#but i didn’t think it would work here…so

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he���d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

[rafesweetie]

‎♡‧₊˚ boat days with rafe are always prissy!readers favourite days.

you loved them because it felt like the one moment rafe’s mind wasn’t elsewhere. usually he was a stressed, impatient man, but when he’d find the time to take the yacht out far and just park it there and soak in the sun with you, he was always happy.

rafe was doing his morning workout while you soaked in the sun that reflected from the water, a shirley temple in hand that rafe made you at the bar. peacefully content, your stomach rested on the longue chair as your back tanned, glowing from the tanning oil that rafe had applied for you while complaining about how oily it felt and how he was gonna have to wash his hands.

with a sigh when you realize your drink is empty, you call rafe’s name to get you another one — not in a bratty way, you just knew rafe was always glad to keep you content, so he would make you another, even if he did mutter ‘i’m not your fuckin’ servant’ every time.

he comes over, pausing his workout. “yeah, baby?”

“can i have another drink?” you ask, turning over to lie on your back so you can face him.

“yeah, i got you,” he takes the empty glass and makes you another shirley temple, then brings it back to you. “need anything else?”

“umm..” you try to think, biting on your inner cheek. “dunno if i really want tan lines, can you help me untie my bikini top?”

“this isn’t france, baby, can’t sit outside with your tits out,”

“do you see anyone around? we’re in the middle of the ocean,” you ask. “didn’t know you were such a prude, just wanna tan my chest,”

“m’not a prude. fine, sit up. c’mon,” he relents, and you sit up.

his big hands fidget with the little bow on your triangle bikini, untying both knots. “there you go,” he pats your shoulder. “gotta go back to working out, you good here for like, fifteen minutes? not bored?”

“i’m fine. thank you rafe,” you smile up at him, pecking his lips while he’s still crouched down.

he nods, giving you one last look with his pretty baby blues before turning to go to the back of the boat to finish his workout.

you spend a bit of time on your phone while you’re still sat up, taking photos of the water, and topless selfies to absolutely send to rafe next time he’s at the office, and take sips of your shirley temple. then you apply some tanning oil on your front and tan that side for a little while, putting in an earbud to listen to some lana del rey.

after a while, you’re overheatting, even with your drink. but thankfully, rafe is feeling the exact same way. he finishes his workout and comes back to you all sweaty.

“hey,” he breathes out, taking the earbud out of your ear and stealing a sip of your drink so he can get his breath back.

“rafe!” you whine, swiping your drink back.

“usually when people say hey, you say hi back,” he says sarcastically, teasing you. “anyway, c’mon, we’re going swimming, i’m hot as fuck and you’re coming with me,”

you nod and he helps you up. he takes you to the edge of the boat. “we’re gonna jump, you good with that?”

“nervous,” you admit, staring off the yacht and into the blue water.

“you’ll be all good. i’ll hold your hand,” he assures, grabbing your manicured hand. “on three,”

he counts down, squeezing your hand each time. when he gets to three, he jumps and pulls you with him.

the water feels cold and refreshing against your warm body. you can’t help but think that your blowout is ruined from the water, but rafe will pay for another one if it upsets you. giggling, you resurface, looping your arms around rafe’s neck, topless chest pressed against his. “that was fun!”

“yeah?” he can’t help the little smile that appears at your happiness. “c’mon, let’s go again,”

with an eager nod, he helps you onto the ladder at the back of the boat, and you grab his hand when he walks you to the edge again. he counts down again, and you jump. it continues like that for 7 minutes until you get chilly.

rafe gets you a towel embroidered with his name (of course), and leaves you to warm up in the sun.

at the end of the day, you’ve changed into a spare sundress kept below deck, because rafe is cooking dinner in the mini kitchen on the yacht. you watch him cook, drying your hair off with a towel, then recurling your eyelashes and putting your lipgloss back on that wiped away.

you sit down back outside, both of you eating your dinner as the sky turns into this gorgeous swirl of pink, orange, and yellow while the sun dips down.

with the golden hour highlighting every feature on your boyfriends face, the feeling of your wet hair soaking the back of the dress, and putting the most delicious food in your mouth, you’re absolutely sure you’ll never get sick of this.

“i think the water is gonna tarnish my necklace,” you tell rafe gently as you help him wash the plates after. your hand subconsciously fiddles with said necklace, the one that has his initial on it. rafe’s very proud of that necklace.

“well we can’t have that, yeah?” rafe smiles, putting his hands on your waist. “we’ll buy you a new one tomorrow, hm? real gold this time, no cheaping out,”

you smile and nod, and he kisses you in a way that’s gonna screw you up forever. being with him is like paradise.

[lightseoul]

a/n. i really don't know where i'm going with this, y'all. but getting to role-play as a therapist and explore bakugou's psyche has been lots of fun, so bear with me. please let me know what you think and/or would want to see! maybe that'll give me an idea lol. (1.1k)

navigation. part 1, part 2, (you are here)

“n-no.”

at that, the woman’s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing underneath her fringe. “no?”

“you heard me,” bakugou spits instinctively, immediately regretting how hostile that sounded not even a second later. “i mean, no, i didn’t.”

his therapist, apparently unfazed by his show of aggression—she must’ve gotten used to it by now, although he still feels bad when he gets testy—only jots something down in her clipboard before looking back up at him, an inexplicable expression etched across her features.

“do you have any ideas, then, why, for the first time in seemingly forever, you’re fixating on a particular social encounter?”

bakugou barely manages to bite back a scowl.

he hates it—this part. the part where his psychologist obviously has theories as to why he’s acting a certain way or how he’s actually feeling but chooses to ask him instead, in an attempt to draw it out of him.

as if talking about difficult shit in the first place isn’t already painful enough.

and isn’t that what he’s paying her to do? give him answers? why’d he have to be the one to wrack his brain for uncomfortable answers to uncomfortable questions?

“do you?” he then challenges, emboldened by that train of thought just now.

“yes,” she responds truthfully and without missing a beat it somewhat surprises him. “but as i’ve explained to you before, i think it’ll be helpful for you if we try a more active approach on your end so that any insights gleaned from our discussions become more personalized and stick with you longer.”

well, then. fuck.

the lady’s got a point.

“so,” she continues when he doesn’t reply, annoyingly aware her little spiel got to him, “any ideas? working hypotheses?”

“uh,” he starts begrudgingly, eyes roving over the bookshelves lining the room’s walls as he struggles to come up with another angle. then it dawns on him, and he looks directly at the woman. “i didn’t expect to see someone in here, and when i did, it caught me off guard.”

“that may be because most of our clients opt for virtual consultations rather than face-to-face ones.”

“yeah,” he piles on quickly, admittedly thankful for the validation, and for the fact. the absolute last thing he needs is to bump into some extras before and after therapy. “that must be why.”

“but how does that explain your, and i quote, ‘dumb as shit reaction’?”

bakugou instantly feels himself flame. he clears his throat, “i told you, didn’t i? it caught me off guard. how the fuck did you expect me to react?”

that must’ve been a reasonable point, thank the fuck, because the woman pauses in thought before nodding slowly. “i suppose you’re right.”

he narrowly bites back an of course, i am.

but then she’s spouting off again.

“although it’s interesting to me how your immediate reaction was to say hi, when that’s not really…how should i say, your style, based on our prior sessions and your personality test results.”

a pause.

bakugou scrambles for a bulletproof rebuttal. he comes up short.

the lady cocks her head to the side, curious. “how often would you say you mull over social blunders?”

never, he thinks to himself. because they never happen.

“i figured as much,” comes her unexpected reply, and only then does it dawn on him that he said the last bit out loud.

“can we talk about something else?” he finds himself suddenly asking, totally over this entire conversation. he can worry about being a loser and pathetically begging for an out some other time. right now, he just needs a break.

“actually, you’re in luck,” she checks her smartwatch, “the session’s just about to end.”

at that, his shoulders almost instantly sag in relief, which makes the woman laugh. he shoots her a half-hearted glare.

they spend the next few minutes summarizing what has been discussed, as well as the arrangements for the following weeks, with bakugou eventually throwing his bag over his shoulders and bidding her a mumbled goodbye. he tosses her a nod over his shoulder as he crosses the threshold of her office, mind already drifting to what he’s going to cook himself for dinner.

and that, for a typical session, he’s walking out relatively unscathed.

but then he does the stupid thing of looking up from where he was studying his trainers when a door creaks open, and he freezes.

because standing a few feet away from him, right beside the entrance to the restroom, is you, equally frozen.

he doesn’t know how much time passes with him just staring at you like a motherfucking idiot, and you, strangely enough, peering at him back, but it’s you who eventually takes a hammer to the silence.

“h-hi,” you offer, voice soft and quiet, just like how he vaguely remembers it from two weeks ago.

“hey,” comes his gruff reply, which would’ve been immediately followed by a wince at how rough his tone was just now had he not stopped himself in the nick of time.

at least he didn’t stutter.

“…b-bakugou, right?” you ask after a moment of neither of you saying anything, confirming his earlier suspicions.

“right.”

you nod, a polite yet somehow stilted smile on your face, and suddenly he’s mentally slapping himself. since when was he fucking bound to one-word sentences?

he decides then and there that this shit won’t do.

in an attempt to convince himself that no, this is just a weird outlier of an encounter for him, and that no, he’s not a fucking idiot like dunce face, and that yes, he is and is being perfectly fucking normal, he resolves to ask you for your name.

and he was just about to do that—he swears he was—when someone from the other side of the door calls out a name, and you whip to face their direction, breaking eye contact.

“yes, doc!” you holler back, and he watches you as you hesitate in place for a second, before turning to face him with an awkward smile.

“nice meeting you, bakugou-san.”

and then you’re off and shutting the door behind you.

he stands there for what feels like a few minutes, just blinking at the door in front of him, what must be your name echoing—again and again—up to the far recesses of his mind.

then: fuck.

he may or may not have just lied to his therapist.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra @qyuin | @kalulakunundrum @cheezemanz @gold24fish @lunaryasha

[beloveds-embrace]

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting faint, flickering light across the bedroom walls. Outside, the winter winds howled, clawing at the windows of the inn like a restless spirit, yet within these walls, everything was still. Simon lay on the bed, your steady breaths against his naked chest a comfort he didn’t think he deserved or will ever deserve.

And then he dreamed.

The other version of himself, a man he didn’t want to acknowledge as real, stood coldly at the edge of the grand dining table. That Simon was distant, detached, and unfeeling. His eyes swept over the figure sitting at the far end- you- your dress, not from him, crumpled, your face drawn with exhaustion. You were speaking, but your voice was hollow, words whispered into a void he couldn’t reach. The Simon in the dream didn’t even glance at you. His attention was elsewhere, his mind consumed with matters he thought were more important.

Simon didn’t think anything in the world would ever be more important than you, their precious and lovely Duchess. He didn’t understand his other self- didn’t want to ever have that careless view of you.

When you rose to leave, Simon’s nightmare-self didn’t stop you. You’d excused yourself so quietly that no one could have accused you of disturbing the silence. You left, head bowed, retreating to the dark halls of a cold, lifeless manor this Simon couldn’t relate to John’s lively manor.

Yet that Simon didn’t care. He returned to his work, to his whispered conversations with John, to the loving, fleeting glances exchanged with Kyle and Johnny.

Why did you let her leave?

But you- you grew smaller with each passing day. The halls that should have been filled with your laughter were silent. The dresses this Simon had carefully chosen for you did not exist, and thus you were left in dresses old and patched and unfitting, untouched by his hands. You faded, retreating into yourself, and the whispers of the staff about the “mad Duchess” grew louder.

The staff would never talk about you like that. Why did you let them, Simon?

Simon saw it all. He saw the way you flinched when no one looked at you. He saw the way you hesitated to enter a room, unsure if your presence was welcome. He saw you stop eating, stop dressing, stop existing.

The nightmare was a world of suffocating gray.

Simon stood in the grand halls of their shared home, but it wasn’t the home he knows. The walls were stark and barren, the warmth of family portraits and soft candlelight replaced with cold, lifeless shadows. Dust lingered in the air, undisturbed for weeks, maybe months, blanketing everything in the same muted despair.

There were no portraits of you, beyond the singular one of your marriage to John. Your face had been ripped off it.

He searched for you.

Room after room was empty, yet his heart pounded with dread. The dining table was set but untouched, the once vibrant dishes left cold and congealed. In the study, his desk was stacked with neglected lettersa some from you, written in a trembling hand, pleading for his attention, begging for his care. Each word burns itself into his mind: “Am I so unworthy?”

Your bedroom- no, your prison- was the last place he searched. He was afraid of what he’d find, yet he couldn’t stop his feet from carrying him forward. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight as if the light itself has abandoned you. You were there, curled up on the grand bed, your frail frame dwarfed by the heavy, oppressive canopy above.

You looked… so small. So still.

Simon’s heart ached.

Why did you do this to her?

“Love,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he knelt beside you. His gloved hand reached for your cheek, but it was cold. So cold it sent a jolt of terror through him.

You stirred, just barely. Your eyes fluttered open, dull and glassy, but there was no recognition in them.

“Simon?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible. “What… are you doing here?”

The question was a knife to his chest.

Why wouldn’t I be here? What has my other self done to you?

“I’m here for you, sweetheart,” he choked out, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. You were too cold; Kyle would never leave your room this freezing; Johnny would never let you go to bed hungry and bereft of warm food. “I’m here now.”

But you pulled away, weakly but resolutely, as if his touch was poison.

“You’re always too late.”

The words echoed in the cold, empty room. He tried to protest, tried to pull you into his arms, but you collapse against the pillows, your breath shallow and fading, fading like smoke until-

And then you were gone.

The weight of it crushed him. The silence was unbearable, suffocating, and all he could do was scream your name into the void that took you from him.

Simon woke with a start.

The gasp tore from his throat before he could stop it, his hand flying to your side. You were there- warm, breathing, alive. His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead as the remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs.

You stirred, your soft murmur of his name breaking through the haze of fear. You sounded soft, groggy- so full of life it nearly brought him to tears. “Simon?”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, so close that your sleepy protest was muffled against his chest. “Go back to sleep, love.” He whispered, voice rough. But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

Hours later, when the sun began to rise, Simon was still awake. He had been watching you, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he memorized every detail of your face. The soft curve of your lips, the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. You were alive. You were loved. You weren’t-

The dream wouldn’t leave him.

In the morning, when you were fully awake, you made no mention of how tight Simon’s arms were around you. You made no mention of how he asked you again and again if you were warm, full- his arm around your waist in a gentle hold that felt like it was more for his comfort.

You said none of it; but you made sure you kisses him enough until that fear in his eyes slowly dissipated. You and him had come to this inn for a bit of break, and you didn’t want to return to the manor with any sadness clinging to you or Simon.

When you returned to the manor, Simon still made no mention of it.

He didn’t speak of it, though John noticed how Simon hovered closer to you than usual. He didn’t bring it up during lunch, though Johnny commented on how quiet Simon had become, his usual sharp wit dulled. Kyle, perceptive as ever, caught Simon lingering in the halls outside your favorite sitting room, his eyes clouded with something between guilt and sorrow even though looked no different than usual.

But it wasn’t until late that evening, as you sat before the fire with a book in hand, that Simon finally broke.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. He was silent as a shadow, and when you glanced up, startled, he was already kneeling before you.

“Simon?” you asked, concern flickering across your face. “What’s wrong?”

His hands found yours, cradling them as though you might disappear if he let go. For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze tracing every feature of your face. And then, in a voice low and strained, he said, “I saw a world where I lost you.”

Your brow furrowed, but he didn’t let you speak.

“You were there, in the manor, but… no one saw you. Not properly. Not me. Not John. Not Kyle or Johnny. You were alone. Lonely.” His grip tightened on your hands, though he was still gentle. “You withered away, and we didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

The raw emotion in his voice took your breath away. “Simon, it was just a dream,” your voice was soft, though your heart ached at the pain etched into his face.

