pieces so he can burrow among your bones and make himself a home inside you. 

He reels back suddenly, bunches his knees beneath your ass and pulls himself upright. You want to protest the loss of him but then he's grabbing your legs, hitching them higher until they're slung over his shoulders and using your thighs as an anchor to ram himself deeper, so he can punch up into the heart of you.

It's almost too much when his fingers slip to where you're joined, when he touches you, quick and unrelenting, until the pleasure is so intense there are tears of bliss gathering at the corners of your eyes. 

It's almost too much when he stares at you like he's completely enamoured and reaches for your face, thumbing away a stray tear before it can slip fully down your cheek with a tenderness that threatens to crack you open. You're whimpering, pleading with him to kiss you, to make you cum, to feel him cum inside you, and the noise he makes in retaliation is low, hungered.

"Pretty little thing, you need to cum? You want me to fill you up?" He rasps - wicked and dripping with a dark shade of longing. He tilts his hips, angles himself so his next thrust plunges into that part of you that makes your cunt spasm and a loud wail tear from your lips. "Fuck - go ahead, let me feel it, let everyone hear you make a mess all over my cock." 

His name claws out of your throat on a broken cry, the sound of it jagged, ruined, as every muscle in your body locks up tight until you're violently trembling, bursting wet around him, and everything becomes a scatter of pure pleasure and dizzying bursts of radiant light. 

It takes only moments before the same sensation hunts him so closely. Your cunt gripping him tighter, milking him, until he's snarling a punched out curse. The rising crescendo of slapping skin suddenly faltering as his deliberate pace becomes a frantic, savage thing. 

"That's it darling - my pretty little goddess - beautiful thing, all mine."  He praises before he chokes, folding himself over you and claiming your lips in a messy kiss. Devouring your mouth as you broke and broke and broke.

He ensures you are shattered entirely and only then does he allow his own devastation. His breath stuttering, voice shredding, body convulsing as he fucks you through it and growls your name, spilling, hot and deep, inside you.

**

It goes on for hours.

Until the desperation has bled from his veins and his skin has cooled to a normal temperature.

It's deep into the night when the two of you finally collapse into the sheets exhausted, the cool press of his body tangled with yours a blissful relief to both your mind and the flushed heat of your own sticky skin. 

Every inch of you is raw - littered in marks from his fingers and teeth, the phantom stretch of him still making you ache.

Loki holds you tight to him, draws you close against the sharp rise and fall of his chest and cradles your head like you're something infinitely precious. 

He doesn't speak though and you have a feeling his mind is struggling to process the sudden leap in the relationship between you, picking it apart and trying to discover what this makes you to him. 

The silence blisters and pricks at you until you can't handle it any longer and you blurt out the first thing that comes to your pleasure-addled brain.

"Well… good to know you're not going to die." 

His chest shakes lightly under your cheek and you realise he's chuckling, a soft, light sound slipping from his lips that you don't think you've ever heard from him. 

"That drug was never going to kill a god." He scoffs, trailing feather light fingertips down your arm. "But I can see how it would be dangerous for mortals, which is precisely why I insisted on taking your place." 

Wait–

What. 

You lurch up and twist in his hold to look at him, his eyes, guarded and hesitant,  as he watches you and attempts to gauge your reaction. 

"You took my place to protect me?" You whisper, inhaling a sharp breath he nods. 

There's something blooming in your chest, something you don't want to look at too closely so soon, something that bloomed also when he called you his. But as soft as his gesture makes you, it also bothers another part of you, the part of you that is an avenger and more than capable of dealing with dangerous situations. 

You tell him as much and he grumbles. 

Something along the lines of. "Do you really expect me to stand by and let something happen to you if I can prevent it? I don't want to see you hurt and mortals are so -" 

He doesn't get to finish before you're planting your hands firm against his cool chest and growling. "If you say fragile or weak, I swear I will ruin this otherwise sweet moment and punch you in that perfect face." 

His eyes narrow, glinting dark and tempting, and his voice drops to a wisp of coiling smoke.

"You can try, darling." 

God, is he really trying to seduce you again. 

"Stop trying to distract me." You swat at him angrily. "Next time just come along and work the mission with me, don't get me taken off. Deal?" 

He watches you for a moment, arches a brow at the way you glare at him before huffing. "I suppose." 

There's barely any time for you to grin smugly at your victory before he's hauling you down and rolling you beneath him, his razor sharp smile gleaming above you as his eyes pitch dark once more. 

"Now, how about we seal our little deal." 

[rafayelgod]

🔞WARNING THIS IS ADULTS CONTENT🔞

NSFW, Fanfiction, Not for kids!, 18+, Dominance, BDSM

What if They Caught You Watching Porn in Their Bedroom? 🔞💦

🔞 Please be advised: This story contains explicit sexual content, including descriptions of masturbation and consensual sexual interaction, and explores themes of possessiveness and dominance by the character. Reader discretion is advised.

Okay Hunter (MC/You) here are five individual scenarios depicting how each of the Love and Deepspace characters would react if they walked in on you watching porn in their bedroom within this alternative universe.

1. Rafayel

You were sprawled out across Rafayel's ridiculously soft bed, letting the afternoon sun warm your face. He was supposed to be at the studio, sketching or dealing with some gallery drama. Perfect time for... research. You'd found a particularly interesting video online and were completely engrossed, the screen glowing with explicit details.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open with a cheerful, slightly dramatic flourish.

"Cutie! I'm home! Guess what I got you-"

You jumped, slamming the laptop shut with a speed you didn't know you possessed. Your face instantly flamed, blood rushing to your cheeks. Rafayel stood in the doorway, eyes wide not with anger, but with surprise, his signature playful grin already starting to form. He had a small box in his hand, likely a gift.

He tilted his head, purple eyes sparkling with mischief. "Whoa there, Miss Bodyguard. What's got you looking like a ripe tomato?" He took a step closer, his gaze flicking towards the closed laptop on the bed. "And what were you hiding?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell me... were you watching something spicy?" He wiggled his eyebrows, completely unashamed. "Getting ideas, Cutie?"

Your embarrassment was a physical wave. "N-no! It was... uh... a documentary!"

He let out a light, musical laugh. "A 'documentary,' huh? Does it feature... anatomy in great detail?" He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a playful purr. "You know, you don't have to watch static images on a screen when you have the real thing right here. Isn't my physique much more... artistically inspiring?"

He reached out and gently traced the line of your jaw, his grin turning softer but still full of knowing charm. "Maybe I could offer a private, live-action tutorial instead? Much more... interactive, don't you think?" He didn't seem jealous, just highly amused and eager to turn the situation into a chance to tease and flirt.

"So," he whispered, his face close to yours, "about that 'documentary'... care to share what you learned?"

2. Zayne

You were in Zayne's impeccably neat bedroom. He had an emergency shift at the hospital, giving you unexpected free time in his quiet, sterile space. You'd been feeling a bit stressed lately and decided a distraction was in order. You found what you were looking for on your tablet, headphones on, lost in the private world on the screen.

The door opened quietly, no preamble, no loud entrance. You didn't even hear it until you felt a presence standing near the foot of the bed.

You pulled off your headphones with a gasp, the bright screen still visible in your lap. Zayne stood there, dressed in his scrubs, looking at you with his usual calm, intelligent gaze. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then his eyes drifted down to the tablet screen.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You fumbled with the device, trying to turn it off, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

"Honey?" His voice was soft, carrying an unexpected hint of surprise but no harshness. He didn't look away from the screen immediately, his expression remaining composed, though you thought you saw the tiniest flicker of something in his green eyes.

Finally, he looked back at you, his expression gentle, almost clinical in its lack of judgment, yet with that specific tenderness he reserved only for you. "Is... everything alright, Baby?"

You stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He walked closer, sitting carefully beside you on the bed. He didn't snatch the tablet or scold you. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze steady and reassuring. "There's no need to be so flustered, Honey. It's... a natural human interest."

He paused, a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. "Though, I must admit, I'm curious. Are you... studying something specific?" His voice was low, simple, devoid of any overt flirtation, yet the implication hung in the air.

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Perhaps if you have questions... or require further practical demonstration... you could just ask me, Baby." His eyes held yours, calm, rational, but with an underlying sweetness that made your heart flutter even amidst the embarrassment. "I'm always available to help you... understand."

3. Xavier

You were relaxing in Xavier's room, the one place you both felt truly safe after a long day hunting Wanderers. He'd said he was just grabbing something from his car. You took the opportunity to browse, and well, ended up on a site that definitely wasn't about alien biology. You were captivated by the on-screen action, forgetting about the world outside the glow of the screen.

The door opened slowly, and Xavier shuffled in, looking typically sleepy, eyes half-closed. "My Love, where did you put my..."

His voice trailed off as he saw you, eyes wide with surprise, laptop open on your lap. His sleepy haze vanished in an instant, replaced by sharp alertness as his gaze fell on the screen. His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You slammed the laptop shut with a cringe. "Xavier! I... um..."

He stood straighter, the charm fading into a look of intense focus. He walked towards the bed, his earlier weariness completely gone. He sat down beside you, not roughly, but with a possessive closeness.

"My Love," he said, his voice low and serious, a hint of possessiveness already coloring it. "What were you watching?" He didn't wait for an answer, his eyes searching yours. "Why are you looking at that?"

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking softly, but his gaze was firm, almost troubled. "Do you... do you need something more than I'm giving you?" The question was laced with insecurity and fierce protectiveness. "Why look at strangers... when you have me?"

He leaned closer, his scent of ozone and something uniquely him surrounding you. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Let me show you, My Love. Let me show you there's nothing on that screen that compares to what we have." He leaned in, kissing you with a depth that was both possessive and desperately wanting to prove his point.

"You only need me," he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer. "Just me, My Love."

4. Sylus

You were in Sylus's luxurious, almost intimidatingly large bedroom. He was out handling Onychinus business - something involving 'negotiations' and 'asset management'. You felt brave enough to occupy his space, and maybe just bold enough to indulge in something equally bold on your tablet. You were enjoying the explicit display when a deep voice cut through the silence.

"Well now, kitten. What have we here?"

You froze. Sylus stood in the doorway, a tall, commanding figure leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't smiling, but his dark red eyes held a glint of amusement and something undeniably predatory as they scanned you and then the tablet screen in your lap.

You snapped the tablet off, your face burning. "Sylus! You're back early!"

He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly towards you, his movements smooth and confident. He didn't look surprised or embarrassed, only intrigued. "Early? Or just in time?" His gaze lingered on the tablet, then back to you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Getting ideas, sweetie?"

He reached the bed and stood over you, his sheer size making you feel like a tiny creature caught in his gaze. He reached down and gently took the tablet from your trembling hands, placing it aside without looking at it.

"You know, kitten," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with power and charm. "I find it incredibly... stimulating... knowing you're in my personal space, thinking about carnal things." He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you on the bed, trapping you.

"But," he continued, his voice turning more dominant, "didn't I tell you? The only man you need to study... is me." He lowered himself further, his face close to yours, his eyes intense. "Let me show you how a real man pleases his sweetie. Let me show you all the things you were only dreaming about."

His smirk widened, bold and unapologetic. "No need for a screen, kitten. The show is live, and you have a front-row seat."

5. Caleb

You were in Caleb's room, which was a chaotic mix of military neatness and personal indulgence. He was often away on duty, leaving you to occupy his space when you missed him. You were watching something particularly intense on your laptop, lost in the visuals, when the door swung open sharply behind you.

"Pipsqueak? Thought I'd find you here." His voice was light, playful, but there was an undercurrent of something else you knew well.

You flinched, spinning around, trying to hide the screen. Your face must have given you away instantly. Caleb stood there, already shedding his jacket, but his playful expression vanished as he saw your reaction and the laptop on the bed. His black eyes, usually warm with affection, turned sharp and intense, the purple depth within them seeming to darken.

He didn't say anything else immediately. He just walked towards the bed, his footsteps deliberate. He reached you and his hand shot out, not to touch you gently, but to snatch the laptop closed with a sharp snap.

"What the hell were you watching?" His voice was no longer playful. It was low, rough, laced with possessiveness and a controlled fury. His eyes bored into yours, demanding an answer.

Your breath hitched. The casual charm was gone, replaced by the dark, obsessive side you knew existed beneath the surface. "Caleb, I... it was just..."

He leaned over you, his body language dominating, trapping you against the headboard. "Just what, Pipsqueak? Looking at other people? Imagining things with someone who isn't me?" His grip on the laptop tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Didn't I make it clear?" he growled, his voice dangerously soft. "You belong to me. Your eyes are only for me. Your thoughts are only for me." He tossed the laptop carelessly onto the floor. "Why do you need that when you have me?"

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his intensity overwhelming. "You will only see these things with me, Pipsqueak. Only me." He gripped your chin firmly, his thumb tracing your lip. "Now, let me remind you who you belong to." His kissed you, not sweetly, but with demanding possessiveness, a clear statement of ownership. "You're mine. And you will never look at anyone else like that again. Understand?"

© Melody (Follow for more hot story) 🔞🌚💋💦

[nattousan]

hey digital artists! c'mere real quick! :3 I wanna tell ya somethin! :3

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

c'mon! don't be shy! it'll just take a sec! :3 how long have you been makin art for? haha oh wowww~

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

almost there, i promise lol sorry these cellar stairs are sooo long haha

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

:3

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

*SLAMS YOU AGAINST MOULDY CELLAR WALL* LISTEN AND HEAR ME WELL NOW, GOT IT?? IM NOT FUCKING AROUND.

PRINT OUT YOUR DIGITAL ART. PRESERVE IT. DO NOT WAIT.

What would be left of you if your computer bursts into flames? Hmm? All those years of honing your craft? Who would know of it? Your tablet could die tomorrow, fall victim to the plague, THEN what? There'd be no trace of you. Your art account with years of accumulated passion? Gone with the flick of a server switch. Do not trust the cloud it is ephemeral in the eyes of time.

Place your trust in papers gentle hands and it will sing of you even after you have gone quiet.

Print your art.

*walls you in*

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡A Sky Full of Stars♡

♡ Pairing: idol!dad!hongjoong x fem!mom!reader

♡ Genre: the fluffiest of fluff

♡ Summary: Just some sweet moments you share with Hongjoong when you and your daughter surprise him after their Coachella set.

♡ Word Count: 1.4k

♡ Warnings: If there's any warning it's that your kid has a name. I know some people don't like that. She's named after an artist Joong likes who I think has a pretty name so that's all babes.

♡ A/N: I set out to make this super fluffy summer road/beach trip fic with Joong but I sat down to write and this is what came out instead so I present to you some post-concert fluff and I hope it gives you all the sweet feelings it gave me writing it.

This can’t be real.

It’s all Hongjoong keeps repeating in his head as he steps off of the Sahara stage at Coachella. His ears are ringing, his heart’s beating out of his chest, his throat’s on fire, and he’d walk right back on that stage to keep going if he could.

It seems like only yesterday his group was fighting to debut; now they’re here, performing on a stage some artists can only dream of stepping foot on. The joy on his member’s faces. The sound of their fans screaming for them. It’s a special kind of magic he wishes he could bottle up and keep somewhere safe to treasure forever.