“No,” he said fiercely, jaw tight. “It wasn’t. It… it felt too real. Like a warning. Like something I could let happen if I wasn’t careful.”

You leaned forward, cupping his face in your hands. “But it didn’t happen, Simon. It won’t. You’re not that man. None of you are.”

His eyes closed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for warmth. “I won’t let it happen,” he murmured. “I’ll never let you feel like that. I’ll make sure you know how much we love you. Every single day.”

You smiled, brushing a kiss against his forehead. “I already do, Simon. You don’t have to worry. Stay with me for now, alright?”

And he did; he would not deny you of anything.

[moonlitwitchdaisy]

fashion photographer!gojo part 1

paris fashion week was as exhausting as it was exhilarating for you.

trying to make it to three shows in a day, squeezing in castings in between, attending countless parties, and meeting new people made you feel like you were truly living life to the fullest.

especially that arrogant and handsome photographer… he never missed an opportunity to invade your packed schedule and fill it with himself.

after the shoot with fashion photographer!gojo in paris, you had ended up in his massive hotel suite and lost count of how many times you fucked. not a single corner of that hotel room was left untouched.

of course, that wasn’t enough for him. whether you had free time or not didn’t matter—there wasn’t a single moment he wasn’t stuffing his cock into your pussy, either before a show, in the car rushing to the next one, or even at the after-parties.

“models for the runway, please gather near the photographers’ area backstage,” the backstage coordinator’s shout made your fingers tighten even more in gojo’s hair.

“gojo… i need to go, ple-nghhh please stop,” you whimpered as gojo harshly sucked on your clit, pulling yet another moan from your lips.

right now, you were in a spot a little away from the backstage area, somewhere you didn’t know how gojo had found, and where no one else was around. he was among the guests invited to the show and would be watching from the front row. the moment he arrived backstage, people flocked to him, showering him with attention and making him the center of it all. but gojo wasn’t there to mingle or admire the new collection.

you knew exactly what he wanted.

gojo lifted his head from between your legs, his lips glistening and his face slick with your juices, looked up at you. “how many times do i have to tell you to call me satoru?”

“fuck off, satoru, i need to go.”

“and i don’t want you to go,” he replied, sliding his fingers along your drenched folds, making you gasp. “besides, i think you don’t want to leave right now either. please, baby, let me help relieve your stress, hm?”

the show you were about to walk in was the most anticipated event of fashion week. your legs were trembling with nervous excitement, and you were terrified you might stumble and fall on the runway. gojo, however, had promised to help you turn that around, and now here you were, pressed against a wall in some hidden room, letting one of the most prominent figures in the fashion world eat your pussy.

your grip on his snowy white hair loosened slightly. “i don’t want to embarrass myself.”

gojo pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking back up at you. “you won’t. remember, if you’ve proven to me how amazing a model you can be, everyone else already knows how good you are.”

arrogant bastard. even in a sentence meant to reassure you, he managed to stroke his own ego.

“instead of using your mouth to praise yourself, use it to make me cum. wasn’t that what you wanted, to help me relieve my stress?” you smirked.

gojo seemed to enjoy your bold words because he wasted no time responding. “whatever my favorite model wants.” and with that, he got right back to work.

as his two fingers pumped into you, his tongue kept pace, swirling over your clit. his tongue was relentless, flicking and drawing circles on that sensitive little spot, making your eyes flutter shut.

“so good, keep going,” you tilted your head back, moaning and craving more.

gojo curled his fingers, finding your g-spot, while his tongue drew intricate shapes on your swollen bud. as if that wasn’t enough, he sucked your clit into his mouth, his lips relentless.

“fuck, fuck…” your legs shook, and your hands gripped his hair with a strength you didn’t know you had.

gojo briefly pulled his lips away from your dripping clit with a lewd pop, his fingers still working inside you. “you’re so fucking beautiful. this pussy was made for me. god, it’s trembling around my fingers just like your legs.” he growled before diving back in, sucking harder.

“i love—i love when you touch me. you make me feel so fucking good.” it was true. every touch of his made you feel like a goddess. people weren’t wrong when they said satoru gojo had a talent for elevating others.

whether it was through his photos, his mouth, or his cock.

gojo released your clit again, though his fingers never faltered. he whispered into your dripping pussy, “because you are perfect, my muse.” then he sped up his fingers and brought his mouth back to your clit, sucking with a fervor that had you seeing stars.

his nose brushed against you as he worked, and the sensation sent a deep moan ripping from your throat. you didn’t care if anyone outside heard the mix of moans and cries spilling from your mouth. right now, all you cared about was finding relief before the big show.

“goj-satoru shit, my legs are t-trembling,” you stammered, pressing his face closer, signaling how close you were. the only thing shaking more than your legs was your voice as his relentless mouth and fingers drove you to the edge.

“cum, baby. soak my face, cover me in your sweetness. fuck, you taste so good.”

as he growled those words into your pussy, your trembling turned into spasms, and you shut your eyes. the orgasm spread through your body, yet gojo’s fingers didn’t stop. as you grew more sensitive, you begged him to stop. at first, he didn’t listen and kept going, but eventually, the movements of his fingers slowed down. finally, he stopped and slowly withdrew his fingers, now coated in your sticky juices.

“let me clean you up,” he murmured, licking the juices that had trickled down your thighs. “can’t have you going on the runway like this, right?” his tongue lapped at your thighs as he peppered soft kisses along your skin.

“you’re insane, satoru gojo,” you muttered, your hand brushing against the nape of his neck—his favorite spot to be touched.

he pressed one last kiss to your sensitive pussy before standing up. he fixed the designer skirt that had ridden up your waist, then leaned down to capture your lips with his still-wet ones. “you look relaxed now. when you walk the runway, remember this—I’ll only be watching you.” he pulled back, smoothing his hair before heading for the door. just as he reached it, he turned around. “oh, and after the show, come to the back entrance. my car will be waiting. sorry you’ll miss the after-party, but trust me, i’ll make up for it in the car and the room later.”

once he left, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. with all the stress drained from your body, you were finally ready for the show. a few minutes later, you emerged from the room, ignoring the frantic chatter of people saying they’d been looking for you everywhere. “i just needed to relax,” you said, brushing past their confused faces and taking your place in the lineup.

after the show ended, you quickly changed, bid everyone goodbye with a rushed excuse about missing the after-party, and headed to the back entrance. opening the door of the sleek black car, you found that cocky, talented photographer sitting there in his cream-colored suit and vintage sunglasses. without saying a word, you climbed into the car and sat beside him.

you said nothing, just looked straight ahead. but you knew he had that smug grin on his face.

just before the car started moving, gojo pressed a button, and the black partition separating the front and back began to rise. you turned to look at him, and before he could say anything, you climbed into his lap, tossing his sunglasses aside and crashing your lips against his.

fashion photographer!gojo may have made you miss the after-party, but he made sure to give you the best one in the car and the hotel room. again. and again.

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

[daddydixonscrossbow]

Just thinking about Daryl would react after not seeing you for more than a week.

You were at Oceanside, helping train a few of the new and upcoming fighters. Daryl was back home at Alexandria, and it’s been almost a week since you’ve seen each other.

“That’s right, step back, find your footing, and stab.” You say before demonstrating, “Now sometimes, you’re not going to have that time to get your footing, so another key thing to remember is to always, always have as good of a grip on your knife as you can.”

You hold out your hand, “You’re going to want to place it into your hand like so, the longer you use it, the more comfort you’ll find in it.”

“Hey, y/n.” One of the girls point, “Isn’t that Daryl?”

You turn your head, a smile spreading over your face as you see him walking across the beach, lifting his hand to wave to you, “Perfect, everyone take a break, we’ll get back to it in a little bit.”

You tuck your knife back into the holder before starting your trek down over the bank.

You run towards him, and he holds his arm out, “C’mere.” He groans as you jump into his arms, “There’s my girl.” He wraps his arms around you as tight as yours are around him, “You missed me that bad, huh?”

“Six days is far, too long.” You lean back, pressing your lips to his, “I thought you were coming tomorrow or whatever?” He shrugs, still holding you in his arms, “We got done early, figured I’d come by and watch you in action.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Fuck, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

“Yeah, tell me’bout it.” He rubs your back, “Dog misses you too. Slept in your spot every damn night.”

“Awe.” You pout, “I miss him.”

“We’ll get’cha back home soon enough.” He leans in to kiss your head, “What are ya teachin’em today?” You look up at him, “Knife skills.”

“You’re good with a knife.” He flicks his brows up and you laugh, “Saved your ass a few times with one didn’t I?” He sighs, “Hey now, no need to bring that up, alright, I just got here.” He slides his hand down, tucking it into your back pocket and squeezing, “Now get your ass back to work.”

Here’s a kiss for likin’ and rebloggin’ 💋

[gf2bellamy]

bet — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and spencer have a bet on who is going to be the first to expose your relationship content warnings: mention of a victim a/n: when i tell you this took me ages omg i was struggling

You and Spencer had a bet. 

A ridiculous, entirely unnecessary bet—but a bet nonetheless.

The stakes? Bragging rights, and the satisfaction of being able to tease the other endlessly.

The challenge? Who would be the first to slip up and accidentally reveal your secret relationship to the rest of the BAU team. 

Both of you knew that secrecy wasn’t exactly your strong suit. Between Spencer’s tendency to ramble when nervous and your habit of wearing your emotions like a neon sign, it was only a matter of time before someone pieced it all together.

And that was what made the bet so much fun—because neither of you wanted to be the one to crack first. 

Some mishaps had already happened, moments that came far too close to giving you both away. 

Like the time Derek had caught Spencer staring at you during a team briefing. “Hey, Pretty Boy, you got something to add, or are you just lost in thought over there?” Derek had teased, a smirk tugging at his lips. Spencer, predictably, had flushed a deep shade of red and stumbled over a vague response. 

And, of course, who could forget the case in Chicago when Hotch had walked into the room just as Spencer had brushed a strand of hair out of your face? The gesture had been so natural, so tender, that even Hotch had paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his sentence. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a knowing glance, though he hadn’t said a word. 

Right now, you were sitting at your desk, trying (and failing) to focus on finishing your report on the case from two days ago.

“Spence, what was the address of the place where we found the second victim?” you asked, tapping your pen on the paper as you glanced up at your boyfriend sitting across from you at his desk.

“1375 Oakridge Drive,” he replied almost automatically, barely looking up from his own report.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, jotting it down and trying not to get distracted by the little curl of hair falling onto his forehead.

The bullpen was unusually quiet, save for the faint clacking of keyboards and the low hum of the coffee machine.

That peace didn’t last long, though, as Derek and Garcia burst into the room, engaged in what sounded like a very enthusiastic debate. 

“Reid, listen to this!” Derek called out, cutting across the bullpen as Penelope trailed behind him, waving her arms dramatically. Both you and Spencer instinctively looked up from your work.

“Okay,” Derek began, leaning one arm casually on the divider of Spencer’s desk. “Do you think watching a rom-com with someone is romantic?” 

“Specifically with a friend,” Penelope interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because apparently, Mr. ‘Romance Expert’ here thinks it is!” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, Penelope. It can be romantic. I mean, think about it—it’s all cozy, emotional, and half the time someone ends up crying or sharing popcorn. You’re telling me that doesn’t create a vibe?” 

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He sat up straighter, adjusting his tie slightly as he considered his answer. 

“Well,” he began, his voice contemplative, “the concept of watching a romantic comedy doesn’t inherently equate to a romantic interaction. However, if the participants have underlying romantic feelings, the environment—such as sharing an intimate space or engaging in emotional dialogue—could certainly facilitate a sense of connection. For example, I—” 

He froze mid-sentence, his brain catching up with his mouth as he realized where he was going. 

Oh no. 

Your eyes widened in panic as you watched Spencer flounder. His lips parted as though he might try to backtrack, but the damage was already done. 

“For example…?” Derek prompted, his brows shooting up, clearly intrigued. 

Spencer quickly cleared his throat, fumbling for a save. “Uh, hypothetically. I mean, generally speaking. Like, if two people…were, um, interested in each other—not me, of course—then maybe…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at you. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, knowing full well that he was treading dangerously close to losing the bet. 

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying Spencer for a moment. “Hmm,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. “You’re acting a little weird there. Something you wanna share with the class?” 

“Nope!” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so forcefully it made his curls bounce. “Absolutely nothing.” 

Penelope raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Spencer with suspicion. “Uh-huh. If you say so.” 

You decided to intervene before they could dig any deeper. “Alright, Garcia, what’s your stance on the rom-com thing?” you asked, redirecting the conversation. 

The distraction worked, and Penelope launched into an impassioned argument, effectively pulling Derek’s attention away from Spencer.

You shot Spencer a look across the desks, mouthing close call. He gave you an apologetic shrug, his cheeks still faintly pink. 

Two days later, you made the mistake. The one that was ten times worse than the rom-com slip-up Spencer had made. 

You were in the file room, buried in paperwork that Hotch had assigned to you earlier that morning. The hours had been long and draining, and you’d barely made a dent in the pile.

Derek was there too, flipping through some files, his eyes narrowing in concentration, while Garcia sat at the table, her usual flair of colorful banter filling the otherwise quiet room.

She wasn’t doing much work, but she was keeping the rest of you entertained with her gossip. 

“This is tiring,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you stretched and yawned, your eyes heavy from exhaustion.

You handed Derek a file, trying to keep your energy up, though it was clear you weren’t succeeding. 

Spencer, who had been quietly scanning through a set of documents, glanced up at you, and then took a step closer. “You should go take a break and grab a coffee,” he suggested, his voice warm and concerned. “I’ll take these off your hands.” 

You spun around to face him, smiling at the sight of him standing there, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly tousled.

His expression was a mixture of concern and adoration, and you couldn’t help the little flutter in your chest. 

You smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the offer. You’d been working for hours, and the fatigue was beginning to take its toll. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft with appreciation. Without thinking, you leaned in slightly and planted a quick kiss on Spencer's cheek, your hand instinctively resting on his face—something you'd done countless times without giving it much thought.

The moment your lips brushed his skin, time seemed to slow. You pulled back almost immediately, but not fast enough. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up into Spencer’s eyes, wide and shocked.

His brown eyes were locked on yours, the same stunned expression mirroring your own. 

It was like a slow-motion realization hit you both at the exact same time—you just kissed him. 

Before either of you could process what had happened, a loud gasp echoed from behind you. 

“Oh my god!” Garcia squealed, her voice thick with excitement. 

You felt your face burn as you snapped your eyes shut, feeling a flush creep up your neck. You could practically hear Derek’s mischievous chuckle follow suit. 

Spencer's back stiffened, and you knew exactly what was coming next. 

“Well, well, well,” Derek's voice rang out, full of teasing amusement, “Look what we got here” His tone was almost dramatic as he clapped Spencer on the back. 

“Way to go, my man! Getting the girl!” Derek cheered loudly. 

You dropped your hand from Spencer’s face to his chest, your shoulders slumping as you sighed loudly.

It was out in the open now—so much for the bet. 

Penelope’s voice cut through the air like a burst of confetti. “I knew it! I’ve been saying it for months, but nobody would listen to me!”

She was practically bouncing on her feet as she grinned at the both of you, clearly pleased with herself. 

Spencer gave you a nervous but warm smile. You could tell he was about to say something, but before he could, you were swarmed by both Derek and Garcia. 

“I knew you two were adorable,” Garcia squealed, pulling you into a tight hug. “Oh my god, you two are going to be so cute together.” 

Derek, on the other hand, ruffled Spencer’s hair. “I’m proud of you, man.” 

You could feel your pulse racing as you glanced at Spencer, who was doing his best to keep his usual composure, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He gave you a look that could only be described as amused exasperation, as if asking, Well, I guess we don’t need to worry about hiding it anymore, do we? 

A quiet laugh escaped your lips. Spencer’s smile softened as his hand reached for yours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I didn’t mean for this to—” 

He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I think it’s about time they found out.” 