“Captain!” Wooyoung cheers, throwing an arm around him, “We did good?” Hongjoong looks around to see his members staring at him, his approval all that matters in the sea of praise thrown at them by staff. Hongjoong nods, wiping his face with a towel, “We did good!” Smiles perk up their exhausted faces as they drag themselves down the steps leading to the backstage area.

Stepping onto the grass, Hongjoong stares up at the infinity pool of stars that is the California sky. Just when he feels himself begin to float away, a faint tugging at his pants keeps his feet on the ground. It’s so faint that he almost questions if he felt it at all until Yeosang lays a hand on his shoulder letting him know, “You have company.” 

Hongjoong’s eyes dance their way down his leg to find a smaller nearly identical set of eyes staring up at him. All he’d done not to cry is for nothing when he sees the chubby glitter speckled cheeks of his little 2 year old smiling at the sight of him. “Olivia…” he gasps, scooping her into his arms, “What are you doing here?”

The other members gather around like moths to a flame. Of any fan they’ve ever had their niece will always be their favorite. Mingi squats down to eye level with her, pinching her cheek, “Hi, Oli. Uncle’s here.” “Oh look at these” San coos, playing with the two ponytails sat atop her tiny head, “So cute.”

Hongjoong holds her close to his heart, shaking the tears from his eyes. “Daddy cry?” she asks, touching his cheek. Hongjoong smiles, choosing to dodge the question rather than lie, “Um, where’s your mo—” “Here!” you say, hugging him from behind. You had every intention of announcing yourself to begin with but the happiness on his face seeing Oli was too adorable to interrupt.

That same happiness plays on repeat when he feels your arms around his waist. You weren’t supposed to be here. Your flight had been delayed twice and the baby was beginning to get fussy. Hongjoong had insisted you just stay home and watch the livestream. Just knowing you were watching would be enough for him but that’d never be enough for you. If you had to grow wings to fly yourself here you’d have done it to be by his side.

Not satisfied with simply knowing you’re there, Hongjoong reaches his free arm back to pull you around to his side. Time slows when he looks at you this way—like you’re one of the most precious things on this Earth. You’re one of two really, the other’s bouncing in his other arm with her fingers scrunched around his collar.

“Hey you” you beam, wiping a few rogue tears from his face. Hongjoong kisses you, soft lips pressed to yours in what has to be the sweetest, saltiest kiss you’ve ever shared. You don’t care how sweaty he is, only that you’re together. “Hey you” he smiles, his eyes narrowing slightly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” You shrug, playing it cute so he doesn’t kill you, “I wanted it to be a surprise.” Give him a heads up so he has ample time to play it tough? Never.

“Ahem,” Seonghwa interrupts, “Does that mean you were watching and saw…everything?” The guys look at each other, suddenly mortified at their onstage antics. “Oh, for sure. We saw everything. She’s gonna be an alcoholic now” you tease just to watch their heart’s sink. Hongjoong shakes his head at them, “Shame on you. For the record, my cup was water.” 

Jongho throws Hongjoong some vicious side eye, “Water, right. Oli, your daddy’s a liar.” “Daddy liar” Oli repeats with a giggle. You dip your head down to hide your own laughter as the guys hit an equally amused Jongho with their towels. Seonghwa casually swipes the baby away from Hongjoong to teach her how to throw a few hits. Hongjoong chases them down as if he’ll never see her again, “Be careful!”

“Joong, she’s fine!” you shout after him, “As long as Hwa has her…oh, no…Mingi unhand my child!” 

“Goodnight stars and goodnight air” Hongjoong reads, flipping the final page of a children’s book, “Goodnight noises everywhere.” He closes the book and Oli cheers, flipping it over for him to read again. Propped up in his lap as he longues in a barely comfortable hotel chair, it’s clear her miniature lids are growing heavy.

“Honey, it’s late. No more Goodnight Moon. Bedtime, okay?” His voice is stern, he means business, but so does she. Oli flips the book open, her hand rubbing the first page. Her bottom lip pokes out and he knows he can’t say no to her. “Fine but one more time and then bed.”

You emerge from the shower in time to hear the story start back up again. “In the great green room…” Hongjoong starts in his bedtime story voice. You move quietly around the room, listening to the story for what’s the 1000th time for you too. As you do, you steal glimpses of them holding hands, turning the pages of the book together. Hongjoong pauses to let Oli read or poke around the pages marveling at the illustrations.

“Is bunny?” she asks, pointing to a figure sitting in a rocking chair. “That is a bunny” he cheers softly, poking his two front teeth out to mimic a rabbit. Oli copies him—it’s sorta her thing these days—making you laugh so hard you snort. “Are you laughing at me?” Hongjoong jokes, his mouth still in perfect bunny formation. It only makes you laugh harder. Your two little bunnies, twins in every way they can be. Especially in their silliness.

You approach the them, planting a kiss on both of their foreheads, “You guys are adorable.” Hongjoong leans his head back, allowing it to rest in the palm of your hand. “You are too. So adorable” he yawns, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. A blink and you miss it moment of silence passes before he speaks again.

“Did I do okay, today?” he asks, his tone more serious now, “I don’t want to…I can’t let everyone down.” “God, no. You were amazing. Look at me” you demand, cradling the sides of his face to keep his anxious gaze from drifting. “You. Were. Amazing” you repeat, “Your fans are so proud of you and your members they love you. And that little bunny down there, she loves you.”

Hongjoong looks at Oli who’s fallen fast asleep against his chest, her hand still in his. “We both love you and you fucking killed it. If anyone says any different I’ll kick their ass” you promise and you mean it. “What’d I ever do to deserve you two?” he asks, kissing your inner wrists. You lean in close to him, your lips hovering just above his, “Exist. That’s all you ever have to do, you know?”

Your lips part to meet his and he welcomes them, sipping down feelings there are no words for and pouring the same into you. “I love you” he whispers and you smile. “I love you too.” Easing the book from between them with mom-like precision, you throw a pillow on the floor and take a seat by Hongjoong’s feet. You open the book and begin to read, not to Oli but to him.

Finally relaxing into the chair, he strokes your hair and listens to the sweet sound of your voice. He balances Oli on his lap, his delicate little gem who treats him like the sun rises and sets in his eyes. He’d long ago sworn that he didn’t think he’d ever have everything. What a frighteningly beautiful realization it is that he finally does.

[grlsbstshot]

Pairing (Original Characters): Jameson Lucas (Aaron Pierre) x Imani St. Cirie (Megan thee Stallion) Story Synopsis: R&B singer/songwriter, Jameson Lucas, is well known as a charming playboy. The latest in his line of 'loved em and left em' behavior? Imani St. Cirie, an emotive singer/songwriter herself. A common sense pulls them in opposite directions – friendships are tested, old flames resurface, and new opportunities threaten to tear them apart for good. In this industry, dreams can make or break you – but what happens when love becomes the gamble of a lifetime? Chapter Synopsis: Jameson makes a late night appearance in his ex's life after a year apart. Warnings: Smut (18+), toxic relationship, possessiveness infidelity mentions, explicit language (mild dirty talk), unprotected sex, daddy kink (very much so), unintentional breath play, dirty talking, creampie Word Count: 6.7k Divider Template: @cafekitsune Notes: The following characters are original creations. Their voice claims are Usher / Lucky Daye (Jameson) & Summer Walker / SZA (Imani). We have no affiliation to any of those artists. There will be alternating POVs between our two leads.

Chapter I: Real Games

[ blockdt unless horny ] : wya?

imani rolled her eyes and tossed the phone back across the couch. of course jameson decided that after a year of not seeing one another, he'd reach out NOW. a year after he broke her heart and ruined their three year relationship, he decided to contact her. with three letters? pathetic. even more pathetic was the fact that she picked the phone back up...and thought of a response.

jameson lucas was like a drug to her. when they met, he was cocky but never without reason. he pursued her relentlessly and it didn't take long until they were everywhere together. the son of a r&b legend, jameson took his own path into music. they just fit each other. imani's own career was in its early stages but she took off like a rocket. soon enough, they were the first names called in their fields. especially when they used their love affair to inspire music. they took a hit of each other and it was nonstop. he knew all he had to do was get his foot in the door and she'd be gone. but imani was determined not to play his game this time. he was almost out of her system. she'd get rid of him for good now.

[ imani ] : why do you care? [ blockdt unless horny ] : i miss you. that better? [ imani ] : no. it's still not explaining what the fuck you want [ blockdt unless horny ] : if i'm looking for you and i want to see you. what do you think i want? [ imani ] : sex? got it. okay, not interested [ blockdt unless horny ] : if i wanted to fuck, i wouldn't have a problem finding somebody to do that with. i want to see you because i miss you. am i being clear enough? [ imani ] : lmfao yeah i guess you wouldn't. i'm not dumb. you want something. [ blockdt unless horny ] : you. i want you. i am literally saying what i want. [ imani ] : and why should i give you access to me? [ blockdt unless horny ] : because i'm asking? begging, really. because i love you? [ imani ] : love me? let's be fucking real, jameson [ blockdt unless horny ] : if i don't love you, i don't love nobody, mani. you not tired of fighting yet? [ imani ] : lmfaoooo you're a fucking joke. you don't cheat on the person you love. [ blockdt unless horny ] : i made a mistake. that doesn't change the fact that i love you. i know we'll never be together again because you don't trust me but what am i supposed to do with the shit i feel? [ imani ] : stop saying you love me. idk maybe you need to live with that shit. i'm doing perfectly fine without you. [ blockdt unless horny ] : okay

jameson exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. he knew deep in his heart that getting in touch with imani had been a mistake. their relationship came crashing down after his infidelity. a night with a woman he shouldn't have been with spiraled. guilt-ridden, he had confessed the next day then spent months trying to get her back. when his efforts failed and she'd gotten a quarterback as her next man -- jameson had moved on. he'd had another girlfriend for a few months but imani hadn't left his mind. he watched every instagram post with an eager eye but it wasn't like he could avoid her. imani st. cirie was r&b's favorite lover girl. her lyrics were captions more often than his own. he could feel her scolding him with every record release but he listened anyway. the two of them played a game where they pretended not to care or notice one another...but in the dark of night, his finger always hovered over that button to call her. even as another woman lay in his bed. sometimes he fought the urge to press it but most of the time he failed -- and got her voicemail. he wrote songs for her, keeping the object of his affection nameless but their fans could connect the dots. he wasn't over her and never would be.

now his bed was empty and he allowed hope to carry him away. they were both single for the first time in a year. maybe now was the time to work it out? imani's texts quickly shut the idea down. he was losing her and any minute, she'd block him. jameson shuffled uncomfortably in the front seat of his mercedes benz. his gaze strayed up to the gates of her home, wondering if she could see him and knew how atrociously down bad he was. his phone beeped on his lap and he peered down in surprise. she responded ?

[ imani ] : now the cat got your fuckin tongue? [ jameson ] : what would you like me to say to that, imani? nothing, right? [ imani ] : it's just so funny to me. why should i give you what you want? [ jameson ] : why are you asking me questions you really don't care about the answer to? you miss me too. you want to see me too. you love me too. so why are we doing this? [ imani ] : i do want an answer. all that's true but you know it's not good for us to see each other. [ jameson ] : i know, baby. i know you deserve better than this. i just miss you. let me see you for ten minutes. [ imani ] : no. [ jameson ] : baby, please. i swear to god i'll leave after that. [ imani ] : fine. i'm at home. [ jameson ]: i'm outside

imani stared down at her phone with wide eyes, in shock as if she wasn't the one who just texted the words 'fine. i'm at home'. she dropped her phone and jumped off her couch, hands over her mouth. "shit, shit, shit." the woman muttered behind her palms. what the hell was she going to do now? she hadn't expected herself to invite him over and she sure as fuck didn't expect him to be sitting outside.

she took a second more to panic before sprinting up her stairs and down the hall into her bedroom. she tugged her t-shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Her shorts followed as she dug into her drawer for another outfit. something that said 'i'm not thinking about you, bitch! but you think i'm cute?' she ended up with a cropped sweatsuit. it showed the tiniest bit of skin and was still comfortable. she didn't bother trying to wrestle with her hair. she left it in a ponytail and practically broke her neck going to brush her teeth.

her doorbell hadn't rung but she could feel the moment he was in front of her home. an electric undercurrent made her body tense. she finished in the bathroom and forced herself to take slow, measured steps back down to the first floor. she wouldn't be seen trying to look her best for him. he was only visiting for ten minutes anyway.

she was crazy for agreeing with this. she knew she should have left the conversation alone but she couldn't help herself. everything that jameson said was true. she missed him. she loved him. she wanted to see him...and imani hated herself for it. yet there she was opening the door for him. "hey." she managed to utter uninterestedly, taking her time before she met his gaze. when she did, she could have choked on her damn spit.

to his mother and god be all the fucking glory...he was beautiful.

it hadn't been as if she hadn't seen his face since they split. he'd released an album, won three grammys for it, and embarked on a very public relationship with a co-star from that little comedic show he was doing. but seeing him up close and personal again? insane. imani grasped the doorknob tightly to keep herself from moving toward him.

freshly braided cornrows lined his scalp and met at the back of his head. she couldn't see the tattoo at the back of his neck but she knew it was there. she had traced her nails across it often enough. it was the soundwave of his first platinum single. he'd been so proud of it. he had numerous other tattoos but that was the one she loved the most. his warm, golden brown skin that she'd kissed and licked so much that she knew every inch of it practically glowed. he had shaved his beard down to a goatee. it framed full lips that could do the most devilish things to her. he lifted his long, incredibly agile, fingers to give her a wave and it broke her out of the spell she was under.

"hey. you got a timer going?" he asked her, humor evident in his tone but she was too distracted by the sound of his voice. deep, soothing, commanding. imani abruptly turned away from the door and stopped in her living room, folding her arms over her chest. the sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could leave.

"i thought you would have it since you said you were only staying for ten minutes." they both knew that he often made promises that he couldn't keep but she wanted to see how long he'd keep up with the charade. imani crossed one leg over the other as she peered at him. why did he have to be so fine? maybe if he wasn't attractive, things would be easier.

"would rather spend my time looking at you than watching a clock." he told her softly, lowering himself onto the same couch as her. as close as he could get. jameson leaned back against the cushions, settling comfortably. he didn't say anything else for a few moments, one hand patting at his chest lightly. "i feel better seeing you." he admitted lowly. "i know you think i'm full of shit...but that's true. i miss you when i'm not with you. i only feel better when i'm right here."

imani sighed softly. she could feel herself crack at the confession but she refused to go down without a fight. "you just wasted two of your minutes." her stony expression didn't hold up so she chose to look away, not responding again. she just didn't know how to. instead, she slightly shifted so she wasn't as close to him. the perfect storm was brewing between them and she had to decide if she was strong enough to withstand it. "is that all you came over here for? we both know you're just gonna get bored with me, cheat, and then leave again. quit while you're behind."

"i'm okay with whatever you want to do." jameson told her, knowing that the day was coming when she would get tired of this and cut him out for good. he'd have no choice but to let her go. but today wasn't that day. he could tell that even though she was sick of his shit, she didn't mean that they should cut things off. and being the man he was...he was glad. instead of answering her question, jameson was quiet. "but i was never bored of you. i swear."

he didn't quite know why they never seemed to get things right. he drifted away from her and then couldn't stand it so he came right back. she got pissed at him and told him to fuck off but then let him come back. it was crazy but it was them. "you know what you mean to me." he said softly, pulling his hand from his pocket to lift his hand. he brushed his thumb against her cheek, tilting his head to watch her expression. "don't you?"

when imani turned to meet his gaze, he knew it hadn't been wrong to contact her. it had been a year but the same energy was between them. he watched her try to pull herself again, try to pull the hardass out and build the wall back up between them. that was the thing about loving someone you knew like the back of your hand -- you saw everything. even the shit they didn't want you to see. "enough with the bullshit, jameson."

literally no other woman could have him open like she did. he spent years sniffing after her. and when he cheated, he spent months begging. he'd never begged a woman for anything. but he knew he'd get down on his knees for her each and every time. "i fucked you over and i regret it everyday." he said softly, pulling his hand from her. "i never loved anybody before i saw you. i can't prove to you it's not bullshit but i swear on everything...you are the love of my life."

it was the one thing he had never told her and he knew saying it shifted things for him emotionally. but damn it, he was running out of answers. "i can't breathe unless i know you're a phone call away. i can barely fucking function if i go too long without seeing you. you are everything." 

silence lapsed between them as they both processed that there was some kind of breakthrough happening. their communication had been better in bed than anywhere else but jameson knew he'd strip as many layers as he could to get down to the heart of it all. the longer they went without speaking, the more he wondered what she was thinking.

"you hurt me, jameson. you do that shit every time and I let you." she said, looking into his eyes. "i don't know why i fuckin' let you do it. but i do." she moved from her spot, positioning herself in his lap. jameson made room for her, wrapping his arms around her waist. the two fell into tandem -- as if they hadn't spent any time apart at all. imani straddled his lap, he could see the regret in her face but he couldn't bring himself to let her ponder on it. he lifted his head and pressed the gentlest kiss to the corner of her mouth. she melted against him and he heard her whisper against his ear. "just don't promise me shit this time. i don't want to hear any lies."

jameson knew he should be a better man and let her be happy with someone else. but he couldn't find it in himself. "okay, baby." what else could he say? he was a piece of shit. "just...don't give up on me." he said softly, surprising himself with how much he meant the words. "i need you. ain't no me without you." his hand pressed against the small of her back, fingertips stroking against her spine as he sighed. "my ten minutes are up, i think. give me a kiss goodnight."

there it was. she had let him just waltz back into her fucking life. folded quicker than a cheap umbrella in a hurricane. a few apologies, kisses, and touches -- imani was partially disgusted with herself. she was relieved to see she wasn't alone in her addiction though. he clung to her body like a man who hadn't been touched in an eternity even though she knew that was far from the truth. maybe she couldn't leave him alone but she could establish a set of boundaries. not lying seemed easy enough.

she sighed as he relaxed into her body. her arms wrapped rightly around his neck and she placed a kiss on his forehead. "i guess you can stay a little longer." imani slipped her hand under his chin, bringing his lips to hers. that familiar feeling washed over her just from the feel of his lips.

imani could feel him smile against her lips and she couldn't help but nip against his lower lip to settle his ego. jameson gave a lingering groan at the contact. it'd been so long since she'd touched him but every single time, it felt like coming home. "mm. mm-uh." he exhaled, breaking the kiss and shaking his head as he swiftly rose from the couch. imani went up with him, thinking quickly and wrapping her legs around his waist. "i can't stay. i gotta go." he muttered, "i promised i'd leave after ten minutes. i just said i wouldn't lie to you."

it was obvious he didn't want to go. if it hadn't been obvious from the way he kept leaning into her, his body begging for those little kisses from her -- it was obvious when he rose from the couch. he braced his hands underneath her, fingers sprawling across her ass. imani was pressed against him, the evidence of what he wanted to do pressed against her thigh. he couldn't lie to her even if he wanted to. "i'm gonna put you down...in a minute." he mumbled, burying his face against the crook of her neck.

suddenly, she didn't want to talk. she didn't want to think of the shit he'd done to her, the way he'd broken her heart. all she wanted to do was feel. That's what she wanted to focus on right now. "no, no, no." she murmured, shaking her head. "this is a promise you can break. it's okay." she placed her hand on the back of his neck. her acrylics grazed his skin -- claiming him once again. imani left a trail of kisses against his neck to his earlobe then sucked it into her mouth. "you're not leaving." she told him in a demanding whisper.

imani pressed herself to him, nails grazing the skin at the back of his neck, and he felt himself break out in chills. the slight pressure there pleased him. his arms tightened around her as he sighed softly. imani pulled back and he saw the smirk gracing her lips. she knew. she knew he was weak for her and knew exactly how to get what she wanted from him. nobody knew him better than her -- whatever she might think of their relationship, she got him in a way nobody else did. she knew exactly what made him tick and she proved it just then. jameson didn't bother to vocally agree. he just began to walk through her living room, headed to the stairs to get to her bedroom. 

"i hate your house sometimes." he huffed as he shifted her in his arms, tossing her onto his shoulder. she gave a short yell of surprise at the move, her hands pressed to his lower back as he carried her up the stairs. the couch wasn't big enough for what he wanted to do with her. "i can't even fuck you on these uncomfortable ass stairs."

"you don't think so?" she asked. "i don't know. that sounds like a challenge to me." the palm of his hand swatted towards her ass, the stinging in his palm probably not as intense as the one she felt. "a challenge for both of us to break our necks." he walked up the stairs easily, her weight against his shoulder going unnoticed. jameson didn't even bother to answer her question any further. he was sure it'd be uncomfortable but he was also sure he'd fuck her anywhere he could. it was the exact reason he walked down her hallway and took the first left he saw. it wasn't the direction of her bedroom...but it was the closest one to them.

even as the heat and tension spiraled between them, he managed to keep his senses alert enough to flip the light switch. in the brightness of the spare bedroom, jameson carefully lowered imani from his shoulder, standing with her next to the bed. for a moment as he placed her onto the bed. he hadn't been lying when he said he'd rather look at her than anything else. he watched as she struggled to get out of the sweatsuit. she tugged her arms free but seemed too jittery to completely get undressed.

jameson began to move closer...leaving her no choice but to fall backward onto the bed. she began to crawl up it, watching him the whole time. "you impatient, mama?" he asked her, a grin gracing his full lips. imani nodded, meeting his gaze. he dropped his hands to her hips, fingertips grazing against the band of her sweatpants. without a word, he gently pulled them over the curve of her ass then down legs. "me too." he confessed. before she could say anything, he was kneeling in front of her. "show me you missed me." jameson said softly, kissing her thigh.

he saw the moment it clicked in her mind what he wanted from her. her hand moved between her legs and jameson spread her thighs greedily, not wanting to miss a moment. they clicked into their typical roles when it came to sex so quickly that he was practically moving on autopilot. he talked to her like he was still her man, like no time had passed at all. imani's fingers parted her folds with ease, wetness sticking to her fingers. she let out a hushed moan as her fingers pressed into her pussy.

some games he and imani played were painful. some pissed him off. some were even amusing. but the best kind of games were the ones where they drove each other crazy. he watched her play along with him -- following his command with ease. "i forgot how pretty she gets when you're turned on." he murmured, slowly pulling his own sweatshirt over his head. jameson tossed it aside, not caring where it landed. "spread. let me see it all. make me remember." he was pleased when imani whimpered softly and did as he said. fingertips parted her folds, exposing her clit to him as her legs parted further as well.

he didn't have any charming shit to say, nothing smooth or seductive. all he knew was that he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath. so jameson descended to the bed, settling himself between her legs. his hand reached out for her own, gently grasping her fingers to pull them to his mouth. he sucked at her digits, carefully pulling each from his mouth to savor the taste of her until he tasted nothing but her skin. both of his hands came to her thighs, pulling her further down the bed and toward his mouth. jameson pressed a kiss to her clit before his tongue pressed to her folds. no sooner had he slid his tongue between her lips did he groan, happy to be home in a sense. and then he went to work.

imani couldn't believe how gone she allowed herself to be for jameson. the woman she was a few months ago would be sickened to see her writhing across a bed, doing his bidding. that thought should have been enough to make her push him away but they were silenced with the kiss to her clit. her back arched, the shock of pleasure bringing a cry from her lips.

the only thing that stopped her from pulling at those big ass ears to stop him and demand he fuck her right then was the fact that he owed her. for every moment he pissed her off or disappointed her, he owed her this pleasure as recompense.

he unwound one arm from around her leg -- pressing his fingers into her. imani lifted his head to watch as her pussy enveloped his digits, pulling and squeezing. he pressed his fingers deeper, harder -- wanting to see how she would react. eventually, he settled into a familiar rhythm. his index and middle finger delving deeply into her, his thumb lazily teasing against her ass. jameson leaned in again, closing his mouth over her clit as he ran his tongue back and forth...back and forth, timing the movement with that of his thumb. he kept it up until arousal soaked his tongue and knew he swallowed it down with glee because he groaned every single time.

her senses were already overloaded. She didn't like the power that jameson had over her. from his slightest touch, she was putty in his hands. "fuck, jameson." she whimpered. her hands palmed the back of his head, fingertips clinging to his braids, pussy grinding against his face. she wasn't going to last long and she hated that. hated him for it. "baby, wait." it hit her like a cramp to the stomach and imani jackknifed up from the bed, one hand pressed to the bed behind her to keep her upright. "i'ma cum, baby." she whimpered. before he could do anything else, her body jerked and her eyes shut close tightly.

she had prepared for him to be right where he was for a while. but it was going to be over before she knew it. jameson picked up his pace and added another finger, at her confession. she was sure he didn't even need the warning but even with her eyes closed, she could feel him watching her -- pleasure written all over her face. "let me see." he urged her own. "give me my shit."

her body jerked and imani felt him slow down. three fingers pressed into her, a thumb pressed to her clit, and another one teasing at her ass -- it was too much. her legs shut tightly over his hands as he pulled the orgasm free. it hit her hard enough to make her thigh shake. imani thrust herself against his fingers, praying he wouldn't stop. and he didn't. as much as she wanted, he gave it to her. she was breathless by the time her hips stopped arching up, begging for more.

only when she came down did she realize he was speaking to her.

"i missed my greedy pussy." "get what you want, baby. take it." "you better keep this energy the same when i get up."

every word brought a moan from her lips and jolt from her hips. imani watched as he pulled his hands free, sucked on his fingers, and stood from the bed. the two didn't exchange a word as she watched him undress. first went his shirt and then his sweatpants. she hadn't even noticed when he took his damn shoes off. his boxers followed next and...behold. a thing of fucking beauty. his dick bobbed freely, fully erect, and she had the urge to taste him. she wanted him sliding between her lips and down her throat the way he used to but she didn't move. she only watched him climb back onto the bed and settled between her legs. then he hesitated.

"fuck." jameson muttered, "baby...i didn't bring shit with me." he told her quietly. imani genuinely felt fear in the moment. fear he would pull away and get up. she wrapped her arms around his neck, keeping him from pulling away even as he continued speaking. "please tell me you have a couple here." imani parted her legs wider, pouting up at him. "you really didn't bring anything?" she repeated, still not processing it. jameson shook his head, his hands pressed to her hips as he kissed her neck and mumbled his apologies. in the moment, she really didn't give a fuck. "it's okay." she whispered. her hand slipped between them and wrapped her hands around his dick. she moved her hips forward to slowly guide him inside of her. she would think about the consequences later. all she knew was that she wanted him NOW.

jameson knew how these things went with imani. they always ended up here one way or another. he cursed himself for not bringing protection. but it didn't matter — they were both desperate for one another. he froze when she reached for him, his breath trapped in his throat at the feel of her hand. he only exhaled sharply when she widened her legs and pressed him inside.

the last time they had sex without protection had been when they were together. now, they were...well, complicated. but he couldn't deny that it felt right. it's why he didn't pull away. "you sure?" he asked her, lust making his speech slurred. even before she nodded her head, he gave a short, gentle thrust — enveloping himself in her entirely. "oh my god -- you feel so good, daddy." she whispered against his ear. "i'm daddy already? i like hearing my baby say that."

their eyes met as he eased deeper into her. imani's hands found his back and jameson fought off a smile as she replied to him. "you never stopped being daddy." she said lowly. He was incomparable to anyone else. despite what happened between them, she still could acknowledge that he was the only one that could make her feel like this. imani sealed their fate when she arched her back, lifted her hips, and told him that she needed him. jameson wanted to be wanted. he wanted to be needed. and he could tell from the sound of her voice that she meant it -- she didn't just want to get off, she meant it. she needed him.

jameson moved his hand from her hips to the small of her back, keeping her hips lifted and pressed against his own. he tested their position -- slowly pulling out. his gaze dropped to watch the movement, a groan leaving his lips as he saw how she coated him in her arousal. as turned on as he was, he still found the time to joke. "don't come so fast this time.", he teased her, his hips moving forward to fill her again. "we're just getting started."

he laughed out loud when her blissed out face turned into a frown. she opened her mouth -- likely to tell him to shut the fuck up -- and he silenced her with a sharp thrust. any insult turned into a moan. "i'm playin, i'm playin." amusement filtering into his tone as he moved his hand from her hip, fingertips gliding down her leg to grasp her thigh. jameson shifted her leg around his waist, picking it up higher so it rested against his back as he slowly fucked her. once he got her leg readjusted, he ran his thumb against her lower lip, his eyes lowered to watch where they connected. "suck."

her brow was still furrowed as they rocked together. it was almost as if she was deciding if she wanted to curse him out but she opened her mouth and took his thumb between her lips. the more precise his movements, the harder it became for her to keep his thumb in her mouth. he didn't think it was possible but it felt like she became even wetter after his command. imani playfully swirled her tongue around his finger and jameson had to close his eyes for a brief second -- lust making his abdomen clench. "shit, mani. oh my -- fuck." jameson panted, slowly pulling his thumb from her mouth. he let it trail across her lower lip before leaning in to kiss her circle his tongue around a nipple. he pressed his body to hers, hips rocking as he wedged his hand between them.

the bedroom was bright and he could see everything -- a blessing, he figured. he dropped his head, looking between their bodies, and made sure he was pressing his wet thumb against her clit. jameson pressed gently, circling there with ease. he was multi-tasking pretty damn well. he could hear his thighs making contact with hers, the squelching between them as he drove himself deeply into her, sucking and gently biting at her nipple.

"jamie. oh baby..." imani hummed, unable to focus on anything besides the sound of her pussy loudly welcoming her lover home. he slid in and out with precision, angling his hips in the exact way to drive her crazy. her moans and screams accompanied the sound of her love. "you're gonna make me -- i'ma cum again." she whimpered, locking her legs around his thighs.

"this my pussy, ain't it?" imani nodded so fast that he was sure she'd cause a sprain in her neck. "then act like it. give me that shit." he knew she was reacting to what he was doing and saying but jameson could hardly hear imani. he was in his own little world, grazing his teeth against her nipple. he kept his thumb pressed to her clit as he kept up the pace of his hips. when he lifted his head, he found that he didn't have much of anything to say. he was in a daze. he heard himself moan, unashamed of the fact that she knew how far gone he was over her.