Later that night, you and Spencer were lying in bed. Your head rested on his chest, and your fingers absentmindedly drew soft circles over his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

His hand was gently resting around your waist, his thumb lightly brushing over the skin of your arm. 

"Today was fun," you murmured into his chest, the sound muffled but sincere. 

“A lot of fun,” he chuckled, the vibration of his laugh resonating through his chest. 

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering the teasing from Derek and Garcia, and the way everything had just spilled out into the open.

“I for sure thought you’d be the one to lose the bet,” you teased, your voice light and playful. 

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a soft smile. "I didn’t," he said, his voice playful but confident. 

“Why is that?” you asked, lifting your head just enough to prop yourself up on your elbow. Spencer met your gaze, his smile never wavering.

He was looking down at you with that soft affection that always made your heart skip a beat, but there was something teasing behind his eyes now. 

"You're more obvious than me," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with his fingers, the touch tender. 

You immediately furrowed your brow, sitting up a little straighter. “No I’m not,” you said, a playful frown tugging at your lips. 

But the moment his fingers gently brushed your hair again, any trace of the playful frown disappeared. A warm smile spread across your face, unable to resist the effect his touch had on you. 

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that teasing spark you knew so well. “Oh really?” he said, his voice laced with amusement, his gaze never leaving yours. 

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “Okay, maybe,” you admitted with a mock sigh, before leaning back down onto his chest. 

Spencer’s laughter rumbled softly in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

You snuggled closer to him, your face against his chest once more, feeling the beat of his heart beneath you.

"Goodnight, Spence," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Goodnight," he replied, his hand gently squeezing your waist as he kissed your forehead one last time. 

[cursedcola]

Prompt: “I Lived Bitch” <- You send them a text message of an an image. Said image is a headshot of you with bandages around your head, a couple of bruises on your face, and the staple cheeky peace sign to tie it all together. Context Varies. Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Overblot Homies Format: TEXT.IMG + Bullets.

Parts: (Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil) (Here) , (Vil, Idia, Malleus) Masterlist: Link A/N: Saw some of these floating around and thought the text format would be good for some mixed scenarios <3. Sorry they’re not all in one. Tumblr has a picture limit. Edit: HUZZAH I have discovered a way to put more images. Less parts hehe.

A gradual spiral. Riddle isn’t one to dwell until order is disrupted. He initially thinks you’re off causing mischief with Ace and Deuce - already preparing for whatever comes.

When they arrive on their own, knowing nothing about you? He’s uncomfortable. When Grim struts in on his own, he’s concerned. When Crewel stops him saying that you missed half your classes and didn’t have any absentee excuse? He’s panicking.

The controlled type of panic where it feels like that first month of Sophomore year all over again. Grim’s already earned a collar. How could he not know where his prefect is? The Headmaster is irresponsible surely, but you were a good student. Riddle wouldn’t partner with someone unable to uphold their basic responsibilities.

Riddle was one hour short of marching to Crowley’s office, because perhaps it was STYX scenario again and he wasn’t having a repetition.

You finally respond when he’s desperately trying to study - he wasn’t going to sacrifice his schedule.

Which gets forgotten regardless. He leaves the books abandoned (not that he could get past one page without drifting) and speed walks to the clinic. That anxious red poking out from his collar, heels smacking against marble. It’s rare for him to ever walk with his head in a screen - such a thing is rude, but his eyes are glued as he turns each corner.

He’s not happy you chose to downplay the situation. Considering his history with medicinal magic, Riddle’s already bombarding the nurse for your medical report once he enters. Then he sits silently at your bedside, flipping through the clipped papers. The occasional scoff turns to a tick in his jaw when reading the incident report.

Cave in of the Ramshackle stairwell? Looks like he’s having a word with the Headmaster after all.

Unlike Riddle, there’s an instant agitation with this one. Call it the princely charm of wanting instant responses.

Also. You don’t ignore him for silly reasons. When you say that you’re meeting him somewhere, you do. Same for Leona. He might gripe but he always shows up.

So he doesn’t need to wait. There’s already a nagging feeling in his stomach after the first twenty minutes pass.

He’s logical. Knows all your spots. Knows your schedule and would honestly even text Azul (if you’re working that day). Pain in the ass, but he’ll do it.

So first instinct is to do a play-by-play of the past week in his head. Look for any reason you might be pissed or too ‘busy’ to hold your plans. When he comes up empty, he’ll strut up to the little frosh table. Stir some anxiety with a glare or whatever, which gets serious when no one has any idea where you’re at. Not even the little weasel.

Any longer and he might’ve gone to Rook. We all know how Leona feels about Rook, but he’s the best when it comes to tabbing someone.

Your text comes during Spelldrive practice. He’s standing on his broom, looking over the field, arms crossed and agitated with the TWST equivalent of a bluetooth headset in his ear.

Dips out so fast. 0mph to roughly 50 after waving Ruggie to finish without him. Flies right out the practice court, overhead main campus, and outside the infirmary. Not in the mood to deal with the nurse or any of that crap. Comes in through the window.

Pissed. Pissed he didn’t think to check here, and pissed he should’ve had to. Did you learn nothing from the Spelldrive tournament? Broomwork isn’t easy, and not meant for two people unless someone with strong magic can support it.

Wants to know which idiot let you fall, but he’s been on edge all day. He can grill it out of you later. Scoot over and make room, he’s owed his mid-day nap. No. He’s not sleeping in a free bed. The scent of antibacterial spray is shanking his nose, so he needs yours to mask it.

In truth he is NOT okay. He’s very pissed and doesn’t sleep a wink. How could he? Pulls the curtain around your bed and flops over you with his tail curled around your leg. Hurts? Tough luck. Don’t pull a stunt like that ever again.

Azul is tweaking out - just so you know. First out of panic and then for the little sweettalk - even if he asked for it

Already used to you getting knocked over the head - Floyd's a bit too rough for his liking when swinging ya around, but what can he do?

Amidst packing up his belongings in a rush, the VIP lounge's empty so he can skidadle along like he normally would when alone. The moment the picture loads, he's honestly glad you texted vs. video call since it's easier to feign that cocky attitude of his via message.

Despite sassing you about the twins - he's a bit miffed you'd think for a moment he isn't coming himself. If anything to get the story from word-of-mouth vs. whatever Jade's going to relay.

Speaking of, oh look - one of the lounge couches is already set up to accommodate one injured prefect. A light meal and some tea too. Floyd's itching for a squeeze, but the most you get is a rough toss on the cushion before Azul's got him in one of those rare gridlocks where Floyd backs down. Did you think he couldn't? Octopi are freaking strong.

Rather than be outwardly miffed, he's already regained his composure during his walk to the infirmary.

So...you fell while trying to get an overhead shot of campus for the newspaper? And you were just...given access? To one of the high towers? You. A student without a broom or ability to cast a safeguard charm.

....Hmm. Someone gave you access? Curious. Only Professors are allowed to hand out access passes. Sounds a bit 'fishy' but he's satisfied. Looks like Floyd might get to play after all.

....oh he's not mad, he's just disappointed (ouch)

He's too busy to sit and worry over where you're at. Jamil trust (ed) that as the only other mildly-sane person at this school, you'd make educated decisions

Okay. That's a lie. You're not sane, but he accepted as much when he begrudgingly fell for said insanity...damn hearts and their lack of logic

Honestly? He was shocked you put him as an emergency contact. Flattered even. Until the simmering frustration began to boil - because of course you went of campus. Of course you took the trolly down to the Isle shops, and of course you got hit by a car trying to stop Grim from running across the street (he saw a sushi shop and bolted).

Of course Jamil can't just go on his own. He has to finish his tasks, get permission, and using the carpet means telling Kalim. Which will then lead to him getting worked up and lo behold it is an event now.

At least using the Al Asim name gets the permission granted without a fuss...Jamil just wants to see that you're okay in person for himself...and also lay into you for being reckless. No holding back.

Hah. Haha. -_-

Don't try getting out of this by acting cute with the little 'i love you' and grabby hands once he gets there. He's not that soft-hearted...yet. Jamil has his principles.

Kalim might jump off and barrel in past medical professionals without thinking twice. Jamil will do his casual glance-over, speak with the nurses, and pull up a chair once he realizes you won't be let go until morning. Great. Now it's just you three stuck in a small hospital room (Kalim got ya booted up to a private stay) as some strange impromptu sleepover.

Just...give him a bit. Wait for Kalim to pass out on the spare cot and then he'll stop looking so emotionally repressed. Believe it or not, he'd trade places with you in a heartbeat if he could.

Not because he feels obligated, but because getting the 'hey, your partner is off in a clinic miles away' call during his normal schedule was a heart attack Jamil wasn't prepped for.

He thought the worst news could be that you'd gone home without saying anything. Somehow? This was nearly on par. 90% on par.

[thelov3lybookworm]

The Red Carpet

Summary: Flashes and interviews, the dreaded part of his job. But at least his wife is with him.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1651 (including comments and captions)

Warnings: none me thinks 😋

A/n: first time doing smau kinda nervousss 🤪 BUT IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS AHAHAH

azzie is a movie star, yn is a fashion designer and his college sweetheart (ps. my heart my soul @berryzxx gave me the idea to make yn a fashion designer so ILYYY 🥹🥹🥹)

(id love to expand in this universe tbh, so if youve got ideas, lemme know 😋 cass and rhys coming soon, maybe ill do some for vanserra bros too 🥹)

also im so proud of myself for coming up with all these usernames like who is dis 😳

ANYWAYS, ENJOYYYY!!!🥳🥳🥳

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Y/nAzriel_06

liked by Y/n'sHusband3000, rhysand-thegreat, nestassworld-obvi, nesta_archeron26, feyre-archer-on and 450,026 others

Y/nAzriel_06 stole his matcha when he wasn't looking... think I'll stick to my good ole coffee 🫤😓 ps. so excited for the award ceremony today!! how many of you are we seeing?? ❣️✨

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Y/n'sHusband3000 look at that gorgeous woman 😍(I told you you wouldn't like the matcha😏i also knew you stole it 🤭)

Y/nAzriel_06 stawp it 🥹(no kisses for you today)

Y/n'sHusband3000 NO PLEASE IM SORRY

ticktockbomb these two are adorable omg

thebiggestpookiee IM GOINGGG OMG IM SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU AND AZRIEL AND THE REST OF THE STARLIGHT CASTTT 🥳

imjustagirl1995 girl why do you have two diff robes on 😭

Y/nAzriel_06 lmaooooo i put on the pink robe before shower, then Az decided it was important we match after shower 🤭

mor-theoneinred oh mY GOSH YOUR NAILSSSS 😍

Y/nAzriel_06 hehe Az picked them out for me 🤭

getsunghoonedloser i wish i was in that city i would kill to come 😞

Y/nAzriel_06 theres always a next time love!! you never know when we meet hehe <3

getsunghoonedloser omg ily 🥹

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One of the things Azriel thought could be better was the screams and flashes that bombarded him the moment he stepped onto the red carpet.

It was almost like he was some sort of zombie on his way to bite people, except that some people were such fans that they'd probably want him to.

Regardless, he smiled slightly and waved, going to greet his costars of a recent movie they acted in together. Cassian already seemed to be getting ready to walk closer to his old time friend. The movie had been very fun to work on, because not only did it have all his bestfriends working on it, the fans were also very excited for it to come out.

The one thing Azriel didn't like was the fact that Y/n was not in the film. She wasn't an actor, after all. But she did come to the set on most days to cheer him and his friends on. But what he didn’t like about her being in the film was that she wasn't going to be a part of the group photos taken on the red carpet.

She had stayed back when they arrived at the venue, telling Azriel to go on and get the group photos done.

She was a celebrity in herself, most of Azriel’s fans loving her more than they sometimes loved him. And he loved that fact. She would come once the group photos were done to take pictures with Az, apparently.

He couldn’t wait.

"My man!" Cassian hollered, dragging Azriel by the collar to where Rhysand and his wife, Feyre, who was also a part of the team stood, smiling at the cameras. Azriel took a moment to dust himself off and fix his suit before taking his place next to Cassian and Mor, facing the row of photographers and fans.

"Here!"

"Cassian, this way!"

"She’s gorgeous!"

"Oh my god, look at her!"

It was the last scream that made Azriel follow the sound of the voice, and when he found the fan who had called out, he followed her gaze.

To his wife.

She stood at the archway, leaning lightly against the frame, mobile in hand. She clutched the little device with both hands, holding it up to her chest and tilting her head to take the picture she was so focused on.

Immediately, Azriel’s cheeks began burning.

He turned back to the cameras that flashed at him, his smile getting harder to contain. Loud cheers followed his actions, making his cheeks redder.

It took only a few minutes before the shoots were done and Azriel lingered back, beckoning his wife closer. She smiled wide, walking over to him, the beautiful dark blue gown that complimented her skin so well swirling around her legs.

"Hello, love. Missed you." He murmured, his eyes fixed on her as she stopped by his side, wrapping her arms around his. Even the sudden influx of flashes wasn’t enough to get him distracted from the beauty that was in front of him.

She giggled, leaning into him and looking away from the cameras, deep into his eyes.

"We were away for only five minutes."

He shrugged, watching as she smiled once again for the photographers. "Missed you still."

She laughed, reaching up and grabbing his jaw to turn his face towards the photographers, who continued to yell instructions at them. It infuriated Az sometimes, but it was a part of the job.

Only made better by his wife by his side, of course.

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thebiggestpookiee

liked by maximusthehorse, berrysareyummies, Y/nAzriel_06, and 50,004 others

thebiggestpookiee it was so fun seeing everyone at the event tonight! i saw so many celebrities and honestly my inner child is healed lol 🤭 (ps. peep Azriel and Y/n in the second picture, they were so adorable today 🥹)

Y/nAzriel_06 omg thank youuu 🥹 i love these pictures 😍

thebiggestpookie oh gosh thank YOU ❣️

maximusthehorse girl u lucky 😭

getsunghoonedloser oof they look gorgeous 🥹

myurlisnunya omg i want what they have 😭

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"I heard you designed his suit and your own dress?! Is that true??" The interviewer asked, looking only more excited than Y/n, which was a feat in itself.

Y/n nodded happily, and Azriel smiled, pride making his chest puff up.

"I was lying in bed one night, and then he told me we were invited, and I was like. I should make something."

"Oh my god. I also saw your post from a few hours ago. You said you made the designs in hours?"

Y/n giggled. "I was so excited for him to wear something I designed, so I sat down and locked in. And then the design was just somehow ready and sent for production the exact same day, and it felt so surreal."

The lady in the black dress squealed along with Y/n, and Azriel had to hold back a laugh at the way the two seemed to have become best friends in just moments. "I can’t believe it. That is so amazing! I’ve always been a fan of your designs."

"Thank you, thank you." Y/n smiled, flushing.

Finally, Azriel decided to chime in. "Me too. I’ve been a fan."

Y/n rolled her eyes fondly, gazing up at Azriel in the way that always had him feeling butterflies.

"I can tell! You look so good in that suit!" The interviewer laughed, nodding along.

Azriel wrapped an arm around Y/n, tugging her close as he grinned. "Not better than my designer, I’d say."

Y/n blushed harder, slapping Az on the chest, but he knew she loved it.

She always did.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

After a long tiring day, one of Y/n’s favourite way to relax was to curl up on the soft bed with either her phone and scroll or with a book.

And Azriel, of course.

He had been in the bathroom, washing up when she jumped onto the bed, crawling under the covers gremlin style and opened up her favoured app she designated for only mindless scrolling for when she waited for her entertainment -Azriel- to come so she could bother him.

She was doing what she did in these times when she suddenly paused on a video.

It was taken from an angle where both her and Azriel had been visible while he was with his friends taking pictures, and Y/n smiled at the way he began blushing when he noticed her.

It was one of the advantages of social media, the way memories are preserved.

The video switched to the person who had posted the video, screaming into a pillow before whispering into the camera, her eyes filled with what could only be admiration.

"Look at them you guys." She mumbled. "Literally look. Y/n looks so proud of him, and he looks so in love. If that is not what my future partner looks at me like, I don’t want him."

Y/n opened the comment section, her cheeks hurting from being stretched.

User1 i havent watched much of them but girl do i agree with you on this. I want what they have

User2 i only heard of them through a pick me who was trying to put yn down, but honestly, she seems like the sweetest person ever

User3 you should go check out her insta user2, she literally does her best to reply to every person that comments and shes always so positive. No wonder Azriel is so in love.

Y/n giggled, looking up when she heard the sound of the door opening. Azriel smiled at her, waddling closer to peck her forehead, in just a pair of light gray sweatpants. Y/n let him, but then the next moment, she shoved her phone into his face, wanting him to see the video too.

He only smiled, then snuggled in next to her and took her phone away. She didn’t mind, of course. She only had her sights set on the chest that looked so inviting as her pillow for the night.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Y/n'sHusband3000

liked by y/nazriel_06, mor-theoneinred, rhysand-thegreat, nesta-archeron-26 and 560,237 others

Y/n'sHusband3000 so blessed to witness her shine ✨❣️💙

y/nazriel_06 my love you need to post your own pics too 😭

Y/n'sHusband3000 why do that when i can fawn over you??

myurlisnunya i love the way he uses the same heart emoji she does and then his own 😭

getsunghoonedloser RIGHT?? I THOUGHT I WAS BEING DELULU

rhysand-thegreat im so done with you being lovey dovey ew 🤢

nestasworld-obvi just say youre jealous feyre gives me more love than you instead of acting like a 4 year old 🙄

Y/n'sHusband3000 exactly 🙄

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Permanent Taglist: @berryzxx @sarawritestories @milswrites @throneofsmut

@daycourtofficial @sweetorangeblossom @serenescureforboredom @cassie6392 @harrystylesfan2686

@olives-main @hijabi-desi-bookworm @dnfhascorruptedme

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

@cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1

@hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21

@mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @lady-of-tearshed @starsinyourseyes

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@sunnyspycat @artists-ally @milswrites @kingdomofstarrynights

@berryzxx @buttermilktea11 @loving-and-dreaming @yucanbmylxdy

@mellowmusings @dnfhascorruptedme @fuckingsimp4azriel

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

@stqrgirlies-blog @tele86 @bakananya @xyzmeh

@st4r-girl-official @caraaaaugh @nacho-nat @allllium

@fandomarchiveilyd @nickishadow139 @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @okaytrashpanda

@celestialgilb @donnadiddadog

[daemonbrain]

Part 1

3.5k, cw: ghosts a pervert and stalker, readers husband is a piece of work, brief mentions of sex, explicit, not proofread

Simon Riley wasn’t one for the romantics, he was a simple man. Wake up early in the morning just as he would on base, complete his training regimen, take a quick shower, and rot away in his one bedroom one bathroom apartment until he's recalled for a mission. A mundane life for the soldier who dealt with life-or-death circumstances just as many times as he’s brewed himself a cup of tea.

But even Simon had things to look forward to. After enduring the monotonous routine of his week he’d practically sprint to the butcher's shop, not for love of the finer cuts of meat one could find, but to see his bird. 

Still the fittest thing he had ever seen, your relationship evolved from standing with your back turned to his debauched stares to you actually saying hello to him. Slowly hello turned to little conversations. By conversations, it mainly consisted of you prattling on about one thing or another while Simon grunted out a short “yeah?” or “hm.” Sometimes he felt bad that his pretty little thing who always had endless things to say spoke to him, someone who was pretty much a brick wall in conversation.

But, ah well. He couldn’t think of you banging on the headboard while he fucked you and fully pay attention to what was said in his defense.

At times he didn’t know whether to scold or praise your ability to dole out kindness to even a cold bastard like him. A stranger was what he was, and you still managed to speak to him as if he were any other man you’d meet on the street.

He didn’t deserve it, he knew that. Not with the things he has done to others. Things that would send your pretty little head toppling off your shoulders if you knew. Not with the way he prowled behind as you shakily made your way up the slippery sidewalk, plastic bag with groceries in hand.

He didn’t deserve it, but he was sure as hell certain your fuckwit of a husband definitely didn’t deserve it. That prick left you walking alone and cold the whole way home, letting you know minutes before he was supposed to pick you up from the butcher’s shop. 

That pathetic guy didn’t want to take care of his wife? Didn’t want to pay attention to his girl? Well fine, he didn’t need to. Simon would. 

As if it physically pained him to watch you have to lift a finger, he sped up his pace and loudly cleared his throat from behind.

Whirling around in fright, your tensed shoulder immediately relax upon meeting Simon’s eyes. Your body shivered from the winds, yet you beamed at him with the warmth of the fuckin’ sun. 

“Simon! What are you doing here?” You chirped out in greeting, clasping your hands together as the bag dangled from your fingers. You waited for him to stalk up to you, broody as ever. 

His pretty little songbird, who tweets out her hellos even when the frigid weather demands a more mellow tone.

In his usual unsettling manner, he stops right in front of you. “I live up this way.” He lied. 

“Really?! I’ve never seen you coming up this way.” He was so close. He had to crane his neck downwards to look at your face, cheeks and nose probably frozen from the biting wind. Your brows furrowed in what he assumed to be suspicion, and he truly wondered for the first time if you actually had a semblance of survival instinct after all.

Raising a brow, he points to a random building in the distance. He picked something far enough away from your own home to quell any unease.You lived in that reddish-brown building about two blocks away. Though you’ve never told him that.

“Just righ’ up there. Usually don’t go this way, but the other route is closed off.”

Your furrowed brows quickly correct themselves at his words and you assume your resting expression, one much softer. “Well… we might as well head up together then!” You laughed in joy and Simon felt his cock twitch for similar reasons. It seems the concept of “stranger danger” wasn’t drilled into your head hard enough during your formative years. 

He’d never dream of doing something to hurt your cheery demeanor, but he couldn’t say the same for others. People can be nasty and, if you survived this long without that bubble being burst, he’d be more than happy to tear apart the prick who’d try. Pricks like your husband.

Wasn’t it a soldier's duty to protect the peace? Something like that anyways. 

He noticed the way your poor fingers stiffly held on to the bag, the weight harder to carry because of the chill in the air. His hands itched to help.

You quirked your head to the side due to his lack of anything to say and Simon merely jutted his head towards what you carried, “Give it ‘ere.” Your mouth opens to protest, but Simon doesn’t give you the opportunity as he easily plucks the bag from your hands. “Come on,” He began to walk again while ignoring his bird’s shrill whistles of objection to his help “You’ll catch a cold out ‘ere if we don get’cha inside soon.”

Catching up to his long strides, you approach from the right and sigh. You’re inclined to tell him it’s really not necessary, but the heat that bloomed in your chest as a result of his breathy chuckle interrupted you.

You didn’t even need to ask him to help... he just did. 

You couldn’t help the way your eyes wondered about his large frame, and he was huge. You had to admit the first time you had spoken to Simon you were a bit rattled when you stuck your hand out to shake his. It was maddening the way he never made a sound, the way his steps quietly padded along the floor when he went up to the counter at the butcher’s shop to pay. 

Occasionally you felt your skin prickle everytime he stood behind you. Whenever you gathered the courage to take a peek you would be met with the sight of him tapping away at his phone without a care, hood of his jacket concealing most of his face. 

Though you could’ve sworn his phone was upside down once?

Cars whizzed past and you shook away those thoughts. Simon happens to be a quiet type, nothing to judge him for. 

“... Thank you. You know, you’re a real nice guy.” Shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket, Simon slows his steps just enough to move behind you. “Simon?” You turn your head side-to-side in confusion as he nudges his way to your other side.

“Wha’?” He huffed while putting himself between you and the road. 

Odd.

The two of you got closer to the building and in a practiced stop you both pause at the entrance. About to speak again, you’re cut off by the loud ring of your phone. Looking down you see your husband's photo pop up on the screen. With a sigh, you hold up a finger to your companion and answer.

“Hey hun, is something wrong? You said you had a meeting?” You could hear the exhale of annoyance which escaped him before he responded.

“I’m working late tonight. I can’t make it for dinner. Make sure to leave me a plate before you go to bed though.” Of course. He was always late nowadays. One project or another he would say before rolling to face away when you asked him about his day before bed. 

You were his wife! You’d make time for him no matter what, and normally you wouldn’t want to be a bother, but the way tears threatened to bead your waterline in frustration caused your voice to harden a fraction.

“Again? Really? They’re working you a bit hard, don’t you thi-” 

“I have work. I’ll talk to you later.” 

You blink owlishly at Simon who looks back in silence. You hear the beep indicating the call has ended. Slowly, you pull your phone away from your ear both saddened by your husband's cold words but also the humiliation of your new friend witnessing the way you were clearly hung up on by your own spouse.

You wanted to turn heel and retreat into the privacy of your apartment. Cook up a meal which will grow cold on the counter and curl into your bed while incessantly tracking the minutes until you hear the door open.

Simon’s eyes narrowed as if he wanted to burn a hole through your phone, and he waited for you to gather yourself.

“I- um,” letting out an awkward chortle, you scratch the back of your neck. “Looks like I'm alone for dinner tonight.” You managed a disingenuous smile. Simon didn’t seem like the type to be able to pick up on subtle social cues like that, you doubt he’d think anything of your words.

“Well I better get back inside… it's freezing out here. Thanks for your help with my bags I-I just have to get started on cooking right now, so.” You reached for your groceries and saw the strange look in his eyes soften a bit. As you pivot towards the entrance, you hear a gruff call.

“ ‘m pretty hungry righ now.”

…How could you be such an idiot! He carries your bags for you, probably chilled to the point of numbness, and you don’t even invite him in for something to eat. Not even a hot drink. All because of your own selfish discomfort?!

“Oh gosh, that was rude of me. Simon, you wanna come in? I have enough to whip you up a plate if you’d like. A ‘cuppa’ as well. Is that what you say?” You asked.

Simon was a kind man. He was intimidating, but surely it was okay to let him into your personal space. After all, the only person who would object to his presence was currently holed up at his office.

“Brought it up for a reason. That’d be great, love.”

You couldn’t help the way your heart pattered in your rib cage at the endearing pet name. Kind words from a kind man. That’s all. You willed your heart to slow with images of your husband, to whom you had the utmost respect for.

The two of you made your way up to the spacious apartment. You bent over to unlace your shoes and take off your coat. It doesn’t go unnoticed how it took Simon a moment to follow suit. When he stood to his full height, a gentle warmth swelled within you when met with the sight of his broad build in the now seemingly small walls of your home. He looked as though he crowded the room more than any of the furniture.

You felt a bit hazy when you moved to the kitchen. You shouted back to Simon who stood put at the door, “Feel free to make yourself comfortable! Go ahead and sit down anywhere.”

Like a flower, you needed your fix of sunlight. You had lots of windows in your apartment to let the natural light in, a giant one looking into your living room. Simon would see you watching your silly shows, tapping away at your laptop while snuggled under a blanket in this very spot. Soon he’d show you the value of privacy, closing the blinds, locking everything before bed. 

There were shady people in the world. Those who’d feed off of your sweet carelessness like it was the best thing to touch their depraved mouths. That wasn’t fair to his bird. 

“ ‘m gonna go to the loo.” and before you even had the chance to give him directions, you watched the Brit make his way to the restroom unprompted.

It wasn’t fair, but he would make it fair. He would keep those bastards far away from you, guard your blissful paradise. Keep you ignorant.

So what if his methods were unconventional? So what if he’s followed you home dozens of times. It was to keep you safe. So what if he spent any free time he had watching you through the windows from the building across yours. 

Closing the door behind him, his lips quirked up at the sight of your things strewn about. Makeup, hair products, lotions taking up all the space on your side of the sink. In the mirror, his eyes caught on the laundry hamper sat in the corner. He had been here once before.

So what if he has come into your apartment during the late hours just to catch a whiff of your scent. Just to pull the blanket you had knocked off, deep asleep, while on the couch waiting for your prick husband. You needed someone. He could do good by you, or at least try his hardest to.

With practiced ease, he turns to open the hamper. Hands grabbing with the eagerness of unwrapping a present only to be met with a sorry sight.

“For fuck sakes”  He whispered.

You and your cleaning. The damn thing had been emptied out of all things with your lovely fragrance, tossed in the wash. With the quick roll of his eyes, he quietly puts the lid back on to the stupid thing.

He had been much luckier last time. After taking it upon himself to sneak in and close a window you left wide open, he had the urge to explore around. Fast forward to when he arrived at his treasure chest (the laundry basket) he was rewarded for his considerate act. He had nabbed a dirty pair of panties with sheer ecstacy. 

In the natural progression of things, his cock had hardened with urgency. He had stroked himself eagerly to the thought of your soft, snoozing breaths. A bead of pre-cum already poised to roll down his shaft. You drove him mad, only a few walls separating the two of you. He could walk over to you now, shove your legs apart and sink himself into paradise, in pure euphoria. He continued to jerk himself to the edge of his peak. He had taken in the sight of everything from your loofah to your robe to the pink toothbrush unobtrusively in the corner.

A shiver went down his spine as he looked at the very same toothbrush at present. He wondered how many times you had unassumingly used it since that night.

Images of his desperation flooding back, a hint of something akin to guilt. He had squeezed your panties to his face as if he was trying to suffocate himself, impatiently grabbing for anything else that could connect him to you when he felt himself begin to strain under the stimulation. He had grunted when your scent filled his nostrils, unlike how his balls emptied themselves, his release spurting all over your toothbrush.

When he came back to his senses, he had turned the coated thing over and over in his hand. You’d be none the wiser if he just… washed it off, right? No harm in something you wouldn’t know about. He couldn’t bring himself to do more than lightly run it under the tap.

“Simon! Food is ready!” You shouted. Breaking from his stupor, he steps out of the restroom and moves back to the counter overlooking the kitchen. You gave him that sweet grin while setting the food in front of him.

“Looks delicious, love. Thanks.”

You sat on the seat beside him with a plate of your own. You both tensed at the proximity for the same reason. Taking your first few bites, you look at Simon who blissfully closes his eyes and groans with satisfaction.

That warm feeling begins to simmer in your belly wrongfully so. You turn back to chew before breaking the silence. “I’m glad! It’s been a while since i’ve sat down and ate with someone… it’s a lot different to watch someone actually enjoy something you put effort into.” He didn’t miss the wistful expression you wore. He wanted to fix it, he never wanted to see that pretty mouth fighting stay curved upwards.

Whether it be unknowingly or not, you brushed your knee against and for a moment you both paused in that position. The touch was light but it felt as though Simon’s body was overloaded with only you. Your touch, your eyes, your everything.

It took himself a second to recompose himself, but when he realized your body stayed put; his heart just about soared. Taking another forkful of food, he casually glanced at you and nudged his knee unmistakably to yours. The sound of your cutlery clanging onto the plate gives him a degree of satisfaction.

You simply kept looking down to your plate, whatever was in front of you, anything except his intense stare. Simon was a stranger. Simon was unsettling. Simon was in your home. Simon was so strong, so large he could manhandle you in ways your husband could never.

Your husband. Your life partner who you’ve remained loyal to for years. This was so wrong. You should be leaping out of your chair and separating yourself by 3 meters at least in protest.

So how come you allowed his hand to grip your thigh? You frowned, yet surrendered to his fingers which tilted your face towards him. You didn’t know Simon, but you’d be dense to miss the dark glint in his eyes as he takes in your hesitancy.

How the tables have turned. It was always you who initiated interaction with the morose giant, but as he held you firm in his clutches, you could only sit in wait for his next move. 

Testing your reaction, he slowly brought his face closer to yours. Braving his gaze, you could only recognize want. He pressed a gentle kiss to your jaw as you tilted your chin upwards. You weren’t sure whether it was to avoid his lips or grant him better access to your neck.