"i swear to god...i fucking love you." he muttered, eyes drifting closed as he quickly reached out for her leg, pulling it from around his waist to extend. he pressed it to his shoulder, both hands moving to her hips to pull her onto his length harder. all pretenses of taking things slow were out the window. he was fucking her now, his thumb shifting from pressing to quick circles against her clit. "ooh fuck! daddy, i love you too. i swear." she panted.

he could feel her fighting it. she fluttered over him, shaking in his grasp. she didn't want to make this as easy as the first orgasm she experienced but jameson didn't have a problem working for it. her body shifted again with her leg on his shoulder. He picked up his pace and the speed of his thumb. "sh-iiii-t, fuck me daddy. just like that!" imani clawed at his back and tightened her walls around him. her hands grasp at his ass, firm and full in her hands.

he liked the way she called out for him. but he liked the way she told him she loved him. the words had an effect on him. he grunted, gritting his teeth as he tried to rein himself in. it sent chills up his spine and he couldn't shake the desire to hear the words again. jameson slowed down when he should have kept the same pace. "like that?" he asked imani, his hand slowly moving from between her legs and up her abdomen. "yes! yes b-baby." she stuttered. her hands left his body and found the sheets, gripping them tightly as she blinked up at him. it was like she couldn't ground herself no matter what she held on to. good. he didn't want her sane at all. jameson could tell that she wouldn't last much longer.

his other hand caressed her calf, his head turning to press kisses to her leg. he moved slowly, twisting his hips and biting back another moan. it's even better than what he was doing before. how the fuck could she do that without even trying? she made his head spin half the fucking time and he was still in awe of her. "tell me you love me again." he asked her quietly.

she didn't even hesitate to repeat it. "i love you, baby." mani hissed. "i love you so fuckin' much." her eyes shut and she seized so hard that it was almost as if her body froze. she didn't get to warn him that time. her back arched and her eyes fluttered shut. he could feel her holding her breath. he didn't slack up, lifting his hand to slap down against her clit. her body flinched but still, she didn't release her breath. jameson dropped her her leg from his shoulder to give her a moment of rest. "breathe, mani." he commanded. no sooner than he spoke did he feel her let go. she inhaled sharply, whimpering and moaning out as she did so. nobody could tell him this woman didn't belong to him. the evidence was in the way she let him have his way and her essence covering both their thighs.

she moaned and convulsed around him, wringing a groan from his throat. jameson lowered his body to hers, kissing imani deeply. his tongue slipping between her lips as she clung to him. it was his turn to collapse under the pressure of pleasure. "how you want me, baby?" he asked her between kisses, his release nearing the more he pressed into her. she shook her head as if she didn't understand him and jameson held off with a grunt. "where you want this nut, mani? tell daddy." he was asking for permission and holding off until he got it. even if it killed him.

her voice got caught in her throat and finally, she managed to croak out a response. "inside." one word, the last word she should have said to him. they both knew that. she soaked his dick, the wet spot under them expanding each time he pressed into her. it practically spurted from her. she was spent, he knew she had very little left to give him so now it was time for her to take.

her hands lifted to frame his face, her lips pressed to his cheek, and jameson allowed himself to relax into her. he felt the thrill of lust race down his spine, pulling back only to bury his face in the crook of her neck. he thrust into her roughly, his body losing the sensuous sense of coordination he'd used to get her off. there was no focus or gameplan, desire was driving him now.

he whispered words against her neck, mindless praise about how good she felt. how beautiful she was. how much he loved her. he whispered until the words turned into moans. his hips shuddered and then he came. one hand against her hip, the other over her head -- clenched around the sheets. jameson sagged against her, pressing kisses to imani's shoulder as his hand caressed her hip.

post-nut clarity was a bitch. she had given the man permission to do what he wanted with her body and only now -- when he sagged against her -- did it hit her. her unfaithful, untrustworthy ex had come into her home, hit her with some bullshit about love, and she fell on top of his dick. he breathed heavily against her skin, sleepily pressing kisses to her neck. as much as he pissed her off, she ran her hand up and down his back on instinct. "i really do love you." she heard him say.

despite the fact that they exchanged 'i love you' several times while fucking, it took coming on his dick a few times to remember that she didn't believe him anymore. "mhm." she hummed, patting his shoulder. "i gotta clean up." jameson took the hint and pulled out, surprising imani when he placed his hand against her abdomen. "stay here. i got it." she was silent as he left the room, not even watching his ass as he walked away. she was disappointed in herself. even though her thighs and pussy ached, her clit practically tingled, and her eyes felt heavy with exhaustion -- was it worth going on this damn rollercoaster with jameson again?

he returned to the room with a wet towel. neither of them said a word as he went through the motions of cleaning between her thighs. he even rolled her out of the wet spot that she had been unable to escape. she expected him to take the same care with himself but he didn't. once he was done with the towel, he tossed it aside. the air between them had changed. she could feel it and knew he did too.

"mani." "get out." "...baby, we don't have to do it like that. we can start over." "i don't want to start over with you. i wanted to cum and i did that. so now you can get the fuck out of my house."

imani watched the words impact him and knew he was trying to decide if he believed her or not. she slowly sat up, hating that her body still trembled while she was trying to be strong. "get out, jameson." part of her was pleased that he seemed to give up in the moment. she watched him redress mournfully. they didn't trade words. he was fully dressed and she still sat on the bed, undressed.

"i'll call you." "don't bother."

despite the heat in her words, jameson still leaned in to kiss her. she let him do so, telling herself it was easier than to shove him away. when he finally turned to leave the room, imani let her mask slip. she fell back onto the bed, breath shuddering. she had done the right thing. fucking him was a mistake but she could bounce back. she didn't have to let him back into her life anymore. that chapter of her life was over.

We hope you guys like the start of Neon Lights. If not, please keep it to yourself. No, I'm kidding. Constructive criticism is very welcome!

[leewonkyeom]

 light a flame | jeon wonwoo | masterlist

☆ synopsis

when your roommate quits his job at the coffee shop you frequent you never imagined the new guy would be hot or even your type. to make matters worse you both study law at the same university.

your friends to try to convince you to get together with him. you try to convince them you just find him really nice... but are you able to convince yourself?

☆ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader

☆ genre:  smau, university au, coffee shop au

☆ warnings: swearing, drinking, implied 18+ content

☆ status: ongoing, updates every thursday and sunday

☆ started: 07.09.23

☆ ended: 21.03.24

main masterlist

☆ fill out this form to be added to the taglist

profiles: 1 | 2

chapters:

001: stop thirsting on main

002: i’m not a fucking rat

003: please yn it was for the vine

004: not asking for a friend, i’m asking for me

005: you’re forced to come even if minghao drops of the face of the earth

006: HE’S TALL AND HE GOT A NICE ANGLE SHUT UP

007: you can’t recognize drip even if it’s staring right in your face

008: are you trying to limit my artistic expression?

009: step aside! if anyone’s playing wingman it’s me

010: like slaying monsters?

011: “me as a baby”

012: you obviously know the worth of cancelling

013: is that seungcheol photoshopped as aang from avatar?

014: playing league of legends does not qualify as “having a life”

015: he made me stand outside the coffee shop with a “free hugs” sign

016: good luck, daredevil

017: well, i honestly think you’re both in the wrong

018: then i say spider-man is within the realms of possibility

019: i just wanted the public opinion

020: digital footprint

021: i have faith in the tiger

022: last selfie before we die and i didn’t even look good

023: vernon’s sock drawer isn’t a good hiding place

024: i’m thinking of hanging it in our shared bathroom so seungkwan can be reminded of his good deed

025: oh don’t bring judy into this!

026: staging a storm just so someone can experience the forced proximity trope

027: entering private property in 3... 2... 1

028: i’m not helping a traitor

029: all of my midnight entertainment... gone in seconds

030: yes i will be sharing... / the juices?!

031: uh oh / the ominous period

032: i will go just to prove i’m right

033: oh my god... that woman

034: it means you’re annoying /next

035: i know i’m giving zero context here, but bear with me

036: that guy only has feelings for his right arm

037: how can i dump someone i never even dated?

038: joshua says you can come if you take 10 penalty shots and do a strip tease

039: i can never look any of them in the eyes again... well, except johnny

040: ohh so he’s your super smart study buddy?

041: i didn’t know we had chan’s biggest fan right here

042:i didn’t know you were sending all that, chan. sorry.

043: just a peck

044: as real as spider-man

045: so arguably, it wasn’t even my fault

046: shut up and make out with wonwoo instead

047: special deal only for my boyfriend

048: i’m literally throwing rocks at your window as we speak

049: i’m just training you to be wonwoo’s little pet

050: i’m not having a dog ruin the ambiance

051: epilogue

bonus chapter

[fayelero]

ⓘ 02. DRUGS !

⤷ FIC ﹫ suna rintarou x fem!reader ﹫ fluff ﹫ addict au!

⚠︎ suggestive, mention of sex, fluff, insults, drug use, coke, addict reader and suna, make out session .ᐟ.ᐟ

Suna exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it swirl against the dim light of your apartment. His body aches from practice, his muscles tight from drills and spikes that left his arms stinging. He’s exhausted, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and all he wants to do is collapse onto the couch, preferably with you sprawled across him, sharing the slow burn of a cigarette between your fingers.

But the second he opens the door, he knows you’re gone.

Not gone as in missing—no, you’re very much here. Splayed on the couch like a siren who’s forgotten how gravity works, your half-lidded eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling, a dreamy haze painted across your pretty face. The dim neon glow from the shitty LED lights you insisted on putting up makes your skin glow, painting you in deep purples and blues, like something out of a fever dream.

Suna smirks, kicking off his shoes lazily, tossing his duffel bag somewhere by the door. He doesn’t need to ask to know. You’re high.

And not just a little high. No, you’re lost in the cosmos, floating somewhere between existential enlightenment and pure nonsense.

He steps closer, and the smell of weed clings to the air, mixed with the faint traces of the incense you probably lit in some artistic attempt to “cleanse the room’s aura” or whatever bullshit you had rambled about last time.

“You look fucked up,” Suna mutters, his voice hoarse from practice, laced with amusement as he leans against the arm of the couch, looming over you.

You tilt your head, slow and deliberate, eyes glassy but locked onto his with an intensity that makes him pause. And then, with the utmost seriousness, you say—

“Time isn’t real.”

Suna blinks.

You nod, as if confirming it to yourself. “I’ve been thinking, Rin. Like, really thinking.”

“Oh yeah?” He humors you, one brow lifting as he crouches down to your level. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, shaking one loose. “Enlighten me, Socrates.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, movements languid, sultry even, though you’re probably not even aware of it. Your lips part, tongue darting out to wet them before you whisper—

“The government made up time so we’d be forced to participate in capitalism.”

Suna stares at you for a second before a low chuckle rumbles from his throat, shaking his head as he flicks open his lighter. The flame casts warm shadows across his sharp jawline, illuminating his smirk.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“I’m fucking right.” You sit up fully now, legs crossed underneath you, the oversized shirt you’re wearing—probably his—slipping off one shoulder. “Think about it. Who decided there are twenty-four hours in a day? Who said a minute has sixty seconds? Why is February shorter than all the other months?”

Suna exhales, smoke curling from his lips. “Because that’s just how it is?”

“But who decided that?!” You grab his wrist suddenly, fingers warm against his skin, your pupils blown wide. “Who gave them the right?!”

He snorts, pressing the cigarette to his lips before offering it to you. You take it, inhaling deeply before exhaling in a slow, sultry motion, like you’re in some old noir film. Suna watches you, amused, eyes flicking over your features—the lazy curve of your lips, the way you hold the cigarette between two delicate fingers like you were born with nicotine in your veins.

“The moon’s fake, too.” You add suddenly, voice softer now, almost conspiratorial. “It’s just a lightbulb in the sky, Rin. A giant, space lightbulb.”

Suna leans in, resting his forearm on the back of the couch beside you, his face inches from yours. “So, what? You think NASA’s just been lying to us this whole time?”

“NASA is a front.” You whisper, eyes locked onto his. “For what? I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I will.”

Suna hums, taking another slow drag, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “You ever consider that maybe you’re just high as shit?”

You exhale, a lazy smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe. But maybe that’s exactly what they want me to think.”

That’s it. Suna loses it, laughter spilling past his lips, deep and husky, his body shaking slightly from the force of it. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales against you.

“God, you’re so fucking stupid.” His words are muffled, but you can hear the fondness beneath them.

You hum in satisfaction, tilting your head slightly as his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your jaw. “You love it.”

“Mm,” he agrees, pressing a lazy kiss there, cigarette still dangling between his fingers. “Yeah. I kinda do.”

And maybe you are ridiculously high. Maybe your entire body is humming with the aftereffects of whatever strain you decided to indulge in today. Maybe your limbs feel like jelly and your thoughts are one long, nonsensical conspiracy theory.

But Suna’s here. His warmth is real. The rough drag of his fingers along your thigh is real. The amused glint in his half-lidded eyes, the way he smirks against your skin, the sound of his low, raspy chuckle—real.

And in this moment, the only thing that matters is that he’s here, laughing at your bullshit, touching you like he’s memorizing every inch of your existence.

“…Hey, Rin?” You murmur after a moment.

“Hm?”

“What if, like…we’re just in a simulation?”

Suna groans, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I’m taking your weed away.”

You gasp, clutching his shirt dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirks, tilting your chin up with two fingers, his gaze dark and teasing. “I’ll think about it. Now shut up and let me kiss you.”

And, well—who are you to argue with that?

The moment Suna pulls away, lips still ghosting over yours, you can see it in his eyes—he’s considering it. The exhaustion from training is still there, tucked beneath the sharp gleam of amusement, but something else is creeping in now. Something dark. Something hungry.

You tilt your head, watching as he licks his lips, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers are twitching, restless. You know that feeling. That itch. The way the world slows down and speeds up all at once, how your heart pounds against your ribs like it’s begging to escape.

“You wanna go again?” Your voice is sultry, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

Suna exhales through his nose, smirking slightly as he rolls his neck, the tension in his shoulders momentarily forgotten. He leans forward, forearm pressing against the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“You trying to kill me, baby?” His voice is low, raspy, dripping with something that makes heat pool in your stomach.

You reach between the couch cushions, fingers finding the small baggie tucked away for moments exactly like this. With a slow, deliberate movement, you hold it up between two fingers, watching the way his gaze darkens.

“Not my fault you have no self-control.”

Suna huffs out a laugh, but it’s breathless. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes flicking between yours and the powder in your hands. There’s hesitation for all of two seconds before he snatches it from you, the plastic crinkling between his fingers.

“Last one for the night.” He says it like a warning, but you both know it’s a lie.

You watch as he taps some of the powder onto the back of his hand, rolling up a stray receipt from his duffel bag. The routine is second nature by now. It should be pathetic, but instead, it’s intoxicating. The way he leans forward, the slow inhale, the way his head tips back slightly as the burn hits.

He groans, low in his throat, blinking hard as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Fuck.”

Your turn.

Suna watches as you take your dose, eyes half-lidded, jaw tightening slightly. You feel it instantly—the rush, the static humming in your veins, the way your heart picks up like a drumline inside your chest. Everything is sharper, brighter. Your skin feels electric.

And then his hands are on you.

It’s immediate, like flipping a switch. The second the high settles into your bones, Suna is moving—gripping your thighs, dragging you into his lap with a desperation that makes your breath hitch. His lips crash against yours, hot and feverish, teeth clashing slightly as his fingers dig into your skin.