“No no no come back to me. Come back.” He urged you carding his other hand through your hair, tugging you back. He had to see his bird's face, commit her to memory. Would her expression be like what he imagined? Better?

With a shaky raise of your arm, you caress his face with uncertainty. He needed to fuck you. The most depraved, wicked parts of his mind demanded it. His blood went straight down south at your gentle touch. He needed you to feel him, to feel all of him. 

He would protect you from all the perversions those other tossers had to offer, with only one thing in return. To corrupt you from the inside with his own special brand filth. His fingers tightened ever so slightly in your hair.

“I wanna fuck you,” he leaned closer to your ear and nipped it “and I have a feeling my pretty bird wants the same thing, yeah?”

Simon’s words sent a jolt to your brain to sink further into the daze. Your lips parted and you turned to him with round eyes hiding the temptation swirling behind them. Your eyes wildly roved across his face, searching

He carried your things, he called you pretty, he ate your food, he talked to you, he wanted you, he wanted to fuck you, he wanted you to want to fuck him, you want to fuck him, you want to fuck him, you want to fuck him-

His impatience got the better of him when he pulled you into a frantic kiss. His lips were warm and the feeling of his hands holding you secure and upright only added fuel to the fire. How would they hold you when he took you to your bed? Would he be so kind?

Had Simon known your phone would ring loudly moments before finally getting what he wanted, he would have broken it with his own bare hands.

Your eyes cracked open to only be met with the sight of your husband’s contact photo and all at once your guilt hurtled at you. Sensing you pulling away, Simon couldn’t help but try and keep you to him for even a moment longer. He knew it was over when you pushed at his chest to break the connection.

“I’m- oh my gosh. I… i’m a horrible person! Shit! Shit!” You spiraled as you hurriedly got up from your seat and backed away from Simon as if his touch had burned you.

“Hey, hey it’s okay-” He attempted to console you, but was sharply interrupted with a tone he had yet to hear from you.

“No, no! You need to leave. Get out, please!” You screeched in shame. As Simon once again tried to approach closer to placate you, you only put a hand up with a hard look. “Leave. We shouldn’t have done that, it was a total betrayal of trust!” 

“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry, ‘m gone.” His arms went up in surrender as he mirrored your own backward movements.

Your mind really went blank as you took deep breaths to calm yourself, Simon’s heavy footfalls receding and eventually fading from earshot entirely.

While you focused on calming yourself from your “mistaken” judgement, Simon could only think of one thing. 

If his bird couldn’t be happy because that fuckin’ asshole was still in the picture, he’d have to weed out the problem from the root.

He was a dead man walking.

[doiliedaze]

The Jewel of the Sea

Warnings: Sevika kidnaps reader, age gap (reader is 25 and Sevika is around her early 40s), reader is chaotic, enemies to lovers, mean Sev for a while, y’all threaten each other a lot and both have hit each other, Sevika kills someone, reader almost dies, another awkward fight scene, virgin reader, reader cums fast because that’s normal for a first time (so is taking a second), reader has blood on her when they have sex, praise, check-ups, reader gets eaten out, tribbing, I think that’s it LMAOOOO

Genre: fluff, angst, smut

A/N: im so excited for this fic and will be expanding on pirate Sevika!! They are so soft to me like I love them together!! Thank you all for your support I get so happy seeing you all and talking to you guys ʕ̡̢̡⌯͒•ɷ•⌯͒ʔ̢̡̢ this is long asf omg and I wasn’t gonna make it a series cause I can’t have another series rn lol

Translations- priya = darling, jaanu = my life

I researched that her name has Hindi, Sanskrit origins so I thought this would be a cute way to tie her culture in.

───────┈ · ·

Tonight is the night you’ve been raised for, tonight you become queen. The day was going as planned. Flowers here, knights there, it was almost out of a fairytale. You knew this was too good to be true. You’ve been known for your intuition, it’s why your parents put you before your older sister. Whom holds no resentment towards you only a sadness that you couldn’t pursue your own dreams.

Since you were little you’ve adored the ocean, often thinking in another life you were a mermaid. Admiring the idea of protecting the ocean and it’s creatures somewhat like how you saw your mother care for her people. To swim as free as your sister rode. To sing an enchanting song to defeat enemies as your father cut others with his words.

You often reminisce on the idea and in your opinion it helps you be a better princess. Your thoughts were interrupted as your seamstress finish the last lace detail on you coronation dress. You step off the box to admire yourself stuck in utter awe.

Time passes as you wait behind that humongous door, the door that’ll start the new chapter in your 25 years. The love your family expressed to you unmistakable. As soon as you were alone you felt odd? Almost on edge…

You kept your eyes peeled, and shrugged it off as nerves. The thing about intuition is, it’ll work for you if you work with it.

Ignoring the churn in your stomach you walk as you hear the cue of the violins. As soon as the door opens, chaos is afoot!

Your eyes can’t focus on anything as you look for your family whom are nowhere to be found! Panic is settling into you as you try to create a plan. You see a discarded sword and pick it up awkwardly clutching it, you were always better with archery.

Running through the crowd not sure how to help or what to do your eyes settle on her.

She’s looks like she’d tower over you and hunt you down. You notice her scars and her mechanical arm. Her light smirk and her piercing gaze. It’s like the confusion in the crowd didn’t matter because she was steadily stalking towards you. You’ve heard of her before, she’s known for what she does and how she gets away with it.

Prey in a predators radar is exactly what you were, but you had a choice to fight or flee. You choose to flee as it’ll be you advantage. You know this castle and it doesn’t matter how many times they could’ve mapped it out this is your home.

Clutching the sword you run through the doors and into the hallway. Your main focus is making it to your crawl space which will take you to the gardens. As soon as you got close enough, the knob a fingertip away a sturdy hand grabs your waist and pushes you to the floor. Your sword drops as you try to brace your fall. Not ready to give in despite the pain in your body, you kick at her.

She laughs, how dare she mock you?

To make sure you stay still so her crew could make a swift escape she knocks you out with a cloth.

In almost an instance you went from queen to be, to hostage.

In a haze you wake up in a strange room, it looks to be a office with a makeshift bedroom area? You grip the sheets as you sit up eyes taking in the decor. Treasure here and there, maps neatly tucked away. Slowly you get up feeling that you are without your corset. Heat runs to your face but you push that aside as you look for a weapon.

Gathering courage you go out into the deck looking for her. That brute that took you from your home! The sun was blinding as and the smell of the sea was consuming but you saw her.

You storm up to her despite the laughs from her crew that quite when you dawn the knife you found.

Her express has yet to change from that smug satisfaction.

“Take me home, I demand it!” You yell pointing the knife at her face.

“Careful princess you might hurt yourself.” She laughs, oh what you’d give to rip that laugh out of her throat.

Before you could protest further she grabs then squeezes your wrist disarming you. You squirm as she slings you over her shoulder and makes her way back to her room.

Softly she places you on the bed and closes the door. “You’ll be staying in my quarters.” She states as she gives you space.

“Take me home!”

“I know you aren’t deaf.” She snorts

“You must be dumb because I refuse to stay on this ship!” With that she gets in your face, “you’ll mind how you talk to me.”

Anger rising in you, you spit on her square in her face.

Keeping her composure she steps back and wipes her face.

“I understand this isn’t ideal but you’ll get use to it.”

“Wow an understanding pirate how lucky am I!” You say with an eye roll.

“I took you because of your looks but you’ll stay because of that mouth.”

Being as bull headed as you are, you get off the bed and walk up to her.

“I will be going home with your permission or not!” You keep your voice steady and clear.

Swiftly she pushes you up against the nearest wall. Her breath ghosting your neck. Her thick fingers playing with the lace on the bust of your dress. “Don’t push me princess, you aren’t the first pretty thing I’ve thrown overboard.”

Fear churning in your stomach you whimper softly, pulling a wolf like grin out of her.

“You like that pretty thing? Being threatened is that what gets ya goin’.” Softly she tugs on your dress revealing more of your plush breast.

Your chest heaves as no one has seen you like this. “You are a degenerate.” You state avoiding eye contact. “Sometimes” she states as she moves her flesh hand to pull a stray coil. You swat at her hand and she moves, “get some rest you’ll need it for tomorrow princess.”

Defeated and highly flustered you lay in the bed and give your mind to your dreams.

Your nights use to end with you going to sleep alone and you waking up alone until one night. Sevika was charting at her desk and you were reading on the bed. When she assumed you were getting sleepy she packed up to leave but you broke the silence. “Stay…please.”

She gave you an expression you couldn’t read but she obliged. She puts her things down and lays next to you. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Before this I’ve never slept on a ship before…it’s different.”

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it.” She awkwardly slide her fingers into yours. Obvious she hasn’t done this before. You put your pride to the side and nuzzle into her. “I had a bear…I can’t sleep without her so…” with that she just squeezes you close, embracing you. Being able to relax you inhale until you drift off to sleep.

The next months were a blur as you roam the ship endlessly. You were peering out at sea when you smell her behind you. That strong scent of wood burned into your senses.

“What’s occupying your mind priya?” Her rough hand softly touching your shoulder.

Priya…you still don’t know what it means but it’s nice to hear, better than a condescending princess or pretty thing.

Over these last few months you’ve learn to tolerate her. You two still argue like there’s no tomorrow but you grew to worry when she would stress and you’d help keep order. You saw how she’d grow to worry when you couldn’t sleep or if you’d stare off too long, wanting this to be a home for you how this has been a home to her crew.

“I want to go home.” You sigh leaning forward, gripping the ledge.

“You are home.” Sevika states coldly, “ I don’t understand why this isn’t enough for you?”

“Why being a hostage isn’t enough for me?”

“Hostages don’t get freedom or new clothes you choose to stay on the boat when we dock!”

“I refuse to be seen with you!” You shout turning to face her. The hurt in her eyes are evident but she pushes it down, “this is what I get for protecting a brat!”

“You aren’t protecting me at all! I told you I’m going home with or without you!”

“How would you suppose you’d get home princess?” She cocked her eyebrow and spoke with venom.

Irritated and wanting to prove your point you look around and it dawns on you, you are an amazing swimmer.

Without warning you hoist yourself over the ledge and fall into the ocean. The water was cool but not unbearable.

You sink down trying to gain cover with the bubbles of your submersion but it wouldn’t matter because Sevika jumped in after you.

Concerned more than angry she swims to you and with a rope and the help of the crew the two of you are retrieved!

“Are you out of your fucking mind y/n! Do you not understand how you could’ve hurt yourself pulling a stunt like that?” She shouts not giving you a chance to catch your breath. The crew was quite, it’s a big divide whenever you two argue, Ran typically getting in the middle of it.

“Why can’t you understand you took me from my home and I don’t feel safe with you!”

Angrily she grabs your face squeezing just enough to leave a sting. “So all the nights I hold you and talk to you doesn’t make you feel safe?” You claw at her biceps as you feel tears well in your eyes.

“That’s enough Sevika I think she understands she’s wrong.” Ran states stepping closer.

Sevika can feel her stomach churn because she made you cry. “There’s nothing to see here go back to your stations!” She yells as she pushes you into Ran then left to her quarters.

With that you walk away and go to your spot. You like to sit on the front of the ship with her right hand Ran. They are sweet to you surprisingly and keep you updated on your kingdom. You’ve been presumed dead and your family is devastated but they have to move on.

“I don’t understand why she keeps me here, I refuse to help.” You sniffle and wipe your face.

“You’re entertaining to her I suppose.” Ran says with a shrug, “I don’t question her anymore she wouldn’t give me a straight answer at least when it comes to you.”

“Why’d you guys raid my castle in the first place?” You turn to face them.

Ran’s shoulder tense slightly. “Not sure if I should tell you honestly.”

“You’re the only person I can talk to Ran please!” You grab their hand.

“We were raiding your kingdom because we heard of a King getting ready to kill his heir and we wanted to goods before the drama settled in.” They avoided your eyes feeling a slight shame.

Dread seeps into your heart as their words repeat in your head “ a King getting ready to kill his heir.”

“No I…he wouldn’t!” You stand abruptly, “he loves me!”

“He was raising you for slaughter! Who makes their second in line the monarch? Look I know this is hard but you ever wondered why your family never truly went looking for you? We’re a notorious group and-”

Without another word you were running to Sevika.

When you enter the bedroom you find her frustrated at the desk writing in her journal.

“How may I help you princess?” She mutters without even looking at you, “he was trying to kill me?” You whisper as your voice shakes.

Sevika looks up at you not sure how she wants to respond. She’s never been good with emotions whether it’s hers or someone else’s. Sevika had to grow up in a world where she was the only person who cared about her. That’s why it was so easy to make the seas her home.

Slowly she opened her arms to you and you run over to her lap. In disbelief you sob on her mechanical shoulder. “Why would he do that to me?” You ask in broken breaths.

Sevika could feel her heart in her throat unsure how to respond. When she was younger she imagined having friends and having to comfort them but she never got there with anyone besides Ran and Ran isn’t a crier. So she pulls you closer and lays her head on yours. “If you didnt take me…do you think that would’ve been the day?”

“Priya I don’t know much…but I do know you get headaches after you cry so stop crying please.” She whispers as she wipes your tears. You try to even your breathes but you can’t. So there you sit in your accidental saviors embrace.

Ever since that day you’ve been attached to her hip. This life isn’t what you’d imagined but it’s yours. You often think back and try to see what you missed but it’s no use.

“Sev, whats your favorite thing about being a pirate besides killing people?” You ask as you two walk around a market. You feel like a true swashbuckler with your floppy hat, flowy fabrics and the gun Sevika taught you how to use.

“Watching my crew enjoying themselves.” She bites into an apple then hands it to me, “you all deserve nice things and that’s better than bloodshed…I guess.”

“Big ole’ softy…” you nudge your shoulder into her as you bite the apple.

“Don’t get use to it.” She mutters and you were going to tease back till you saw an amulet.

“Jaanu look!” You point but she stops, “what did you call me?” Her voice unsteady. “Jaanu? Oh I…well you call me priya so I wouldn’t to call you something sweet too…I don’t necessarily know what either means but I read it in one of your romance novels you like to hide.” You state this like it’s no big deal as you buy the golden amulet. Sevika can feel her face burning and her palms sweating. “Priya means darling and jaanu means my life.”

Stopping in the middle of a market is frowned upon as it slows the hustle and bustle of the environment but you could care less as you stare into her grey eyes. “Then here jaanu I want you to have this.”

You lean up on your tippy toes and clasp the amulet around her neck, “now you’ll always carry me with you.” With that you walk away to catch up with Ran but you look over your shoulder to see her lopsided smile.

You were too busy gushing to Ran about what happened that you weren’t watching your surroundings. You’re still getting use to being a pirate let alone an ex-royal. Technically people still want you dead so it was confusing when Ran tackles you!

Word got out about Sevika’s new lover and how she favors the beauty of a princess. There’s been more incidents at the docks lately but nothing this bold! Another crew mate covered you two as Ran and you prepared your guns.

Lost in the frenzy you got separated. You get a sense of deja-vú. A weapon in your hand you haven’t used on anyone before, fear churning in your stomach and your intuition screaming at you.

Sevika isn’t around to immediately safe you so you have to choose; fight or flight. You don’t need a repeat of what happened a year ago so you choose to gain cover and shoot.

Aim is sloppy but you hit enough people more to disarm them, not having the heart to kill anyone.

That’s when you feel a cold gun pressed to the back of your head. Panic is seeping into your body, what do you do in a situation like this? You aren’t savvy enough to fight them off.

You thought back to all the moments you made on the ship, how you just accepted this is your life. Now it’s getting taken away. You close your eyes thinking about how you wish to be in Sevika’s arms one more time, to tell her how you feel.

In an instance you hear a pop and you assume it was you but you feel a thick warm liquid flow down your shoulder. You look back and there she stood. Sevika always protecting you.

Quickly she rounded you and the crew up. “Are you hurt?” Sevika held your face, her grey eyes searching yours. Not wanting to waste another moment you kiss her.

You two fumble to your quarters, breathing heavily. She shakily takes your clothes off as she bites your neck. “Been wanting you for so long priya.”

“Take me then” you moan clawing at her clothes. Sevika pushes you down on the bed and pressed your things to your chest. Her thick tongue slowly licks and teases your cunt. “Jaanu please I want more” you mewl overwhelmed by the sensations.

“I’m going to take my time and you will listen. Now this might hurt for a second so breathe f’me.” She pushes one finger into you slowly and listens to your drawn out moan. “Feels good priya?”

“Fuck yes!” You moan as you bite your lip. Needing to do something with your hands you pull her hair. “Sevika more!”

“Can’t ever stop being a brat huh?” Always striving to make you happy she pushes another finger in. Her tongue wrapping around your clit, sucking harshly.

Broken moans is the only thing able to come from your throat as you cum into her mouth. “Are you okay, does anything hurt?”

“No more please” you whine although this position is hurting your thighs.

Sevika gently placed her bare cunt against yours and rubs. The satisfaction of that small amount of friction got you wet. “Fuck you feel so good” she moans into your ear.

“You make me feel so good” you lick the outer shell of her pierced ear causing a shiver to go down her spine.

Your hips grind up against hers and you feel yourself already on edge so you both slow down. The drawn out strokes had you both twitching and moaning. The mixture of your juices staining the sheets when y’all came.

Sevika leans her forehead against yours and says, “promise to sail the seas with me forever?”

“I do.”

───────┈ · ·

A/n: this is the longest fic I ever wrote and bitch I don’t wanna do this shit again🥹 in all seriousness I wanted to push myself and I can see the moodboard already!! I hope you all enjoyed this and criticisms is welcomed!!

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian

Dividers- @dollywons

[sanakiras]

PICTURE ME LIKE I PICTURE YOU

PAIRING — kim mingyu x fem!reader

WORD COUNT — 1.2k

SYNOPSIS — mingyu is hopelessly in love with someone who doesn’t love him back, and all that lies ahead is acceptance.

TAGS — unrequited love, fwb!gyu, explicit sexual content

NOTE — just a short drabble i felt like putting out. came up w this while listening to picture you by chappell roan, such a beautiful song, give it a listen !! <3

it’s been dark outside for several hours when mingyu’s kissing every inch of your body. he pushes himself into you with ease, but his touch is light as a feather. gentle.

the pace he keeps is slow, and fuck, you don’t think it’s ever felt this intimate before.

normally he’s relatively talkative during sex — this might be the quietest he’s been in bed so far, save for the grunts and moans working their way out of his throat.

“feels so good, gyu—” you’re half-slurring your words, not missing how his big hand interwines his fingers with yours as he ruts into you, a gesture that breaks your heart.

how can something feel so right yet so wrong at the same time?

of course mingyu didn’t go into this little friends-with-benefits thing with the idea of falling in love with you. hell, it’s the last thing he expected. he wanted something without strings attached but with consistency, a sense of easiness; you turned out to be looking for the same.

but he fell in love with you in a way he didn’t think was possible. to him, it felt like the kind of love you only find in the movies; the kind you can only dream of encountering in real life. it hit him sudden and hard — he didn’t confess to you, out of fear he’d lose whatever bond you have with him.

or perhaps that’s not all there is to it. perhaps he never confessed his true feelings because he knew, deep down, that you’d never reciprocate them.

because you don’t really fall for guys like him. you much prefer guys like wonwoo.

his best friend. his roommate.

the day he first saw it, he was horrified. what was a simple interaction to anyone else, was his worst nightmare. his heart sank in his chest the second he watched you and wonwoo meet from afar — that look the two of you shared was enough.

you’d never looked at him that way.

all that’s been on his mind is your look of brutally honest disappointment when he opened the door to his dorm and told you wonwoo was out. if you’d stood any closer to him, you could probably hear his confidence plummeting to his feet, as well as his heart ripping in two.

the whole ordeal should’ve made him put an end to the agreement you had with him, but he couldn’t do it.

because it’s all he had left of you. the realization hit him like a truck; the moment he’d put a stop to it, you’d no longer be his in any way.

not that you ever really were to begin with.

he’s clinging onto this last piece of you so selfishly, he knows that, but he so much as looks at you and everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, his thoughts never seeing the light of day.

an unsettling feeling slowly brews in his ribcage. all he wants is to understand. why don’t you love him? what does his best friend have that he doesn’t?

he might just break on top of you here — would you even care?

maybe you would. or maybe you’d just pity him.

the sound of your whimpering underneath him makes a strange, achingly good combination of heartbreak and lust. he wants nothing more than to dig his teeth into your soft skin, but forces himself not to.

your legs wrap tighter around his hips, pulling him closer to you. it’s you who puts your hands on the back of his neck, kissing him so sweetly that it almost makes him believe you want him as much as he wants you.

what makes everything worse is that he knows you tried. for a little while, you tried to see if you could give him a shred of the love he so desperately wanted to give you.

but you couldn’t.

“i want to love you like that, y’know. i want it so bad, and i tried, but…” you told him last week while slow dancing at a friend’s birthday party, “i just can’t.”

while your head was resting between his neck and shoulder, your bodies rocking side to side to the music together, he looked up at the ceiling to hold back his tears, the corners of his mouth curling downwards. it was admirable, how he held his head high that night.

truthfully, you didn’t expect him to come knocking on your door again after that. you broke his heart — even though you never wanted to — so you wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to see you anymore.

but to your surprise, he did come back. he was less cheerful, sure, but it’s as if part of him chose to ignore what you said to him, for reasons you didn’t understand at first.

he needs to accept that you and him aren’t meant to be. perhaps that’s the sole reason he wanted to fuck you tonight.

it almost sickens him how much he wants to beg for you to try again. maybe if you saw him more often, or spent more time together doing whatever you wanted, or if he kissed you even more than he already has — maybe you’d grow to love him in the end.

he buries his head in the crook of your neck, hiding how shitty he feels.

‘cause he knows you won’t love him, no matter what he does or how hard he fights for it.

“i’m close,” he mutters, only momentarily lost in the chasing of his high, “fuck—”

you clench around him with shaky legs, and he shivers at the feel of your nails digging into his skin, hitting his climax right after you.

and it’s then that he breaks. as he lays his head down on your chest, staring at the wall, his lips trembling — he can’t hide how hurt he is anymore.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out with his face turned away from you, a few silent tears slipping from his eyes in defeat.

with a sad attempt for a smile, you stroke his naked back with your fingertips, your eyes welling up once you feel his teardrops landing onto the skin of your chest.

he’s so dear to you, as loving as a person could possibly be, yet you can’t love him back. a part you hates yourself for it, “i’m sorry, too.”

the sobs are fighting to escape his mouth, but he keeps them quiet, making you almost just as emotional as he is.

“i’ll get over it tomorrow, i promise. i’m sorry.” he whispers, his way of asking if you can stay together like this for just a little while longer.

you just let your tears go with a numb face and strained voice.

“i know.”

eventually, he has no more tears left, and his whole body shudders, feeling himself drift off into sleep with burning, tired eyelids.

he’ll be okay — it’s better like this.

it’s something he’ll come to terms with when he wakes up in the morning.

thank u for reading. please let me know if u enjoyed it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

[buckysm]

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★part one, part two,

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ part one word count 6k+

ᯓ★a/n: junie’s first post— so please show some love— i hope you like!! my inbox is always open to chat!

ᯓ★ summary: you and bucky strike an unlikely friendship during sleepless nights, and shared cigarettes. when crisis strikes the team is surprises by your hidden bond (i wrote this bc of a little fantasy of being in a secret situationship with bucky and the team finding out when bucky goes feral after reader goes missing during a mission)

ᯓ★ warnings/ tags/ tropes for the whole series: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut,  Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication, Mentions of torture off screen (to be added and expanded as i post part two) NOT BETA READ

These are the hands of fate/ You're my Achilles heel/ This is the golden age of something good and right and real

It started with a cigarette.

It started when he had lent you a lighter. He did not smoke, and you didn’t ask him why he had one.  

For him, it started months before then.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Bucky was barely coping when you joined the team. His days muddled by an eternal haze of anger and frustration…His life had been stolen from him, along with his memories from before. He did not feel like he deserved redemption. He had done terrible things, had had terrible things done to him.

He found himself disassociating whenever he wasn’t on a mission. He did not feel real; he couldn’t joke around and feel good without betraying his past. Yet, his past was real, it happened. But Bucky couldn’t just move on, couldn’t just exist without the churning in his gut telling him he was dirty, he was dripping in sin, tarnished by the red in his ledger, filthy to the point of no return.

When he was told about you, his body turned taut with trepidation. Two sides of the same coin. You were injected with serum just like him. Made to do things and had things done to you just like him. And he had heard of you. They had called you serpiente, the serpent, the snake. You were deadly, never made a mistake. No one knew any identifying details about you, not even your gender. 

And it was his mistake, thinking you were a man. He yearned to be understood; maybe he would find companionship in you.

But then, you were not a man. The first time he beheld you, he had just finished a mission for Fury. Secret and dirty, he felt right at home doing SHIELD’s grunt work.

You were walking down the compound, side to side with Black Widow. He had assumed you were one of her brethren, maybe you had trained with her, a black widow yourself. Tony Stark pranced a few paces before you.

“Soldier, good you’re here! Come meet our newest recruit!”

Your smile was disarmingly bright. Pretty. He felt himself grow cold with fury. It was a smile that came easily to you. And your eyes, frustratingly  soft. You seemed at peace with yourself, and he hated that.  

He just stared at you in response. Eyes hard. Waiting for you to react to his lack of reciprocity. You didn’t bite his hook, just lightly pursed your lips and took his glare in stride. 

“Nice to meet you, Stark was telling me about you, all good things, don’t worry. But I had heard about you from before—you know—we do have in common h-”

“We have nothing in common.” He snarled before walking away, fuming. How dare you? How dare you make chit-chat about the thing that haunted his life. Every waking hour, every nightmare he was haunted by his past. And you wanted to…what? Talk about it over jokes? No. He decided you had nothing in common.

Maybe your body count was higher than his, and he chose to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact that you were a beautiful woman and that that could be a weapon as much as it could be a vulnerability.

He hated you a bit more each time he saw you get along with the rest of the team. How dare you? 

He had thought, had been so sure, that the reason he was disliked was because of his past. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because you and the black widow seemed to do just fine. Maybe he was just broken, and maybe you had been too, but you had fixed yourself just fine. Parallel wounds, yours had healed, while his had festered like a virus. How dare you?

His despise grew with each smile, each laugh, each time you were slapped on the back.

Everything came to a head when he found you on the balcony. He had thought it was his balcony. His.

It wasn’t a balcony, more of a ledge. A floor that had been destroyed during a hulk mishap, had not been fixed, and did not look like it would be anytime soon. 

The wind was strong. You stood at the edge, facing the precipice. You seemed so peaceful. 

He stared at your profile, illuminated by the city lights. Your expression was sad. He had never seen it like that. Your lips tight, eyes fluttered shut. Where you about to jump?

He walked toward you, deliberately moving his limbs so that you heard his footsteps.

You turned unhurriedly, your eyes opening slowly. There was a small moment where he saw you, your unguarded face. He was too involved in his stupor he had not considered the possibility of it all being a facade. But months had passed, and your mask hadn’t slipped. Until now.

It was only a fraction of a vulnerable moment before you schooled your features. And it angered him for some reason. Seeing you so easily slip into the practiced mask. It made him just like the rest of them, taking you at face value, not digging deeper past your pretty face, sparkling eyes, and gleaming smile. But then he was angry at both himself for not looking past and you for pretending. 

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, words were coming out of his mouth faster than he processed them. 

“Do not do that, don’t do that.”

You sighed, your mask falling to one of disdain. You looked disappointed in him, exasperated. It was a look of derision, he felt scorned, and yet it was better than the fake platitudes. 

“Do what? Now, what am I doing that deserves your anger?”

“Pretending,” Bucky grunted.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “So what am I supposed to do according to you, huh?” You walked away from the ledge toward him. He towered over you, head lowered to meet your defiant gaze. “Am I supposed to growl, frown, and hate myself for things I can’t control? Well, guess what, been there, done that! And, hey—guess again what happened. I hated it. So what if I am faking it? Maybe if I fake it hard enough, it’ll come true.”

“What’ll come true?” Bucky asked beside himself, snarling.

“Wanting to live, not letting them win. Because if I hate myself, then they win.” Your angry gaze wavered, turning sad. You looked away from him towards the city skyline. “I’ll go now, leave you alone to your self-hatred and whatever….” You started making your way to the battered elevator doors.

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, stay. I’m sorry.”

You had stopped walking away, your footsteps silent, but some sixth sense told him you had in fact paused.

He turned toward you. “I’m sorry.” He echoed.

You nodded, moving towards the ledge and sitting on it.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Careful there, doll face.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

You stiffened slightly, taken off guard, not for the first time tonight. The sweet nickname coupled with his harsh voice made heat rise to your cheeks. You decided to appear as if you took it in stride. Not wanting him to know just how much his words meant to you. Wanting to hear him call you that forever.

Because as much as you told yourself otherwise, it had hurt when he brushed you off. You had looked up to him. 

You didn’t have any memories of your past before the experiments or the training, so maybe it was different for him. He had a life that was taken away from him — and you were just now learning to have one.

You heard about him, heard him even.  Heard his screams sometimes. Your handlers wanted to teach you a lesson of what would happen when you didn’t behave.

It was clear he did not remember you. Why would he? When you passed each other in the hydra bases, he didn’t know who you were; that was part of your deal. No one expected a pretty girl to have a body count as high as yours. 

Bucky had killed about 20-something people, important ones. You knew that Natasha had a count of about six hundred and had shared the fact with you. Bucky had been Hydra’s tool, he was used in important missions only. While you…were a gun for hire basically. A knife for hire. You used your charms on men and women alike to disarm them enough. Your kills were always up close and personal. Sometimes you had to put yourself in compromised positions to do so. Bucky never had to. 

You knew that he had to be put under a lot, had to have his brainwashed again and again, and conditioned an inhumane amount of times. His brain rebelled, he had a life. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had memories or faint encodings of a life outside.

But you were awake all of the time. You did things because there was no other option. You had to survive. You didn’t know otherwise.

You pondered in silence. And when it became too much for you, you fumbled into one of the multiple pockets on your jacket for your cigarettes. You stiffened when you remembered you had left the lighter on your bedside counter. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong, doll.” His voice was curious, less rough. He was standing somewhere behind you. You could feel the weight of his stare.

You wanted to comment on the pet names— but you didn’t want him to stop, so you swallowed a snarky remark. “I forgot my lighter.”

He made his way toward you, movements swift as he sat next to you, feet dangling on the edge. You understood him now, didn’t want him to fall. 

He slid his hand onto the pockets of his cargo pants and came out with a lighter.

You smiled at him. His eyes never strayed from yours as he placed the lighter in your hand. 

His eyes were beautiful, darker than usual under the low light.

You tore away from his gaze. Placing a cigarette between your lips, you cupped the lighter and flicked it on.

You took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the burn. Enjoying the strong scent, stronger than other cigarettes. It made your head light.

Banner had made them for you after you expressed sadness about not being able to enjoy any substances.

You heard a sniff. He had noticed it too.

You waited a second, leaving the smoke in your lungs, before exhaling. “It’s enhanced with something, Banner made it for me.”

He hummed. 

“You want one?” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes, not wanting to turn your face fully.

“Thanks for offering doll, but I don’t smoke.”

You hummed, taking another drag. “Not even before?” your question was tentative, you wanted to see if he would open up to you.

He hummed softly. “I did yes, once or twice. But Steve couldn’t handle the secondhand smoke, so I stopped. Little asthmatic punk…”

Silence stretched out as you enjoyed the lightheaded sensation. Your limbs loosened, and you felt free. 

“D’ya miss him?” You turned fully toward him.

His eyes never strayed from the skyline as he answered,“I do. It’s different, we’ve both changed a lot. You know how it is, losing the past.”