You taste the coke on his tongue, bitter and numbing, but you don’t care.

Your fingers tangle in his sweat-damp hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He smells like cigarettes, like sweat, like him, and it’s dizzying. Your bodies move in sync, messy and uncoordinated, chasing friction like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Suna’s hands slide up beneath your oversized shirt, fingers splaying across your waist before slipping higher, brushing against your ribs. His touch is rough, desperate, fueled by adrenaline and coke and you.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked. “All messy.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when his lips are trailing down your neck, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to send shivers down your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, grounding yourself against the overwhelming sensations threatening to consume you whole.

His fingers hook into your waistband, tugging you closer, making you grind against him in a way that has you both gasping.

“Fuck, baby.” His breath is hot against your throat, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“I want you so bad,” you whisper, and it’s true. The drugs make everything more. Every touch, every breath, every flicker of movement—it’s all amplified, sending your nerves into overdrive.

Suna tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His pupils are blown wide, jaw clenched, breathing uneven.

“Then take me.”

[mapofsouthdakota]

Plated I

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7500 words. Slowburn bonanza, 18+ series. Non MC! AU building and Raf’s and Zayne’s time to shine…. Aaaand Sylus’s delicious power play as your hot boss. Let’s get to know them! This chapter contains: fluff, stress, flirting, cheek kissing, sexual tension and banter. I loved writing this. Buckle up and (hopefully) enjoy this slow burn.

Chapters: Initial AU doodle, Pilot, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Tags: @gavin3469

Critic vs artist | Chapter one

The air is wet with last night’s rain—still clinging to the sidewalks like spilled thoughts.

Raf walks beside you, steps uneven on purpose—like he’s turning the sidewalk into a runway only he can see. His hair is damp at the edges, violet curls falling into soft, intentional chaos across his brow. The plum of his bangs catches the morning sunlight like ink in motion.

His jacket—a deep charcoal wrap, belted high with asymmetrical cuts and layered fabric—flutters slightly as he moves, half-open despite the chill. The collar’s sharp, exaggerated, and undeniably Raf. His boots are sleek. High-shine. Expensive. One hand is gloved in soft leather. The other? Bare, save for a ring that glints like starlight—delicate but bold.

It’s not mismatched. It’s curated.

“If I die today,” he says, “make sure my eulogy includes the phrase ‘death by undercooked critic.’ And that someone throws rose petals onto the stove.��

You glance over. “Rose petals on the stove?”

He grins. “It’s poetic, Flame. Extremely me.”

You give him a look. He grins wider, eyes catching the early light like stained glass.

“Too soon?”

You nudge his shoulder. “Too early.”

He makes a noise like he’s been personally wounded. “God. I forgot you’re one of those. The focused ones. Calm-before-the-storm types. Do you ever just spiral?”

You deadpan. “I spiral efficiently.”

“Terrifying,” he whispers, full of admiration.

The city around you is half-awake. Sidewalks slick, gutters glinting. The restaurant glows faintly ahead, dark windows waiting.

You both fall into silence for a moment, walking in step.

Then softly, you say, “Hey. Heads up—things might be weird today.”

Raf tilts his head.

“Caleb and Zayne,” you explain. “They had a moment. Yesterday. Tense. Quiet. But… loud underneath.”

You pause. “It shook something.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then nods. “Sooo the air’s going to taste like resentment and repressed masculinity. Got it.”

“Exactly.”

Raf exhales through his nose, flicking his curls out of his eyes like he’s shedding a mood.

“Good to know. I’ll keep it light. For morale.”

You and Raf step through the back entrance together, the door creaking shut behind you. The kitchen looms ahead—cold steel and quiet shadows—but you both veer left, ducking into the locker room.

It’s dim and still inside. Just the low hum of the old overhead light and the faint scent of starch and citrus cleaner clinging to the air. Your lockers sit side by side, scuffed and dented, familiar.

Raf peels off his coat slowly, flicking damp curls out of his eyes with one elegant shake of his head. He hangs his coat with care, draping it over the hook like it deserves mood lighting.

You follow, tugging your jacket off and unlocking your locker with fingers still a little cold from outside.

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rustle of fabric—aprons being tied, sleeves being rolled, the low click of latches and belt snaps.

Then Raf speaks, his voice softer than before.

“Do you think he’ll hate me?”

You glance over.

He’s staring at the inside of his locker like it might hold the answer. Like the old recipe cards and mirror decals taped there have started whispering judgments.

You blink. “Who?”

He gestures vaguely toward nothing. Toward everything: “The critic. The entity. The sentient fork who’s coming to reduce me to a single flavor note.”

You pause, slipping your arms through your chef coat sleeves.

“They don’t know you.”

He looks at you then—eyes sharper, lower. His voice drops into something honest.

“Then let’s make sure they remember me.”

You smile.

You’re both halfway dressed now—necks exposed, apron loose. You reach for your hair tie just as Raf steps a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

He bumps you lightly. Then stops.

Turns halfway, taps his own cheek with one finger.

“This is where you wish me luck, traditionally. Culinary custom. Very sacred stuff.”

You raise a brow. “I’ll kiss your cheek if this turns out decent.”

He gasps. “Blackmail? In this economy?”

You shake your head, reaching into your locker again. But you’re not quick enough.

Raf leans in and steals the kiss anyway—a soft smack against your cheek, close and quick and warm. He lingers just long enough that you feel the smile in it.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t step away completely.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes catching yours—blue and flickering pink in the light, like heat caught in a gemstone.

He sees the blush blooming on your face. Sees everything.

“Oh no,” he murmurs dramatically. “I forgot how adorable you are in the morning. Now how am I supposed to focus?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Raf.”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving one elegant hand. “Discipline. Art. Professionalism. I am a temple of restraint.” A beat. “But temples still burn, you know.”

He pauses then—eyes narrowing, lips curling.

“Watch out, little flame.” His voice drops an octave. “You’ll set the kitchen on fire before we even clock in.”

He winks. Once. And walks out like he owns the day, chef coat flaring behind him like a final act.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still warm. And when you step out after him, into the glow of steel and citrus—

the fire waits

——————————————————————————

You round the prep counter with Raf trailing behind you like a ghost in glitter, still drying his hands on a kitchen towel he brought from home “because the restaurant ones are too emotionally rough.”

The kitchen’s not empty.

Zayne is already at his station—of course he is. Sleeves rolled. Forearms scarred and steady. His coat is folded with perfect corners beneath the counter, like it needs to be reminded that it doesn’t run the place today.

He’s working in near-silence, slicing spring onions into paper-thin curls. They pile like green silk on the cutting board, each slice identical. His movements are precise enough to be boring—if they weren’t terrifying.

He doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” you offer softly.

No answer at first.

Then, after three more exacting cuts:

“Morning.”

Not cold. Not quite warm. Just… there.

Raf squints over your shoulder. “Ugh. The ghost of conflict past.”

You shoot him a glance. “Don’t.”

He shrugs, not apologizing. “Just observing. The air’s ten degrees colder over here.”

Zayne says nothing, but the corner of his jaw flexes.

You move to your own station. Raf hovers.

“So,” he says, “what’s the vibe? Broken trust? Unspoken resentment? Tense ex-lovers with knives?” Raf pauses. “Actually, I’d watch that show.”

You lean closer. “He’s still not talking. Not really.”

Raf glances toward Zayne. “Right. Post-snap lockdown. How subtle.”

Zayne finally glances up. One slow look at Raf. One at you. No change in expression.

“I can hear you.”

Raf smiles. “Oh good. We were worried.”

You bite back a laugh. Zayne resumes slicing like your voices are ambient noise—like music he doesn’t like, but can’t be bothered to turn off.

Then—

The door opens again.

No bootstep this time.

Just a soft shuffle, like someone walked in without quite deciding to stay.

Xavier appears at the edge of the kitchen, arms full of folded towels and a paper bag clutched in one hand like a peace offering.

His blond bangs are messy from the hood he hasn’t removed yet. His jacket is only half-zipped. His expression is, as usual, unreadable—but peaceful. Like he wandered in from a dream and hasn’t realized he’s supposed to be stressed yet.

He sets the towels down carefully on the counter near you.

“Lavender. From the shelf above the oven,” he says, as if that explains everything.

You blink. “…Thanks?”

He nods once. Then adds, “You forgot it last time. I remembered.”

Raf presses a hand to his heart. “How is he the softest and the most haunting?”

Xavier glances at him. “Because I nap.”

“Deeply unfair,” Raf mutters.

Xavier drifts toward his usual spot near the pantry—not quite a station, not quite out of the way. Just his. He starts unpacking the bag with the kind of slow, reverent movements people usually save for altars.

Then—

The door opens a final time. Boots. Solid. Familiar.

Caleb steps into the kitchen with two heavy bags balanced in his arms, his coat still unbuttoned, hair damp from the outside air. He sets the bags on the prep table with a dull thunk and breathes in the room like he’s taking stock of a battlefield.

He doesn’t say good morning.

His gaze sweeps the kitchen—Zayne still slicing like the cutting board owes him a debt, Raf stretching like a dancer, Xavier calmly arranging bundles of herbs like they’re poetry.

His eyes find you last.

And stay there.

Just a second longer than they should.

Then he turns, moves to the board, rolls up his sleeves in one clean motion.

“Brigade.”

His voice cuts through the soft clatter of prep like it was built to. Not loud. Just final.

“Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He doesn’t wait for replies. Instead, Caleb sets a folded sheet of paper on the board—creases sharp, corners squared. Notes. Preferences. A map of the critic’s palate, etched in black ink and personal experience.

“No foam. No tricks. No ‘modernist interpretations.’” He glances—just briefly—at Raf.

Raf throws up his hands in mock offense. “I wasn’t going to start with fire, Maestro. I was going to end with it.”

Caleb ignores him.

“No fennel. No licorice. No licorice disguised as fennel. He’ll taste it.”

He moves a pen across the prep sheet like he’s marking a warfront.

“He cares about structure. Doesn’t want a journey. Wants a statement.”

Zayne, across the room, doesn’t say a word—but he’s watching. Knife paused.

Caleb glances at Xavier’s corner—still calm, still minimal, towels folded and untouched herbs set aside with gentle care.

No prep laid out.

But still, Caleb says nothing. Just: “I want calm stations. I want rhythm. This isn’t about invention. This is about control.”

His hand hovers over the last line on the page—something written smaller.

You lean in, and Caleb murmurs it without looking at you: “He remembers everything. Every plate. Every chef. And he writes like he’s sharpening a knife.”

You swallow. You already knew that. But hearing it from Caleb—voice low, composed—it lands heavier.

He finally looks at you again. Direct. Steady.

“This will be clean,” he says. “No emotion on the line.”

And then—like it’s already decided—

“Service starts when I say it does.”

Zayne doesn’t turn. Caleb doesn’t acknowledge him either.

The silence is short—but sharp.

Raf claps his hands once. Loud. Unnecessary.

“Okay, people. We’re marinating in tension. Can we please toss some oil on this emotional salad and move forward?”

Xavier, without looking up: “You don’t marinate salad.”

“It’s metaphorical, White Rabbit”

“It’s inaccurate.”

You step in, breath steadying as you move to the center. “Let’s just… start. Please?”

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then—a sharp clap. Measured. Final.

Caleb doesn’t even look up from the prep list.

“As I said,” he drawls, voice smooth as steel. “I start the service.”

He flips a page, scans, then adds—still calm, still deadly precise: “And before we start, I expect the tightest, cleanest prep this kitchen’s ever seen.” A pause. His eyes flick up, catching yours with a hint of something almost teasing. “No excuses. No shortcuts. If you’re not proud of it, it doesn’t go on the line.”

Then he moves.

And the kitchen follows.

Stations are claimed. Spoons clink. Steel kisses wood.

The line wakes up—

And so does the fire.

And then—

From the hallway, a new voice:

“Smells expensive.”

All of you freeze.

Dressed like he has dinner reservations in three places at once. Charcoal coat. Silk scarf. Not a hair out of place: Sylus.

“Morning,” he offers, casually. “Anyone dead yet?”

“Not yet,” Caleb murmurs. “We’re warming up.”

Sylus glances around. Takes in the silence.

“Ah,” he says, voice full of velvet and teeth. “The critic tension. Charming. And what’s this?” He points vaguely between Caleb and Zayne. “Frostbite?”

No one answers.

Sylus grins.

“Excellent.”

He strolls to the coffee station and starts inspecting beans like he’s about to invest in them. His fingers drift over the tins with exaggerated precision, turning each label like he’s judging a vintage.

Then—

“Chef Caleb,” he says casually, not looking up, “tell me the groceries weren’t tragic this time. I’d like to pair our slow collapse with a wine that doesn’t taste like disappointment.”

Caleb doesn’t take the bait. Just answers, flat as steel: “Sea urchin from Hokkaido. Stone fruit from Provence. Veal, marble-grade, cut to spec.” A pause. “Sour cherries air-freighted from Kyoto.”

“Mm,” Sylus hums, as if this means something to him. It does. He plucks a bottle from beneath the bar and sets it aside—deep burgundy glass, gold foil glinting faintly.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed now, gaze drifting across the crew. His expression softens—just enough.

“Well, you’ve got your knives. Your fire. Your egos. And my blessing.” A pause. His eyes land on you.

“Don’t ruin it, chefs.”

But there’s trust in the bite.

He lifts the bottle slightly, a toast without the glass.

And turns back to the espresso grinder like none of it mattered in the first place.

You turn back to your station. The mood is sharpened. Not ruined—just pulled tighter.

Everything is clean. Everything is ready.

And you can feel it in your bones.

——————————————————————————

The sound is quiet.

Not a bang. Not a rush. Just the soft click of the front door opening—far too early.

You hear it before you see it. Before the burners are even fully lit. Before the air is properly warm. Caleb doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his head slowly, hands steady on a citrus cure, and looks toward the door.

You and Raf freeze mid-motion at your stations. Zayne pauses with a spoon just above a tasting dish.

The kitchen breathes in.

Two figures step inside.

The first is exactly what you expected: pressed collar, coat folded neatly over one arm, small notepad in hand. The critic. As sharp and as unreadable as the stories say.

But behind him—

A second. Younger. Tall. Black coat, hands in pockets, eyes already scanning the room like he’s cataloguing everything. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

You can feel it shift then.

This is no casual meal.

This is a test.

The sound of a blade gently tapping down on wood punctuates the pause. Zayne sets his spoon down. Raf quietly reaches for his tasting spoon but doesn’t move to use it.

Caleb speaks first.

“Chefs—eyes up.”

Not loud. But the air tightens.

He walks slowly toward the pass, glancing once at the unexpected second guest. No comment. Just adjusts.

“New seating. Same service. We keep the plan.”

The hush breaks in tiny cracks. Zayne nods without a word, fingers already resuming motion. Xavier turns, smooth as a whisper, and reaches for folded linens like nothing’s happened. Raf, beside you, exhales through his nose like a performer before curtain.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs. “Not one, but two mouths to impress. Double the trauma. Double the applause.” He glances at you. “We live or die by sugar today, little flame. Let’s make it fatal.”

The guests sit. Not a word exchanged. The critic sets down his pen. The protégé crosses one leg over the other, still watching the kitchen like it might blink first.