“I don’t know, not really…” your voice was soft and resigned. 

His eyes flashed to yours. You didn’t know what to do with the full weight of his stare. “What do you mean by that doll?” His brows were furrowed. 

You sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s late…” You took out your AVENGER-sanctioned phone to check the time, 2:15 A.M.

“I’m going to sleep.” You lied. And you couldn’t stop more words from tumbling out of your mouth. Clumsy and rushed. “Same time tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile pulled slightly at the corner of his lips. “See you doll face. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams Jamie.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie….

He had been too quick to judge, and now he couldn’t get you out of his thoughts. His sleep was fitful, but he was granted a reprieve from his nightmares. Dreaming instead of the multitudes in your eyes. 

It was a slow day in the compound. He had a routine during slow days, he would go to his favorite training room and lose himself. The training room itself didn’t lack anything, but he had marked his territory with his glares at anyone who entered. He had achieved an unspoken ownership of that particular room.

After having you torment his dreams, however, he had to see you in person. He tried to contain himself, he started his routine in the training room. 

It lasted 42 minutes. 

No amount of dagger throws could get him to calm down. 

He found you on the tower’s common floor.

You hunched over a table, Banner at your side. Coming down was worth it.

“Well, good morning there Sarge, nice of you to come out of your room and join the land of the living.”

And he immediately regretted it.

“Stark!” Two voices proclaimed in tandem. You and Steve jumped to defend him, Steve’s voice was sharp, and yours was a playful whine.

“What? I’m just saying, he’s acting like a teenager!” Stark’s voice was a defensive grumble. He tinkered with the toaster in the kitchen area. 

“Oh as opposed to you, who behaves so maturely?” The tone of your voice was playful but had a hidden bite to it. Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it.

You turned to smile at him, Steve turned to bicker with Tony. Bucky rolled his lips and moved to grab a mug, he poured himself a cup before walking away. 

He barely heard Stark’s remark on his parting, mentally berating himself for caring about the hurt look that soured your face when he did not return your smile. He shouldn’t care, caring was dangerous. It made him vulnerable and put him in a position where he could be easily hurt again.

He had to be careful, He did not want to break down the walls he had put up protecting himself and others from himself.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You almost didn’t show up. Hurt but not surprised by his attitude.

You paced the room you had on Natasha’s floor. She was not home, leaving you to pace away your conflicting thoughts.

Your heart had skipped a beat when he showed up. He never showed up, he was a ghostly presence in the compound. Part of the team, but never there for ‘team building exercises’…

It was 2:14 when you rushed to the elevator, a pounding of indecision in your chest. You told yourself it was curiosity. You needed to know more about him, needed to figure him out - maybe then you would be able to understand why he made you want…-

The silent elevator ride left you time to think

He is hurt, just projecting/ This could end badly/ This could end with a friendship/ He was an asshole/ He just needs a friend/ At the cost of your sanity?/

Two inner voices argued with each other in the back of your mind. You let them.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open and there he was. The voices went quiet as soon as your eyes fell on him.

He leaned against a thick construction support post, overlooking the city skyline, his back to you.

“Nice of you to join me doll.”

DOLL?! Asshole, he dared to call you doll- yet acted coldly toward you in public?! You grunted angrily, mimicking his usual blasé attitude and walking to stand beside him, not looking at him.

A storm of anger raged inside you as you stared at the beautiful Manhattan skyline.

“Is everything alright doll?” His voice was softer, and you weren’t as angry anymore.

Yes he hadn’t smiled at you, but what exactly had made you expect that from him? Yes, he called you doll, but he was from the forties. Plus he hadn’t smiled at you before. And-what?  You had one conversation and suddenly you expected him to smile at you? You were delusional! This man was set in his ways, and maybe he was bored, but it meant nothing. He was bored and lonely, and you were overthinking everything. You were new at this, at socialization. Genuine socializing. You socialized a lot for your HYDRA days, but this was new. You were used to having the upper hand, being the one in control.

You sighed out your exasperation, letting your tense shoulders loosen.

“Mhm…” your eyes never strayed from the city.

You stood in comfortable silence. You were an expert at working yourself into a stupor. But honestly, you were about… twenty, twenty-one (you lost time during HYDRA). Yet you felt emotionally stunted- of course you did. You never had the chance to actually develop skills people your age did.

“This feels like a dream. Like I am hallucinating being free, and I will wake up from passing out due to torture and be back in my cell…” Words tumbled out of your mouth. You were also bored and lonely. Faking your way with the others made you exhausted.

He made no response, but you could tell he understood. And that was enough.  You fumbled for your cigarettes. He slid a lighter from his pocket, handing it to you wordlessly.

You took it from his hand, inhaling to light your smoke. 

“You know? it’s dumb… but I sometimes feel like screaming at them… like something deep inside of me yearns to scream and kick and throw whatever is around- to get out all my pent-up energy, maybe then I can pass out from exhaustion and sleep. And yea- the novelty of being free, and being in the fucking Avengers is slowly wearing off, and I just-” you sighed, you were talking and maybe he wasn’t even interested in hearing you whine. “And whatever, I should be grateful… it’s dumb…” You stopped yourself. Letting in the chilly New York air into your lungs. 

“No, doll, it’s not dumb.” He turned to look at you, forcing you face the full weight of his gaze. He was devastatingly beautiful. Your inhale was sharp. “Don’t feel bad about being angry, it’s valid feeling this way.”

You smiled then, “look at you, giving emotional advice. Who knew you were a big softy underneath that grouchy, grumbling exterior.”

He scoffed, but you could tell there was no real meaning behind it. Your smile grew.

His eyes lowered to your lips for a charged moment, before looking back to the city. “Those who can’t do, teach-”  His lips tugged slightly upwards, a glimpse of a smile.

You took a drag of your cigarette, staring unashamedly at his profile. “What do you do, when you are not brooding? Like what does one do for fun around here?”

“At two am in the afternoon doll, those who aren’t sleeping…” he trailed off, a soft pink brightening his cheeks

“Are what?” your grin was teasing.

“Are on a mission or something.” His voice came out slightly strangled. 

“Or something…” you murmured, a yawn escaping you.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “So, you really liked big band music? Kind of… classy for a guy who threw himself off buildings.”

 “Hey, a man can appreciate good music and bad decisions.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “Stark’s fine, sometimes… but his ego’s bigger than his bank account.”

 “If I had his money, I’d buy a planet and avoid people altogether.” You sighed, 

 “Doll, you’d get bored in two days.”

 “True. I’d need at least one grump to frown at me” 

He couldn’t hide his soft grin.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “Paris. You think it’s as romantic as everyone says?”

“Probably less if I was there...”

 “You’re right. You’d make it a lot more broody.”

“And you’d make it a lot more… sneaky. You’d blend into the shadows and pickpocket tourists.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “I could live off this forever.” Your spoke around a mouthful of pizza

Bucky grimaced “Takeout pizza? You call that food?”

 “Says the man who probably ate spam for dinner in the ‘40s.”

“Now doll, it was a delicacy back then.”

 “Spam’s not a delicacy in any era, Barnes.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever thought about getting a pet? Like a dog or something?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow “Me, with a dog? Not sure I’d be a good influence.”

“Nah, they’d se through you.”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “I like the quiet moments just before dawn. No one’s around to bother you.”

“Night’s better. Everyone’s already asleep. Feels like you’re the only one left.”

 “Until you realize there’s still someone like me lurking in the dark.”

 “Yeah, lucky me.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “So, any weird phobias? Mine’s spiders. Too many legs.”

Bucky shrugged “Needles. After Hydra? No thanks.”

You nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. But hey, at least you could crush a spider for me. And I can catch all your bulk when you pass out at the sight of a needle.”

“Ha, ha.” 

Someday, you’d get a real laugh out of him

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

 “If you weren’t a super soldier, what would you be doing?”

“Maybe a mechanic. Fixing cars, quiet life. You?”

 “Bartender. People tell you their secrets. It’s like espionage, but with cocktails.”

 “Sounds dangerous doll. What’s in the drink?”

You grinned “Depends on who’s asking.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I keep getting these flashes… Steve dragging me to Coney Island, insisting I’d love it. Turns out, I hate roller coasters.”

You rolled your lips, deciding on what to say “I don’t have any memories before hydra, but I dream about falling. Maybe I would love roller coasters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, doll. I prefer solid ground now.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever feel like the idea of ‘freedom’ is just another way to trap us? Like, what do we even do with it?”

“I dunno. Still figuring that out. But it beats following orders like a puppet.”

“Yeah. I just wish freedom came with an instruction manual.”

“If it did, doll, I’d probably ignore it. I don’t need another piece of paper dictating my life..”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You were late, and Bucky was ready to leave when he heard the elevator doors open. You held a full white plastic bag.

“Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner!” you had a slight spring in your step, he turned toward you, a smile of pleasure and relief made its way into his expression without his consent. Your steps faltered slightly, your brows furrowing for a moment before a beaming smile took over, your eyes twinkling.  It was real, not a sarcastic grin, a smile! Your response only made his smile more pronounced -slightly, but still-.

“It’s good that you don’t smile, if you did people would pass out on the spot.”

He couldn’t stop the small laugh making its way out of his mouth. “Not you?”

“Not me, I’m made of stronger stuff.” You sat next to him, a bit farther from the ledge than usual. 

He followed suit, crouching in front of you. He took note of the way you eyed his legs, of your inhale, of the way you had to force yourself to look away.

“I wonder what would make you pass out.” His mouth ran away from his brain.

“Maybe take me to a fancy restaurant then you can try and find out.”

The thought made his heart race, he stopped himself from thinking about it. You were joking, it was friendly— you weren’t serious.

“I could, we could go on a few dates, and you would end it when you realize I’m too old and bitter for you doll. Maybe it’s best we stay here at 2:15 am where I can lend you a light.”

Your face soured to a pout. “Well I like my men a little bit older. But if you are telling me I’m not your type and you like old ladies, well then I can handle rejection, not the worst thing I’ve lived through.” Your smile was sarcastic, yet he could tell there was hurt behind your eyes.

“No doll, I don’t think anyone could reject you even if they tried.” 

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Your heart raced at his words, caught off guard by their raw sincerity. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, not ones that felt real anyway. A flippant remark was on the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect the tension, but it got stuck.

“You ever think about it? You know… dating?”

He snorted softly, “Who would date me? I’ve got more shit to deal than anyone would want to deal with.”

You grinned “Hey, at least you’re mysterious. I’m more… ‘potential assassin.’”

 “Ah, the classic ‘will she kill me on the first date’ dilemma. I can hide the metal arm, but you can’t hide the serial killer smile.”

You laughed loudly, shoving him playfully.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

It was a few weeks after the initial meeting, and meeting had become a habit, a tradition of sorts. 

You gave him a shy smile when others were present, and he reciprocated with a soft look in his eyes. 

He knew he was being obvious with his staring, but he couldn’t help himself from looking at you.

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking to and from you. He beheld as you smiled and laughed with the rest. He had a bit of jealousy that you weren’t bestowing the smile upon him, but he held non of the contempt from before.

He sensed an annoying presence beside him.

“Hey creep, why don’t you join us for drinks tonight? As luck would have it, even your star-spangled ass is joining us.”

Said star-spangled ass turned to glare at Tony, his expression turning into a smile as his eyes shifted toward Bucky.

“Yeah, come with us, you’ll have fun, we promise.” 

A myriad of yeahs chorused from the rest of the team, including you. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he looked at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He muttered.

“Well that wasn’t a no!” you grinned, acknowledging him.” Your smile so bright he couldn’t take it. 

He sighed, and grumbled incoherently before turning to hide his blush and walking away.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You smiled to yourself as he retreaded. 

Natasha bumped your shoulders together. “He stares at you so much, I have no clue if he hates you or wants you. Maybe both!” 

“Nat, don’t be rude, it’s probably because I’m new.”

She smirked, “Sure.” You hadn’t been new for a while.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

He was anxious. It took him forty minutes to place where the tight feeling in his chest was coming from. But it came down to you. It always came down to you as of late.

Steve had an arm around his shoulders, and he was blabbering on about how much fun these rare night outs were, where everyone was present.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t you talking to some guy. Enthusiastic hand gestures and a dazzling smile on your face as some random guy looked at you with an entranced smile.

He felt bile rising in his throat. 

He wanted to turn around and walk away, but that would have been too obvious. So he walked in with his stomach dropping with anguish.

He was out of it, sipping a drink that Steve had handed him. His tastebuds not even processing the taste of his drink.

“Yo! Joe Goldberg, knock it out with the serial killer stare.” 

He felt a smack on his shoulder. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from you.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled. Smooth. Real smooth.

Even though she was shorter than him, Natasha towered over Bucky. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to check it. It’s getting really weird.”

He felt a hand fist in his heart, tight. He downed the drink and sighed. Think Bucky. Think. “It’s not like that.” He was quiet for a few moments, formulating a response.

“Well then explain, why you keep staring at her like you want to strangle her.”

“I don’t want to— fuck.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “She’s also from Hydra.” He stated.

“Yeah, duh.” Natasha looked at him with contempt.

He needed to fix the fact that she thought he was some sort of obsessed weirdo…. He wasn’t!

“She’s so, normal, happy. And she…” he trailed off. 

Natasha’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked to Steve, who tried to seem like he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Bucky, you’re-” Natasha placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get another drink.”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You could tell something was wrong when you stepped out of the elevator. He was quiet, not the usual kind, brooding. You acted like you always did, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. 

“Bucky, is everything alright?” your voice was soft.

His reply was an irritated huff. You waited for a few moments, letting him have his space.

The night was cold, you had worn thick cotton clothing. He wore a hoodie and pants, they looked comfortable, but the man in them did not.

You hummed, and moved closer toward him, he leaned on a pillar,

“Big mission tomorrow huh?” You shifted tactics. It wasn’t odd for him to have a quiet night, where you just sat in companionable silence. This was different though… he was angry about something. Some insecure part of you told you he was mad at you. But there wasn’t any foundation to that, was there? 

He grunted in response. He was making you anxious. You sighed loudly, deciding on either having a smoke or going to bed. The stilted silence making you anxious, a pressure hard on your chest. You tried to exhale it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

You let him wallow next to you for a few minutes before giving up and turning to face him. You placed a soft hand on his forearm, about to say goodnight. He flinched harshly and your heart twisted. He grimaced, eyes shifting to you before flitting away. 

“Bucky, if you need, I-” your voice had a nervous tinge to it, and you hated it. You were glad when he interrupted you.

“Go to sleep doll.” His voice was sad, his face resigned. 

You furrowed your brows, studying his expression. You had the urge to kiss him on the cheek for good luck but knew that you would break if he flinched away.

“Goodnight Jamie…”

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You walked away, turning your head twice to smile at him sadly. He held your gaze as the elevator doors closed, removing you from his field of vision. Taking you away from him. 

“Fuck.” His voice was soft and defeated. He looked at the city skyline. His eyes glossing over. He wanted to get the self-hatred out, to hit the wall, break his knuckles, and kick at the litter on the floor. But he let it sit, let it fester in his chest. A leech that grew bigger as it fed on the churning,  loathsome thoughts overwhelming his brain.

He crumpled with the ease of a paper, falling to the ground,

His limbs splayed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it. Any of it. He always told himself he was strong. He was The Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake! And here he was, crying over a girl. But that wasn’t it. Or it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he was too soft for all of it. And he was still somewhat human at the end of the day. He still had emotions, and he was starved for comfort. He lacked connection. And he was okay without it, had gone so so long without, he had grown used to the lack. But then you had come into his sanctuary and ruined everything, and he let you. He felt a kinship with you. You had gone through hell and back, had walked the same road as him, and you smiled so big, your eyes twinkled so bright. He couldn’t help but fall into your orbit. Admiring you from afar. 

Maybe it was better when he hated you, it was something he was used to, it was comfortable. He did not know what to do with all these feelings, hadn’t felt them before, not even in the 40’s. He was happy then, it was normal for him to smile. He didn’t know to appreciate it. Yes, there was war, but there was hope, and there was also Captain America there to save him, but then Steve wasn’t there anymore. And any sliver of hope was quickly crushed under gleaming leather Hydra boots. He was going to die someday on a Hydra mission, he had made his peace with that. But Steve did save him, a little too late. He wasn’t Bucky anymore and did not feel like he had any right to the mantle of Captain America’s best friend. And some parts of him did want that still, but all of him yearned to be your Jamie.

And now bitter and traumatized, he held a flower in his calloused hands, and he didn’t know if he was worthy of it. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die here, and he couldn’t go in peace because he wanted to see you one more time. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move, He keened in pain like a puppy. 

Pathetic, get up. Voices from Hydra spewed venom, wracking through his psyche. He clenched his jaw and groaned from deep in his throat.

Broken…unworthy…killer…tainted…

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The mission was successful. The team had divided in two, his group had finished earlier.

He felt better, exhausted. It had been a long mission, he was covered in grime and blood. 

It was rare for him to get to the point of exhaustion, but he had dived head first into hand-to-hand combat, not letting up, ignoring black widow’s knowing looks. 

Freshly showered and changed into sweats, Bucky let himself fall face-first into his too-soft bed. Days of restless sleep coupled with today’s exertion weighed his body down, and pulled his mind into sweet sweet oblivion.

He woke with a start, looked at the clock, and sat up. 3:22 A.M. 

He had stood you up. He rushed to the elevator and up to the floor. His thoughts raced with self criticism and hatred. He breathed out a frustrated sigh, you weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t there, he had been over an hour late.

He grumbled to himself all the way down to the common floor. His footsteps skidded to a stop when he found all the lights on and a flurry of activity.

Hawkeye typing furiously into a computer, Black Widow pacing the floor on the floor, her hands fiddling with some tech stuff. Steve was curled over a tablet, his hands clenched around the edge of a countertop.

Bucky stopped. The other team hadn’t come back.

“What’s wrong… where is she?” His chest felt tight.

Steve motioned at him to come near while the other two ignored him.

“Look, Bucky, I know you have some fondness for her, but I need you to calm down. She’s — uh— she’s missing…”

His ears started ringing; he didn’t hear anything after that. He took deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was longer, he needed a hair cut, maybe you could cut his hair. Yeah, that sounded nice. 

He stilled. Breathing in deep, “give me the details, I’ll have her back with me within the hour.”

He didn’t recognize his voice. Black Widow and Hawkeye had turned their heads to stare at him with wide eyes. 

“Bucky, calm down, she’s alive from what we can tell, we can’t deal with y- we have to focus on finding her right now.”

“I am focused. I will find her.” His voice, it was gruffer, the language wasn’t english. He was reverting back…

Iron Man decided it was the best moment to walk in.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier turned around with intent. He had some inkling of what he must have  looked like, a menace— because as Iron Man was opening his mouth to make some snarky remark, his jaw clenching shut, hands rising in surrender. 

“Где она, где моя кукла?” Where is she, where is my doll?. 

His voice had a deadly cadence, he spoke and meant death.

“She’s okay, Wanda has her.” Black Widow had placed the radio on a table. She walked toward The Soldier slowly.

Wanda, the deadly witch saved from Sokovia. He remembered her. She was strong. Not strong enough. 

He leveled his eyes on her. “скажи мне где, или ты умрешь.” tell me where, or die.

Her eyes grew hard “Calm down soldier, there is no need to threaten anyone.” 

The tension was palpable then, rising… rising-

The Doors opened to you limping… being supported by the witch and the doctor. 

His shoulders slumped. He shifted toward you, but something blocked his path,  he looked down to see Steve’s arm pushing against his chest. The enemies’s stance were on the offence, about to attack, keep her from him. He was about to threaten his best friend  The Captain to move when-

“Jamie…”  

His gaze flashed toward to you. You pushed away from them, limping— stumbling toward him.

He met no resistance this time as he rushed softly toward you.

Your knees buckled as he wrapped his arms around you. You collapsed against him. 

You sobbed softly- and he broke. His arms strong and soft as he held you close.

He didn’t care about anything, he didn’t care how the scene looked, he didn’t care that they all knew for certain now. He loved you.

He just needed to know you were okay.

He held you as you shook, “I thought, I was back there Jamie, I- thought I wasn’t going to- to see you again. I thought, he would get lonely, and- and- I was going to miss you- they- they- I didn’t care about any of it. I just thought about you….” You sobbed, trying to get words out. “I got out- I killed them all, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face not- I killed…” For you. 

“kukla…” Doll.“you’re here, you’re ok, let’s get you to the infirmary. You are hurt, and bleeding…”

His voice was so, so soft —dense with remnants of russian. His arms holding you together.

He ignored it all, ignored the dropped jaws and furrowed brows, you came first. He had shown you as his vulnerability, but he first had to be sure his Achilles heel would be okay.

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments, and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading be back with part two soon!!!!

[goddamnitmahtin]

Beauty and the Beast

(A dc x dp prompt)

Danny was in college online so he didn’t really leave his house much. It was probably why he didn’t really realize it when Jazz started going out more than she used to. He was so swamped with his mechanical engineering major and astrology minor that he didn’t even bat an eye when Jazz started to go out at night. Most days, Danny didn’t even know what time it was anyways. He was constantly up at his computer, studying for this or designing that.

Every once in a great while he would go out to pitch his inventions to WE but nothing ever came from it most of the time. It wasn’t like he was expecting for it to go anywhere, he was just trying to get his foot in the door a bit. Maybe if they saw something in him now, he could get hired right out of college. That was the hope anyways.

So imagine Danny’s surprise when the CEO of WE himself asked Danny into his office. The Tim Drake. Holy fucking shit. This was either gonna be really good for him or REALLY fucking bad. Danny assumed it was about one of the inventions he had submitted. What if it was great and they wanted to patent it? What if it was absolutely trash and the CEO was calling him in just to tell him to stop sending in his shitty ideas? Knowing Danny’s luck it would be the latter.

“You wanted to see me Mr. Drake?” Danny said sitting in the chair across the desk.

“Yes I did,” Mr. Drake said, “And please, call me Tim.”

Danny wasn’t sure where this was going at all, “Sure, uh Tim.”

The young CEO looked to be about Danny’s age to be honest. He must have been really something if he was able to have been given the position so young. Mr. Drake- Tim sat forward, leaning on the desk with his elbows. Danny couldn’t help but notice that it was kind of attractive how he demanded power over the room even when acting casual.

“Danny, I have seen your work. It is remarkable to say the least. You have impressed me,” Tim said.

Danny smiled. That was a good sign. Maybe he could get a job upon graduation after all.

“Thank you,” he said in response.

“But that’s not why I called you here,” the CEO said, standing up from his desk. Danny watched as the man walked around the desk to sit on the tabletop right in front of Danny, smiling almost seductively.

Danny felt his face go hot as he realized that the man’s legs were placed right between his own. Mr. Drake was attractive before. But now… ancients be damned… how could he not be hot? Should Danny have been a bit more concerned with the clearly inappropriate behavior in a work place? Probably… but Danny was never the best at self preservation.

“Oh?” was all Danny could get out of his mouth before Tim flashed a dazzling smile that made his brain short circuit.

“You see Mr. Fenton, I seem to be more enamored with you,” the young CEO said, leaning in enough that his breath ticked Danny’s neck.

As we have established, Danny’s self preservation skills were absolute dog shit. So instead of any sort of alarm bells going off in his head, he felt that the next logical step in this situation would be to shoot his shot. Fuck it, why not?

“What, are you telling me to ask you on a date Tim Drake?” Danny asked, his lips curling into a smirk. Fuck the job, this guy in front of him would be much better.

He watched as Tim’s cheeks flushed for a moment before returning the smirk, “Are you asking me out on a date?” Ancients, his eyes really sparkled huh?

Danny crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair, “I dunno. If I did, would you say yes?” Be smooth Danny. Be smooth. You got this.

Tim leaned in, impossibly close, “Hm, I think I would.” Danny could feel Tim’s breath on his lips and ancients be damned if he didn’t get to find out what those lips tasted like later…

“Then I guess you have a date Mr. Tim Drake,” Danny said smoothly.

“I’m counting the seconds, Mr. Danny Fenton,” Tim replied. UGH THIS GUY WAS SO HOT- WHAT THE FUCK-

…

Now that Tim had secured a date with the Fenton guy, Operation Belle could start. Seducing the guy into letting him go on a date with him was remarkably easy. Now Tim just had to use his leverage to get what he really needed. Answers. How the Fentons knew about their secret identities. Who were they and why were they in Gotham? Whether or not Jasmine Fenton was really in cahoots with Killer Croc and if she was, was she involved willingly. In the meantime, Tim had to get ready for his date.

…

Anyways something something shenanigans, Danny thinks he’s landed himself a hot CEO boyfriend, Tim thinks Danny is some sort of villain who knows his identity, Jazz is just trying to date her “monster” boyfriend in peace and get him out of the criminal life, and Killer Croc is just trying to find a legal job to provide for Jazz.

Chaos ensues.

[greengoblinswifey]

Making Hwang In-ho work for your pussy.

From the moment you and In-ho met, it was clear he wasn’t used to waiting for what he wanted—especially not when it came to intimacy. Yet, here he was, two months into a relationship with you, frustrated but captivated.

You’d been upfront from the start. “I don’t do casual, and I don’t rush into things. If that’s a problem, you can leave now,” you’d said on your first date, holding his gaze with unwavering confidence.

In-ho, used to a world where his power and wealth cleared every hurdle, had been taken aback. But instead of walking away, he’d leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his lips. “Challenge accepted.”

And a challenge it had been.

He’d tried everything to win you over, lavish gifts, private dinners at the most exclusive restaurants, bouquets of flowers that seemed to appear at your doorstep almost daily. He wasn’t just trying to impress you, he was trying to prove he could play by your rules.

“You’re making me work harder than anyone ever has,” he said one evening over champagne at a rooftop restaurant he’d rented out just for the two of you.

“You don’t have to,” you replied with a sly smile. “But you do if you want me.”

And he did. Oh, he wanted you. Needed you.

In-ho found himself doing things he never imagined. Like taking time off from overseeing the games, something unheard of for him—just to spend an afternoon with you at an art exhibit you’d mentioned wanting to see. Or the time he drove across the city to find a specific book you’d been searching for, presenting it to you like it was a trophy.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said one night as he handed you a pair of diamond earrings.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply. But in truth, he was growing more frustrated by the day. Every lingering kiss, every time your hands wandered but stopped just short of crossing the line, left him aching for more.

Still, he waited. Because as much as he craved you, he found himself liking you more with each passing day, your wit, your intelligence, the way you held your ground. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met.

When the night finally came, it wasn’t planned. You were at his home, sharing wine and laughter on the couch. His hand brushed against yours, and when your eyes met, there was something different in your eyes, something softer, inviting.

“In-ho,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” His voice was calm, but his body tensed, like a predator sensing its moment.

“I think I’m ready.”

His eyes darkened, and his hand moved to cup your cheek. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yes. I want you to fuck me. I want you.”

It was all the encouragement he needed. He kissed you deeply, his hands sliding over your body, memorizing every curve. He carried you to his bedroom, laying you down on the silk sheets as if you were something precious.

“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy for months,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed down your neck.

“I know,” you teased, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m going to make this worth the wait,” he promised, and he did.

He worshipped you that night, his touch both rough and tender, his words a mixture of praise and moans of your name. It was as if he were trying to make up for all the time he’d spent wanting you, showing you just how much he’d been holding back.

He started slow, savoring every moment, every taste of your pussy, every clench of your walls around his cock. Until, he remembered this was the first of many times he’d be fucking you. Until he remembered how long you made him wait to have you. After this realization, he fucked you like no one had ever done before.

He gave you long, deep strokes, stretching and filling you to the brim. His hands trailed all over your body, touching you as though you would slip away. His lips never left you, whether it be on your lips or tits. He worked hard for your pussy, and he’d get all that it was worth.

“Made me wait so fucking long for this tight pussy,” he grunted in your ear, pounding into you. “You’re lucky you feel good.”

His hands wrapped around your neck as he rolled his hips harshly against you and that did it. The past two months of restraint and underlying tension finally built over and you both came undone with you absolutely soaking his cock and the sheets below. You were just as deprived as him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your ear, his voice hoarse. “So worth it.”

In the quiet aftermath, as you lay tangled together, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’d wait all over again for you,” he said softly.

You smiled, your head against his chest. “Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.”

[revelboo]

Your writing is AMAZING! I love your works, and honestly, you're the only writer I like here. Keep up the amazing job! 💜

Aww! Thank you! 💕

Everything Is Alright Pt 119

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Head lifting when the cassette compartment door opens far too soon and Soundwave reaches for you, there’s no point resisting. Letting him pick you up and pull you back out into the madness when you just want to hide in the dark and try to figure things out. And you can practically feel the tension radiating from all three of them as Soundwave almost seems reluctant to put you down. Making you wonder what they’ve been discussing. Because Megatron still has that psychotic smile in place.

• “I’m beginning to regret saving you, pet,” Megatron growls, servos curling into fists as you frown up at him. Finding out how ridiculously short your life span is tempting him to go to drastic measures. To consider handing you over to Shockwave to figure out a way to prolong your life. It’s almost a cruel joke. To be bonded to a weak, fragile mate that’s going to be gone far too quickly and drag him along with you. “Do you have any clue what you’ve done to me?” Can hear the anger creeping into his own voice as you fist your fingers in your robe.

• What you did to him? Like all of this is your fault and you’re so over it. “You kidnapped me, okay?” Jabbing a finger at Starscream to make his wings drop. “Wrecked my car! Scared me half to death and kept me in a damn energon cube! And you!” Rounding on Megatron and finding him still grinning, thinking this is hilarious no doubt. You really wish you had something to throw at him. “I didn’t do anything to you! If you’d just left Starscream alone, none of this would have happened! None of you ever ask what I want or need! You just decide for me, because I’m just the helpless, little human and I’m sick of it!” And they’re all staring at you like you’re something they’ve never seen before. “I’m not a damn pet.”

• Wings drawing tight to his frame as your voice rises, Starscream wants to reach for you, but he’s never seen you so furious before. So angry you’re crying now and it hurts him. So angry with all of them that you smack Soundwave’s servo when he tries to reach for you. Making him feel guilty as he vents and wishes he could go back to before Soundwave had discovered you. When it was just him and you. Try to do better by you, because this anger isn’t new he’s realizing. You’ve just been bottling it up. Ignoring it. “I know you’re not a pet,” he says as it really soaks in how terrible a job he’s done as your mate so far to make you feel that way. Do you hate him? Have you always hated him?

• Servos flexing, Soundwave can’t stop reaching for you. Can feel your anger and hurt and it’s crippling. Even if you hadn’t screamed at him, he’s been making demands of you this whole time, too. You’d just been a curiosity at first, feeling your emotions and unable to block you out. Kneeling in the floor, he rests his chin on the berth you’re on and cautiously touches your arm with the tip of a servo and you hit him again, little eyes welling as you try to shove his servo away. His head lifts when Megatron sits on the berth beside him. “Go find some engex. I need a drink,” Megatron growls at Starscream.

• Servos pressing against his head, Megatron watches you slap at Soundwave again and his communications officer just loosely curls his servos about you, refusing to stop reaching for you. And Starscream doesn’t budge to obey him, wings tight to his frame as he reaches to grip the edge of the berth, staring at you before stretching out his own hand. Servo brushing you as you just angrily slap at him, too. Trying to figure out how he got roped into this mess when you finally make a little, hitching noise and stop fighting Soundwave and Starscream both, laying your cheek on Starscream’s hand. You’re definitely a lot more trouble than he’d imagined, but he remembers tangling in you when he’d bonded you fully. Seeing all of you, knowing you. Or at least he thought he had.

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