Sylus is already at the table, poised with the bottle in hand, pouring the aperitif with practiced grace. The light catches on the rim of crystal as he leans in—shoulders relaxed, smile unreadable.

“From the northern slopes of the Montagne de Reims,” Sylus says, his voice smooth as the pour itself. “Chalk at the roots. Mist in the mornings. Pinot Noir grown in tension—power wrapped in elegance.” He tilts the bottle with perfect control, adding lightly:“It’s the kind of champagne that remembers the weight of the soil it came from—and chooses to rise anyway.”

He doesn’t overstay. Doesn’t sell. Just lets the silence sip it in.

Then he straightens, nods once, and disappears with the same ease he arrived—leaving the glass full, the table waiting, and the kitchen watching.

And just like that—

Caleb lifts his head, eyes scanning the line.

“Fire it.”

The word lands sharp and steady. Not loud. Not rushed. Just final.

Service begins

Plates begin to move. The pass pulses under Caleb’s rhythm—measured, exact. He’s not calling like a drill sergeant. He’s conducting.

Every sound has weight. Every motion has intent.

But the balance is delicate.

You can feel the heat beneath the surface—not just from the burners.

Eyes are watching. Notes are being taken.

And the kitchen knows it. Zayne’s fish lands a second too early. Just one. Caleb doesn’t raise his voice—doesn’t even look. Just:

“Again.” Short. Clipped. Trusting Zayne will fix it without needing more. Xavier misses the tarragon. You catch it first—your hand already reaching for the small bundle. He takes it from you with a calm nod. No flinch. Just adjustment.

And you— you almost let your glaze over-reduce. A second too long. The edges go from shine to danger. Then—

Caleb is there.

Behind you. Close. But not crowding.

His hand moves over yours—lightly, not stopping, just correcting. Two fingers to the flame. A slight shift. The heat eases.

He doesn’t scold.

He doesn’t even pause.

His voice is low, steady, just above the simmering pans: “Breathe.”

You do.

He stays there for a beat longer.

Then—softer: “You’ve got it.”

You nod. The motion feels smaller than your breath. But he sees it.

And then he’s gone—already moving down the line, already guiding the next plate with a tilt of his chin and a barely audible correction.

Your hands—steady now—move with purpose.

The critic’s still watching.

But right now, you’re not cooking for him.

You’re cooking because Caleb told you you could.

You finish the plate. Wipe the edge clean. Adjust a single leaf of micro basil that’s refusing to sit just right.

Almost. You know it’s almost.

You hesitate, but call it anyway.

“Hands.”

And the second the word leaves your mouth,

you know—

this isn’t perfection.

But it’s yours.

And it’s already gone.

The plate disappears down the line.

You exhale.

But only halfway.

Because across from you, Raf is silent.

And that’s how you know—he’s locked in.

Head bowed. Shoulders relaxed but utterly still. The chaos is gone. Only control remains.

His bangs—always unruly—are clipped back with something that looks like it came from a Paris runway and a craft store at the same time. His eyes narrow, squinting so hard the pink fades to almost nothing, lost beneath the glassy sheen of focus.

He’s crafting the final course. The pièce de résistance. The thing that might make—or break—the entire impression.

His station is unusually neat. Garnishes arranged by color. Sauces lined in perfect spirals on tasting spoons. His coat is unbuttoned at the collar, but that’s the only concession to chaos.

He’s torching citrus slices with exacting grace, layering them on a bitter caramel base that smells like late summer and secrets.

Then—Caleb steps in beside him.

No words at first. Just a quiet pause as he picks up a spoon from the edge of Raf’s tray. Tastes. Waits.

A beat. Then a slight nod.

Approval.

Raf freezes for a fraction of a second—enough for you to notice.

Then he grins—low and crooked. “Maestro,” he says softly, almost like it’s a blessing. It’s playful. But there’s real warmth in it.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Just moves on.

But Raf lingers in that moment a little longer than he should, watching him go. Then exhales, flicks a speck of zest from his cuff, and returns to the dish like something just clicked into place.

Like maybe—maybe—he really is about to save the night

You step up beside him.

“What are you making?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“A memory.”

You blink. “Whose?”

He finally looks up. And winks.

“Hopefully theirs.”

——————————————————————————

The final dish lands on the pass.

It’s not extravagant. It’s not loud.

It’s precise. Deep. Beautiful.

You recognize the scent of browned butter and smoked sugar. There’s a curl of citrus skin twisted like a ribbon at the center. A single candied petal pressed gently to the rim.

Caleb lifts the plate. Looks at it a beat longer than usual. He says nothing.

Then: “Send it.”

And it goes.

You all watch from the line.

The critic tastes first. Pauses.

Then the protégé.

No words.

But they eat it all. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

The critic sets his fork down. Folds his napkin.

He stands.

The protégé lingers a second longer. He doesn’t rise until the chair squeaks beneath him. Then he turns—slowly—just enough to glance back toward the kitchen.

His eyes scan the line.

They meet yours.

Cool. Measured. Calculating.

Then shift to Raf.

The two of them hold that stare a moment longer than necessary.

Still no smile.

But a slow, thoughtful nod.

And then—they’re gone.

The door closes behind them. Not loud. But the sound echoes in the space like someone just set down a judgment too heavy for the air.

The kitchen is still.

Utensils down. Hands still. Breaths held.

Even the burners hiss softer.

Then—

“Puh-lease.” Raf exhales—loud, dramatic, like he’s been holding his breath for three courses too long.

He steps back from the counter, stretching his arms overhead with a noise halfway between agony and art.

“If they didn’t love that, I’m moving to France and becoming a performance artist who cooks exclusively with grief and seaweed.”

He drops his arms. One gloved hand presses to his chest, the other fanning himself.

“Opening night will be called Salted Despair.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. A real one. Small, but sharp with relief.

Caleb doesn’t. But he looks at Raf. Really looks at him. One long glance—unblinking, unreadable, then softened. He gives a single, subtle nod.

Respect.

Raf catches it. His back straightens—not in pride, but recognition. And then he turns to you.

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s steady. Close.

“Tell me you saw that.”

You nod. “I saw it.”

His lashes flick down once, slow. The faintest exhale escapes his lips. His voice drops, velvet-threaded.

“I was really trying.”

You reach for his hand. Just a light brush of your fingers over his—like grounding a live wire. Just enough.

“It showed.”

His eyes search yours for a moment.

Then he smiles.

Not wide. Not cheeky. Just… full.

He exhales once more, quieter this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. And he starts wiping down his station like nothing happened—like he didn’t just save the soul of the night.

But you saw it. And he knows you did.

——————————————————————————

Raf’s wiping down his station, humming a low, off-key version of something orchestral and absolutely made up. The rest of the kitchen is beginning to move again—small clinks, closing drawers, the soft snap of towels flung over shoulders.

You glance toward Zayne.

He’s at his station. Cleaning with the kind of focus that looks peaceful to anyone who doesn’t know better.

But you’ve seen it before—the way he gets when there’s too much in his head. When the silence becomes a shield.

He finishes polishing the blade of his chef’s knife. Places it gently in the leather roll. Buckles it tight.

He doesn’t look up.

You cross the room slowly.

“Walking out?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just slings his bag over one shoulder and gives you the smallest tilt of his head—yes.

But when he turns toward the door, he hesitates.

And you go with him.

——————————————————————————

The alley behind the restaurant is quiet. The pavement slick with old rain, the city lights painting it gold.

You walk in silence. The only sound is the rhythm of your shoes against cracked cement, and the low thrum of traffic somewhere far away.

Zayne keeps his hands in his pockets. His shoulders aren’t tight—but they’re held. Like he hasn’t decided yet whether to let the day go.

After a block, he speaks.

Barely above the hum of the night.

“It was good.”

You nod beside him.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Not perfect.”

You glance sideways. “Does it need to be?”

Zayne exhales through his nose. Not a sigh—just a controlled release of thought.

“Maybe not.”

He walks a little further before speaking again. This time, there’s something quieter in his voice.

“Culinary school used to feel like this. Late nights. Long walks. Me, you. Caleb.” A pause. “We’d finish service and grab snacks we couldn’t afford. Steam buns. Cheap noodles. Whatever was hot and fast.”

“You always ordered too much.”

A beat.

“But only because you were saving yourself for dessert.”

“So you two could eat it without guilt,” he says flatly, but his mouth tugs slightly at the edge. “It was routine. Caleb and I—we didn’t talk much then either. Not about anything real. Just… walked. Same way we do tonight.”

He glances at you, hazel green eyes catching the light. “It helped back then. It still helps.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, familiar way—the kind that comes from being remembered right.

He walks a little further before speaking again. His voice stays even, but there’s a softness to it—something closer than nostalgia.

“I was never much of a talker.”

A pause.

“But I liked listening. To you and Caleb.”

You glance over. He doesn’t stop walking, just keeps his eyes forward—hands still in his pockets like he’s measuring time.

“You’d argue about everything. Techniques, temperature, plating styles…”

Another pause, dry at the edges.

“You once debated resting meat versus flash-searing for twenty minutes in a heatwave.”

You huff a quiet laugh. That sounds right.

Zayne finally looks over, eyes glinting just a little under the streetlight.

“I kept score, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

“The debates. I kept a tally.” He lifts his brows, faintly amused. “You’re still ahead. Seventy-eight to seventy-three.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“You were always better at saucework. Caleb was obsessed with proteins. You balanced better.”

It hits you gently—but deep. That he remembers. That he watched. That he kept track.

You bump his arm with yours. “I’m going to need that scoreboard in writing.”

Zayne’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.

“Of course. It’s laminated.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You glance down.

RAFAYEL: where’s my kiss. blackmail worked. obviously.

You bite back a laugh and type quickly.

YOU: you’ll have to wait for the review.

Three dots appear.

RAFAYEL: liar. wounded. betrayed. art ruined. jk i love you.

Your chest warms.

You’re still smiling when you tuck your phone away.

Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away—but then: “Was that who I think it was?”

You pause. “Raf?”

He makes a soft sound—not quite agreement.

You glance at him. “Who did you think it was?”

Zayne hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker of something crossing his face. Then he shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You walk a few steps further.

Then you stop.

And without a word—you hug him.

His body stiffens at first, caught off-guard. But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make a sound.

You feel the slow breath leave his chest. The quiet drop of his shoulders.

When you pull back, his voice is barely audible:

“Thanks, Ace.”

You nod.

“Always.”

And the two of you keep walking—together.

Quiet. Steady. Closer than silence.

——————————————————————————

Back at the restaurant, the lights are off—except for one.

A low amber glow from the wine bar, where Sylus leans against the counter, glass in hand, suit still sharp. The room is quiet now. Still.

He watches the door where the two of you disappeared, then raises his glass—not to the critic. Not to the service.

“Stars are slow things,” he says into the stillness.

He takes a sip.

And the restaurant sleeps.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen is quieter the next day. Not dead—just dulled, like someone turned the volume down on the world but left the tension humming underneath.

Knives move. Water boils. Bread rises. The rhythm is there, but it doesn’t carry. Everything feels a touch slower, like the whole place is caught in a long inhale, waiting for the exhale that never quite comes.

No sparks. No fire behind the eyes of the brigade. Everyone shows up, but no one’s pushing.

Even Raf is subdued. He hums something strange and half-finished under his breath as he slices strawberries with more precision than flair, like they’ve said something deeply personal and he’s holding a grudge.

You move through your prep slower than usual. Not because you’re tired—but because it all feels slightly off-beat. Like the air’s too thick. Like the tension is curled somewhere in the corners, just out of sight.

You’re waiting.

All of you are.

So you fill the space with motion. The small, mindless tasks that give your hands something to do while your head keeps listening for a bell that doesn’t ring.

You restock dry goods. Wipe the same countertop twice. Rearrange spice tins that didn’t need arranging.

And that’s when you notice him—Zayne, appearing beside you as silently as he works. No announcement. No shift in the air. Just there, all at once, like he always had been.

Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.

Watching the shelves like they owe him answers.

He doesn’t say your name. Just gestures toward the shelf like he’s helping, even though he wasn’t assigned to this part of the kitchen today.

You fall into rhythm.

Silence, at first.

Then—

“You ever feel like your best is too clean?” The words are so soft you almost miss them.

“Like it doesn’t taste like anyone at all?”

You turn to look at him, but he’s focused on lining up spice tins. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Sea salt.

His sleeves are rolled. His forearms bare—scarred and steady. The knuckles of his right hand are faintly red, like he gripped something too tightly for too long.

You don’t speak. Just let him go on.

He exhales, slow and precise.

“I don’t care what the critic thinks,” he says. Then adds, “or I shouldn’t.”

He adjusts a container that didn’t need adjusting. It’s already perfectly aligned. His dark hair falls slightly over his eyes, and he doesn’t push it back.

“It’s not about ego,” he murmurs. “I just—need to know that I didn’t waste it.”

He finally glances at you. Just for a second. His hazel green eyes are clearer than you’ve ever seen them. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… bare.

“Sylus once told me I cook like I think. Not like I feel.” A small huff of breath escapes him—almost a laugh. “Said if I ever figured out how to do both, I’d be dangerous.”

You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf beside him. Still no words.

Zayne stares ahead, not blinking. “Sometimes I think I’ve tried too hard not to believe him.”

He goes still. The jars in front of him are perfectly placed. No more tasks left.

You shift a little closer—not invasive, just enough that he feels you there. And gently, without needing a cue, you reach out. Just placing a hand over his forearm.

Warm. Anchoring. Wordless.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look at you. But his hand—so still a moment ago—twitches slightly under yours. Like the pressure of your presence is something he doesn’t know how to carry.

But maybe wants to.

When you let go, he finally speaks again.

“Thanks… again, Ace.” His voice is lower now. But clearer. Measured like always—but with something human tucked into the quiet.

You don’t say anything in return. You just nod.

And return to your station.

Behind you, Zayne keeps working. But his shoulders aren’t quite so tight anymore. And for the first time all day—you hear his knife hit the board with rhythm.

——————————————————————————

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly. One of them flickers, slow and uneven. The room smells like soap, starch, and the last hours of a long day.

The clatter of post-service fades beyond the wall.

You’re still tying the last loop of your apron when Xavier passes behind you, already changed, coat folded over one arm. He pauses at his locker just long enough to reach into a cooler bag you hadn’t seen him carry in.

He pulls out a small see through plastic container. Without fanfare, he sets it beside your things.

Leftovers. Duck, pickled pear, one perfect mint leaf on top.

He adjusts the knot in his scarf like nothing happened. Then, softly—

“You didn’t eat.”

You glance up.

He’s already by the door, nodding once—silent, certain. Then he slips out, leaving nothing behind but the scent of herbs and the soft click of the closing door.

You’re just turning back to your locker when the air shifts again—Raf enters like a stage cue, perfectly timed, flicking his curls out of his eyes and shrugging out of his chef’s coat like it personally offended him.

His designer coat is draped over his arm, all sharp angles and buttery folds, the inside lined with something silk and scandalous.

He throws it over the bench with flair, catching your eye.

Then taps his cheek.

Once. Twice.

Raises a brow.

“In case you forgot,” he drawls, “you owe me a kiss. The sugar-saved-your-life type. The blackmail-was-legitimate type.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Justice is slow.”

He sighs dramatically.

“So are broken hearts.”

A beat.

He leans in—fast—and steals a kiss to your cheek, grinning as he pulls back. “But I’m still collecting the real one later.”

With a wink and a flourish, he’s gone. You can still smell his cologne in the locker air.

You turn back to your locker, rummaging through your things—gloves, scarf, whatever gets you home warm enough. Your fingers brush against the small container Xavier left, still cool to the touch.

You reach for the container, fingertips just brushing the waxed lid.

Then—

The door swings open. Boots on tile. Two sets. Familiar weight in both.

You glance up.

Zayne and Caleb. Together.

Zayne’s already shrugging out of his coat, hair still damp, eyes sharp and cool as ever. Caleb’s jacket is slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up past his forearms, arms dusted with flour and smudged with the faint ghost of oil. His shirt clings slightly at the collar—the aftermath of control.

They both spot you at the same time.

Two smiles.

Zayne’s is faint. Barely there. A respectful tilt of the lips, the kind of smile he saves only for you.

Caleb’s is fuller. Quieter than usual. The corners of his mouth twitching up like he’s relieved to see you still here.

“Look who’s still standing,” Caleb says, tossing his coat onto the bench.

“She’s always the last one standing,” Zayne replies, deadpan.

Their eyes meet—a flicker of understanding, not tension.

Something between them has shifted. Smoothed. Repaired not by words, but by the shared rhythm of service.

Caleb bumps Zayne’s shoulder as he passes. “Still packing like you’re fleeing a war zone, huh?”

Zayne adjusts the strap on his duffel with surgical precision. “That’s rich coming from the guy who keeps an emergency set of knives in his car.”

“I like being prepared,” Caleb murmurs, grabbing a clean rag from his locker.

“You like control,” Zayne says, already moving toward the door.

“And you like pretending you don’t.” Caleb chuckles, soft and low. Zayne almost smiles.

They pass by you again. Caleb slows. His hand rises—

And he ruffles your hair. Just once. Just enough to shift the air around you.

“Get home safe, chef.”

Then he’s gone. Zayne follows without a glance back, their footsteps syncing on instinct.

No farewell. Just quiet.

You blink, hands still hovering over your things.

Something’s changed.

You don’t know what. You weren’t meant to.

But it settles in your chest like heat held close, a soft flicker of something mended—or mending.

And without quite meaning to, you smile. Just a little.

It lingers. Stays with you.

Then—

From the doorway, low and velvet-smooth, wrapped in dry amusement:

“Well now… would you look at that.”

You turn.

Sylus is leaning lazily against the frame, one hand in the pocket of his tailored coat, the other cradling a half-full glass of wine. The light behind him halos the edges of his silhouette, casting him in gold and shadow.

You didn’t hear him enter.

He’s been there.

Watching.

His eyes flick toward the closed door where Caleb and Zayne just left. He smiles—slow and feline.

“You know, I never quite believed in miracles.” A sip of wine. A pause. “But seeing those two walk out without blood on the walls?” Another sip. “Either the stars are shifting…”

His gaze settles on you.

“…or someone knows how to nudge the right pieces.”

You raise a brow. “You?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his glass in your direction, like a toast to a shared secret neither of you will speak aloud. “I prefer to think of myself as… an observer with influence.”

He steps fully into the room now, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft click. His shoes don’t make a sound on the tile.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he murmurs, circling the edge of the bench. “How fire and ice can share a locker room, when the temperature’s just right.”

You exhale, unsure whether to be impressed or suspicious.

He sits beside you—never too close, just enough to feel his presence.

“They needed the tension broken. And you?”A pause. “You needed to see what happens when people bend before they break.”

Then, softly: “You’re good for them, you know.”

You don’t answer.

But your chest feels just a little heavier. And warmer.

Sylus swirls his glass once, watching the light fracture through it. “Come.” He rises, smooth and unhurried. “We’ve earned something expensive tonight.”

And just like that—he offers his hand. Palm open. Eyes unreadable.

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks behind you with that familiar soft weight.

The restaurant is dim, most of the lights off now—except the low amber glow behind the wine bar. It stretches warm across the counters and gleams along the clean steel like a secret you’ve earned the right to hear.

Sylus moves ahead of you without looking back. He knows you’ll follow. His coat whispers as he shrugs it off—deliberate, graceful, like everything he does.

He gestures for you to sit at the bar.

He selects a bottle already waiting—dark, elegant, and expensive in the way you feel in your bones more than you read on a label.

He pours two glasses. Quietly.

Then hands you one.

Sylus doesn’t speak right away. He just starts swirling the wine—wrist steady, eyes lowered—watching the movement like the glass is telling him something only he can hear.

The wine is deep. Smooth. A dark garnet that clings to the crystal like silk before it lets go.

“It’s got legs,” he murmurs, voice low and rasping like it’s meant to be heard in candlelight. “Slow-dripping. That’s how you know it’s got weight. Alcohol content. Structure.”

His gaze stays on the wine, but his voice drips like the vintage itself—rich, unhurried, expensive.

“You see that cling?” He tips the glass slightly, watching the streaks of red crawl down the side. “That’s glycerol. Comes from late harvest grapes. Colder nights. Longer fermentation.” A pause. “This one’s oak-aged. Five years. Just enough to take the edge off without softening the finish.”

He finally glances at you.

Noticing your stare.

Noticing everything.

Red eyes lock onto yours—slow, unblinking. Almost undressing you in the most cruelly elegant way possible. Not lecherous. Just… knowing. Like he already sees the part of you you haven’t shown yet—and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

A slow, indulgent smile curls at the edge of his mouth

“Careful, chef.” His voice drops. “If I go on much longer, you’ll fall asleep.”

You raise a brow, but say nothing.

He leans in slightly across the bar, wineglass still poised between his fingers.

“Should I have sung you a lullaby instead?”

You say nothing. Just lift your glass to your lips and take a slow, measured sip—eyes on his over the rim. That is your answer.

His smile deepens, slow and sharp.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice dropping just a little lower, silk pressed against something darker. “So you do like it when I take my time.”

The words hum under your skin like a promise.

Or a warning.

Sylus leans on the bar again, the soft backlight sketching gold across the sharp line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt catching just enough of the glow. He watches you—not intently, but like he’s measuring something you haven’t said yet.

The silence stretches. Warm. Expectant.

Then finally, with a quiet shift of weight and a tilt of his head, he speaks: “You’ve come far, chef.” A pause, lazy with purpose. “But you’re still standing on the edge.”

You raise a brow, half-smiling. “Of what?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly.

“The line is made of more than sharp knives and full plates,” Sylus says, voice low and smooth. “It’s made of the people who hold it.”

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just tilts his glass, watching the wine catch the light. Then his gaze drifts, slowly, to the kitchen—now quiet and dark, but still pulsing with everything left unsaid.

“You know them,” he murmurs.

“But not well enough.”

You blink.

“You mean—”

He makes a slow, fluid gesture—elegant and maddeningly vague.

“One of them hides behind rules. One behind silence. One behind sparkle. And one—”

His red eyes flick to the hallway where Caleb disappeared minutes ago.

“—refuses to stop burning.”

You feel it land before he even finishes the thought.

Sylus turns fully back to you now, and the low light brushes silver across his hair, framing the sharp edge of his jaw. His posture is relaxed, but the weight in his stare holds you still.

“Caleb is fire in a pressure cooker,” he says. “He doesn’t burn out. He burns in.”

You glance down into your wine—deep, red, impossible to read.

“Every mistake in that kitchen?” His voice lowers. “He thinks it’s his. Every dish. Every delay. Every stare from that critic—it’s all his to carry.”

Your grip on the glass tightens. “That’s not fair.” It comes out without your permission. Quiet. Raw.

“No.” Sylus doesn’t flinch. “But it’s true.”

He leans forward slightly, and the gold glow of the bar slides across his chest. His presence is calm, but looming—like a storm that hasn’t chosen its direction yet.

“They follow him,” he says, slower now. “Because he holds everything together.”

A breath.

“But one day—he won’t.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Your pulse is already beating harder in your throat.

And Sylus sees it.

His voice softens. But it doesn’t lose its edge. “When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.”

A pause.

“I think that someone is you.”

The words hang there—not a compliment. A burden. A truth.

You sit with it. And he lets you.

Then—

“So find out,” he murmurs.

Then, a beat later—his voice a shade lower, the rasp deliberate: “Peel them back. Learn what they bleed, what they break for. And when the moment comes—don’t hesitate. Take what’s yours.”

A flicker of a smile, cruel and quiet.

“It’s not a request, chef.”

“To knowing them?” you ask, tilting your glass.

Sylus smiles—just barely.

“To seeing what they won’t show,” he says, raising his glass.

But before yours can meet it, you pause.

Your eyes flick to his—playful, pointed. You lean in slightly, elbow on the bar, chin tilted just enough to be dangerous.

“And what about you, boss?” Your voice is softer now. Closer. “What don’t you show?”

Something in him stills, and the moment stretches—quiet and golden, like a breath held too long.

Then, there’s a shift.

Not in his voice. Not in the measured ease of his posture.

In his face.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible—a flicker of something old and weighty, a shadow beneath the polished surface. A sadness lacquered in charm. Something that’s learned how to live just fine with the cracks.

It’s there and gone in a breath, hidden beneath the curve of his mouth, the practiced slope of a near-smirk. But you catch it. Just barely. A twitch at the corner of his expression, too honest for him to mean to show.

He lifts his glass, just a fraction, and the light fractures through it—red and amber, like fire caught in crystal.

“That,” he says, voice smooth as velvet dragged through ink, “would ruin the fun, darling.”

He taps his glass to yours—just a soft clink—and drinks first.

And when he drinks, it’s not a toast.

It’s a deflection.

A beat later, you follow.

———————————-———————————-———

Your keys hit the counter. Jacket falls to the back of a chair. The silence of your apartment wraps around you like steam—warm, empty, unbothered.

You shower.

Water hits your shoulders in even beats, but it doesn’t drown out the sound in your head.

Not footsteps. Not fire.

His voice.

When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.

I think that someone is you.

You turn the water hotter.

It doesn’t help.

Later, in bed, the linen gathers loosely around your legs. You lie still. Eyes open. Ceiling glowing with citylight.

I brought you here to lead.

You close your eyes.

The words chase you into sleep anyway.

I think that someone is you.

I think that someone is you.

I think—

Knock knock knock.

You jolt upright.

There’s weight behind it. Familiar. Steady.

Another knock.

Then Caleb’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him:

“Chef. Open up.” A pause. “It’s important.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, linen tangled around your calves, heart still catching up to the moment. A glimpse out the window shows the light just breaking.

He’s been out running.

Hair damp. Hoodie clinging to his chest.

Your phone lights up beside you—three missed calls from Caleb.

Another knock.

“Chef. Either you’re dead or drunk. Open up.”

——————————————————————————

Chapter two

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: I’m taking my time with this AU because I want each character to shine in their own chaotic, delightful way. Posting the next chapter soon, just need to proofread. Y’all reading this? You’re the real deal. Peak humanity. I appreciate you so much it’s almost suspicious. Like—why are you so nice? Never in my life did I think I’d use my completely useless knowledge about chalky soil and harsh climates affecting grape growth… in a fanfic. And yet—here we are. Peak useless knowledge meets peak unhinged thirst. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[valandrawrites]

2024 Recommended Fics - Incomplete List

Here's my start at an end of year round up. If you're looking for a specific kind of fic or trope, let me know, and I'll try to find something for you! I have many, many more I could add, and what I've included is in no particular order.

I didn't list the rating or warnings with this because it just got too long, and honestly, I'm lazy. Read at your own risk.

A. fragilis by eachainn @eachainn

This is quite simply the best fic I've ever read. Do not continue until you read this one!

150 million years ago, an Allosaurus finds a stranger had wandered into his territory and he wants the intruder out.

1878, the middle of what will become known as the Bone Wars between O.C. Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope. Castiel Novak is transporting fossils from the latest dig in South Dakota back to Yale. He has to be careful, because there are people who work for Professor Cope who would gladly take the fossils off of his hands.

Those Who Get in the Way of Peace by ladyofthelake17 @ladyofthe-lake

“Don’t make me an optimist. You will ruin my life.”

Dean Winchester finally has his shit together: business is booming at his auto repair shop, he's eating healthy (okay, he's eating salad with bacon bits), he's exercising (in a cemetery). He's single, but he's claiming it as a good thing. And so what if Sam's not talking to him? So what if his dad is marrying an insane artist? And so what if the priest marrying them is hot as hell with a name that sounds like a sin just to say it — Castiel?

AKA: another Fleabag fic, but maybe it'll have a happy ending. Maybe.

Illicit Ink by allmystars @allmystars-i

Dean Winchester has a secret. He does this thing maybe two or three times a week, and he loves it, don’t get him wrong, but… He’s a camboy, and that’s not exactly something he wants shared around the breakfast table. When Dean decides he needs a change, it’s nothing too drastic, just a tattoo. But the hot-as-sin tattoo artist he gets to do the job might just change everything.

Ground Control to Major Tom by MrsShinigamiDaiko @mrs-shinigami-daiko

Dean Winchester dreamed of being a mechanic all his life, but he never thought he would end up working as a mechanic for NASA and going into space. He is thrust into his first ever space mission after a strange lunar body, dubbed Luna-b I, mysteriously appears in Earth’s sky. Teams of astronauts scramble up to the permanent lunar base and begin analysis to determine if the blue orb is any threat to mankind. Most of the first team is sent home after a few months, nearly all of them having fallen ill with devastating cases of space sickness. As time goes on, it becomes clear that something altogether unnatural is going on here. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind as he and his crewmates also begin to succumb to sickness. He races to figure out what could possibly be the root cause. Is Luna-b I really just some weird, deep space rock that got caught in the Moon’s orbit by chance? Or is it something much more sinister, watching and waiting for the opportune moment?

Pinfall by crowleyo @crowleyo

Cas runs the family diner with his adopted son, Jack. His old high school flame rolls into town and he thinks he can just step back into Castiel's life. Well... He's kind of right.

This Impossible Happiness by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta

In one universe, Dean Winchester is pushing thirty. He’s just danced at his little brother’s wedding, he likes his job at the garage, and he goes on the occasional hunt with friends and family. He’s also desperately lonely for someone to share his life with. One day, he finds a mysterious package outside his door. It contains a news clipping about an urban legend that just might be real, and a book by Professor Castiel Novak, who happens to specialize in that same urban legend.

In another universe, Castiel Novak’s roadside motel is slowly dying, its business hollowed out by the interstate system. Dean Winchester, the man who asked him to run away together years ago, is only a painful regret these days. Until the day a mysterious letter Castiel doesn’t remember writing brings Dean back to his doorstep.

Out there in the multiverse, a man and an angel look for each other in all the wrong places. In the meantime, they might as well help a few other versions of themselves figure things out.

Then Comes the Rain by someonetoanyone @someonetoanyone-blog - a three part series

“I’m not looking forward to it,” Rowena tells him, as though that will absolve her of anything, “he may have a better solution for this, but the spell requires a smidge of spilled Grace. He’ll need to be hurt for this to work, and — Dean, all joking aside, you may be the only person fit to do this.”

“Oh, this’ll be great — go ahead, tell me why I’m the only one that can get butt-fucked to save the world.”

Mind Your Own Business by BunnyHunter

While the ability to overhear the secret thoughts of the people around him was distracting at best and anxiety-inducing at worst, Castiel had found ways to cope that included a pair of noise-canceling headphones and burying himself in his PhD research. After hearing inner thoughts for his entire life, there were very few things he overheard that surprised him anymore. So imagine his shock when his roommate Sam's brother, Dean, came to stay with them. While Dean may have been able to keep a straight face on the outside, his inner thoughts told a much different story.

Survivalism by bleuzombie @bleuzombie

Genetic engineers Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are on the verge of a breakthrough in cancer treatment and possibly even a cure, using genetic manipulation and incredibly, shark DNA.

Following a devastating diagnosis of brain cancer, and amid growing pressure from his boss, Dick Roman, for results, Castiel is pushed to an act of desperation. He tests the cure on himself with disastrous and violent results.

He has never been so hungry.

Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans) by foolondahill17 @foolondahill17

What if Dean just kept every kid he’s ever interacted with?

A re-write of season 6 onwards in which Dean slowly collects every conceivable stray that crosses his path.

The eyes of a lamb by naughtystiel @naughtystiel for Shedar

The year is '98 and Spring is approaching fast. For most, the season is a symbol of new beginnings with Mother Nature’s chaste kiss that breathes life into everything once more. It's inspiring, peaceful and beautiful. So, the fact that this is exactly when a certain serial killer loves to strike makes Detective Winchester's blood boil. Two years in a row now, the guy has slipped through his fingers, not leaving a single trace behind. No clues, no leads, just murdered women in the most picturesque places imaginable. And the worst thing of all? Sometimes Dean catches himself admiring the killer's work.

where there is darkness by quiettewandering @quiettewandering @wanderingcas 

When Castiel Milton takes a job to be the new assistant keeper at Whaleback Lighthouse in Kittery, Maine, he expects to live out his new life in quiet isolation. What he gets instead is Dean Winchester: bitter, brash, and, like Castiel, harboring a dark secret. As the spark of attraction between them grows into a flame, the lighthouse walls start closing in—as do the ghosts of Dean and Castiel's checkered pasts.

[starberry-cupcake]

Here I am again, hoping this silly recap brightens your day a little bit, I'm giving you a gentle hug and a mug of your favorite warm beverage ☕

previously, in harrowcita del 9:

this happened

I somehow predicted @lady-harrowhark's tshirt in the one before that also, it was very funny, in case you missed it

CHAPTER 48

we're doing just one chapter again because this one was Eventful, fam

last we knew, abby pent was trying to lorraine warren the ghost out of harrowcita's bubble

my running theory was that the ghost was commander wake aka allegedly gideon's mom (none of that is in any way confirmed yet)

and ortus was about to say something

I said it might be poetry and, guess what?

I WAS RIGHT

you go, ortus, you recite that poetry

abby apparently takes that as a cue to do something and thinks ortus has too much faith in her

but ortus trusts her, there's a lot of polycule moments in this one

the sleeper/waker/slasher allegedly gideon's mom unconfirmed absolutely does not give a fuck about any of this, she's slaying them all with her "baggy orange suit and gun collection"

I need the suit to look like this so bad

harrow starts making constructs but killer bae starts turning them into ash in seconds

I mean, I know we need harrow to live and this woman is not supporting that idea but damn, she looks cool af

if you fought the emperor at any given point, amanda (I'm calling her amanda for now, I'll elaborate later) how did you lose?????

ortus is harmed, so harrow has to continue with the recitation in his place

so harrow continues to recite the nonius poetry, while abby chants in the background and everyone else waits while bleeding

it's a very involved artistic performance that we've got going on over here in canaan au river bubble

sleeper/waker/slasher/alleged commander wake alleged gideon's mom aka amanda (according to me) shoots harrowcita

but then abby is lifted in blue flames and seems to be holding an invisible book and everything gets all vib-ey

these are the exact vibes I'm picturing

(not because I have a print of that in my room)

so harrowcita is saved from getting shot in the head by a man with the Ninth uniform and a very stellar use of the blade

AND YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHO IT IS

IT'S ORTUS'S BLORBO FROM HIS SHOWS!!!!!!!!

matthias nonius is a short king who is surprised to be speaking in meter but is very happy to be here to defend the Reverend Daughter and fight like an expert killing machine

WHERE WAS ALL THIS FIGHTING POWER WHEN IT CAME TO KILLING THE EMPEROR

but not only is matthias nonius 10/10 at fighting (as advertised), the shrine ortus has in his head for him is helping to even the playing field with the waker/sleeper/alleged commander

she can't shoot anymore

"I killed wizard's filth like you all my life. I killed them with guns, and bombs, and knives, and gas, and when I didn't have any of those I just got in real close and put my thumbs through their fucking eyes. You can flick that little skewer around all you like, boy. I'll choke you with it"

SHE'S INTENSE, we can be certain that the Harrow Only Notes were hers

"I certainly hope you're a fighter. God knows you're not a debater"

you guys I'm a certified mati nonius fan right now

ortus is drawing little hearts in his poetry book and writing Ortus Nonius in it

"If all of her cavaliers were this excited for death, she was definitely the problem"

they just love you too much, harrowcita

so mati nonius and waker/sleeper/alleged commander have the most intense and entertaining fight ever

because lyctor fights are weak and boring

but this, this is cinema

harrow thinks that, if gideon had been there, she would have loved the fight but also she'd be terrible at running commentary of it

I disagree, gideon's running commentary is one of the things that keep us together as a society

"In life she must have had few, if any, equals. Her people—whoever they had been—must have cherished her as their finest champion."

gideon got some great fighting genes from all around, if my theories prove right

I mean, if her people are the people I'm thinking, they still have posters of her, so she must have been a big deal before she crashed in the ninth

SAD SHE DIDN'T KILL DR REVEREND EMPEROR JOHN THOUGH

BUT THERE'S STILL TIME FOR THAT

LIKE AN HOUR

harrow says mati nonius is "a poem" which is very nice of her to say

you go, short king

there's a lot of blood happening, also, which could be encouraging, since before this, the waker/sleeper/alleged commander wasn't bleeding at all

the room changes to become a ninth chamber and alleged commander changes clothes from the star trek orange suit to a different yet still orange getup and a golden mask

ortus's shrine in his head built for mati nonius is rewriting the possession

because nothing can pull you from the depths of despair as fast as your favorite blorbo

"My master in life was revenge, my mission is one of—Goddamn it, I'm not going to start talking like this"

more points for the gideon's mom theory

protozoa and ortus are now communicating telepathically, they are starting to put aside their rivalry and finding out they have a lot in common

enemies to friends to lovers speedrun

mati nonius loses his sword and goes feral

protozoa throws his cunty seventh rapier towards him, mati nonius catches it and ends the waker/sleeper/alleged commander

it all looked incredibly cool

once the enemy is partially defeated (let's remember she's supposedly tethered to an object that I think is gideon's sword), the body horror starts falling from the walls

it's described as "sausages flung from a height" which is...quite the thing

like, I get what that sounds like, but also, maybe I didn't wanna know

harrow looks at the face of the waker/sleeper/alleged commander and says it's the woman from the poster of the shuttle

YASSSS GETTING CLOSER TO MY THEORY

like, I still don't know if the woman from the poster is commander wake or if she is indeed gideon's mom, but I'm going all in on this theory

now we have a little intermission in which everyone is waxing poetic about everyone else

this is the canaan house we always wanted to see

protozoa is giving heart eyes to mati nonius, mati is giving respects to harrow, ortus is saying he wants to write a poem about abby, magnus is telling ortus not to flirt with his wife as a joke but ortus looks mortified

and abby says ortus did most of the job but she also points out she corrected some of his spelling

which might have been the biggest mistake in magnus's and abby's lives because they just destroyed their polycule

you can't treat the ninth like that, fifth, they take it personally

but ortus is vindicated because his oshi, his favorite blorbo, his biggest hero, tells him nice things

harrowcita goes to check on the ghost corpse of the waker/sleeper/alleged commander and finds some tags

one of which says AWAKE

I THINK THAT'S MAYBE A. WAKE

AS IN COMMANDER WAKE

and I'm naming her amanda, as previously established

it would go well with the ancient tumblr meme

the prophecy

sure hope this isn't the famous alecto everyone keeps mentioning because it'd ruin my prophecy

abby tells harrow the only way to get rid of her for good is to destroy the object to which she's tethered to

which I suspect might be gideon's sword, so fuck all this

we're meant to lose gideon and her sword??? absolutely not

let the woman kill the emperor instead

ALSO

surprise! mati nonius is besties with gideon the first

now, for someone who was sold out to be super serious and not an extrovert, gideon the first knows EVERYONE

he knows mati nonius, he probably also knows, to some degree of intimacy yet undetermined, the commander, he might be somewhat related to our gideon

the man is everywhere

basically, mati nonius and gideon the first had the same speedrun friendship that gideon had with camilla

they fought each other once and one of them thought "you're friend-shaped :) "

so, mati nonius is willing to go help gideon the first with the beast

because, as we have previously seen, no other lyctor is currently doing what they were supposed to

so, ortus says he'll go with mati to help gideon the first

abby and magnus want him to go with them to be forever happy in their polycule, but it's too late

abby has insulted his spelling and magnus has made him feel uncomfy with his joke about the flirting

HOWEVER protozoa has told him he actually likes him AND has quoted poetry HE WROTE HIMSELF

enemies to friends to lovers to soulmates

martita, who was there the whole time, ties her sword to her broken hand and says she'll go with them

martita is actually cool for a second house person

judith, you didn't deserve her

NOW THERE'S A PROBLEM

A BIG ONE

if harrow doesn't go back to her body, she'll get lost and lose her mind in the river

if she does, though, she's gonna kill gideon for good

harrowcita has a crisis and a breakdown

(and also stops for just a second to remember gideon rolling up her sleeves)

magnus compares the situation to a breakup he had with abby one time, which I don't think really encompasses the gravity of this situation, but ok magnus, it sure is similar

I mean, the breaking up part maybe but the level of gravity of the situation? idk man

I'm sure breaking up with abby felt this dramatic to you but...it's a little different

abby and magnus leave, telling harrowcita that jeanne said to tell gideon "hi" if harrow sees her first

which is super cute of the kid tbh

so, that leaves us with real!dulcinea

who is still here because

1) much like her lyctor counterpart, is very resistant to dying for good

2) she's determined to get vanished into nothingness and disappear into the very essence of existence, which I think sounds pretty cool

"The Seventh says nothingness is the only truly beautiful thing anyway, so nyah"

3) also: "Actually, I've got something to tell you"

I SURE HOPE IT IS A WAY TO SAVE BOTH GIDEON'S AND HARROW'S LIVES

FINGERS CROSSED

and that's it for this chapter!!!! next time, I'm expecting more gideon and yandere twin antics!!!

[seokminfilm]

still life | lee seokmin

🪄 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🪄 warning, non-idol au, artist!reader, boyfriend seokmin, marshmallow fluff, little to no plot, lots of kissing and touching, physical intimacy, seokmin calls reader baby & sweetheart, reader calls seokmin baby, slightly suggestive, blonde hair dokyeom, he is a flat out tease, seokmin soft hours

🪄 summary, you're in your own little world, sketching the man of your dreams (who's also very much real, in your own bedroom, and craving your attention).

🪄 author's note, this is going to be so self-indulgent so i'm sorry in advance. ALSO seokmin in that picture???? ummmmmm i'm going insane i fear...anyways enjoy seokmin being a massive flirt!!

🪄 now playing, pain, pinkpantheress

🪄 word count, 810 | for @kstrucknet

"What are you sketching?" Seokmin's voice is warm as he comes up behind you, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you look up at him quickly, shielding your notebook shyly as you huff. "It's not finished just yet, baby."

You had been working at the sketch page for a whole hour now, and Seokmin was starting to get needy─you hadn't said much to him the whole time, and as much as he loved seeing his artist practicing her talent, he wanted you to practice him too. Practice with him.

"I still want to see," His breath brushes over your ear as he presses a kiss behind it, and your face flames with his ministrations, sighing as you open it slowly, watching your boyfriend's dark eyes scan the tan paper.

It may look like a random man to most, but you knew it was your boyfriend. You had tried to capture his likeness even from behind, sketching the muscles in his back and folds of his ear as best you could. You had everything committed to memory, and you had spent almost ten minutes sketching his profile from behind.

Seokmin was beautiful, and you wanted to do your absolute best to capture him on paper. You had erased his pretty nose too many times for you to count until you finally got it right, and you put every amount of love and care into each hair strand you drew.

"That's beautiful, sweetheart. I love it," Seokmin's voice is warm like syrup as he kisses the nape of your neck, hand lovingly caressing your side. It tickles, and you laugh, biting back a sigh as he kisses the same sensitive spot again and again.

"Seokmin, what are you doing?" You ask softly, brain already fogging up from the amount of love he's giving you. He smiles proudly, lips curling away to reveal pretty teeth as he chuckles at you.

"Kissing you." He says like it's the most simplest thing in the world, and it is─only instead of kissing you, he's ruining your workflow and a lot of other things.

"You're not kissing me, Seokmin. I know the differences between all your kisses." You say, and Seokmin smiles, eyes locking with yours.

"You know the differences?" Seokmin's voice has a playful challenge behind it, and he leans on the countertop, hand covering part of his face as just his half-lidded eyes show, looking up at you as a peak of his blonde hair shows from under his red hoodie.

"Y-yes." You pause, nervous and now incredibly excited with how Seokmin's staring at you.

"You have the soft, 'I love you kisses', the quick, 'Goodbye' kisses, the longing 'Please don't go' kisses, the quick 'Thank you' and the teasing 'You're such a goofball' kisses." You rush through the kisses quickly, causing Seokmin to chuckle at you.

"These ones─" You say, fingertips brushing over the sensitive spot on the back of your neck as you look away from him. "These ones are the 'I want you' kisses. And not the sweet, wholesome 'I want you' ones."

Seokmin stands up straight again, teasing his full height as he looks to you. Your face is flushed from the implications of your former sentence, and Seokmin knows you're thinking about what he's thinking about.

"The other 'I want you' kisses." You add after a moment of silence, and Seokmin presses another one of those 'I want you' kisses to your lips, confirming your observation.

"My sweetheart is such a smart cookie," Seokmin's voice is low, chocolate eyes sweet as he searches yours.

You sigh in defeat, letting Seokmin turn you around on the stool and put his hands on your hips. His lips connect with yours again, and you hum against his mouth, too lazy to try to put up a fight or argument as to why you didn't want this.

"You're not stopping me," Seokmin's voice is a whisper, teasing your lips as he's just centimeters away from kissing you again. You sigh at him, hearing his soft giggle at your surrender as you shrug.

"I'm not." You reassure him, and he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers feather-light under your jaw as he tilts it up to look at him.

"I love you." His voice was quiet, so soft you almost didn't hear it, but it made your heart flutter just the same. His hair was soft in your hands as you grabbed at it weakly, letting him kiss you again as you felt your body move in time with his. When you opened your eyes again, Seokmin was looking at you, eyelashes long and curling against his cheeks.

"And I love you." You reply softly, kissed into defeat as Seokmin's lips curve into the prettiest smile you've ever seen.

A smile you couldn't even try to replicate in your still-life sketches.