#but i played it regardless because i was like “but what if its one of those scary media that hit close to home and i enjoy”
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i read this at 2am ( anything for a lili fic tbhhhh ) and now i’m FINALLY writing a reblog for this 😆 !!! i am actually really glad that i ended up reading this like six hours from now because i LOVE childhood friends to lovers . and i feel like jaehyun is just so perfect for this ++ the little spin lili added was really nice SO spoilers ahead ^^
SO the beginning was really cute 💔 i just love a good heartfelt and adorable moment and to just start it off with that is PERFECTION ! ( but then again… u know thats going to hurt later on . )
LIKE LITERALLY AFTER THAT WE GET A “what if… i won’t be here tomorrow?” LIKE OH. OH OKAY. ALREADY PUTTING THE DAGGER THROUGH MY CHEST. already knew what was going to happen after that and still reading it happen… ESP WHEN Y/N LITERALLY WENTTTT TO HIS HOUSE 💔 that hurt even more… like…. why did i have to hear from somebody else that you moved when you could’ve told me 💔
AND THEY FREAKING DID THE PINKY PROMISE guys … its such a little thing to say / action to do but i always seem to still take promises to heart LMAOOO so yes … we take promises seriously over here … and when they finally meet again and jaehyun not remembering… THAT WAS SAD ?
like you can tell y/n is simply just not trying to make it obvious that she knows him, however you can see that its still on her mind during the interactions with him… AND YOU DONT EVEN KNOW IF YOU SHOULD ACT MAD BC JAEHYUN IS STILL SO SWEET
and when y/n got him things that he liked / say things that they only knew… just to see if he remembers or not…. bye that stings bc this girl just wants to know if he really did forget her 💔💔 like while reading i genuinely thought this guy just simply forgot and was waiting for them to get along as in like a fresh restart .. AND THEN HE JUST CALLED HER THE SAME NICKNAME HE DID IN THEIR CHILDHOOD. BOYYYY WHY IS HE PLAYING WITH US RIGHT NOWWWW
lwk that was valid for y/n to get upset because… why are we acting like we don’t know each other when i’ve done things from our childhood that WE should know and you’re still acting like im someone new 💔 AND LIKE ESP WHEN SHE CONFRONTED HIM ABOUT IT… AND HES STILL TRYING TO LIE LIKE PLEASEEE DROP IT 💔💔
but he didn’t 💔 and then shinyu came into the picture… GUYS (one of) MY BND BIAS AND MY TWS BIAS YOOOOO . this is My destiny…. LMAO BUT i love the sweet bond between them and jaehyun noticing them sharing that bond instead of it being her and him…
like yeah jaehyun why would lie and set yourself up 💔 do we see the consquences of your actions (jkjk) but regardless, i’m glad he ended up actually had always remembered and he was just too committed to the act due to fear ( BOY 💔💔💔💔 ) AND THEN THE SCENE WHERE JAEHYUN WAS SERENADING HER OOOOOOOOUHHHHHH THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUTTTT
ugh they are so cute . LIKE AND THEY KISSED TOO OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUSSSSSSS THIS IS THE ENDING WE WISHED FOR 😝😝😝😝 ( im sorry shinyu 💔 ) this is the sweetest ending yet Yes i am gracefully taking this.
THANK YOU LILI FOR WRITING THIS BANGER AND DEDICATING IT TO ME 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 you are spared…. This time ☺️❤️🩹 !! im glad i stayed up a little bit longer to read this <3
ᅠ ✿ ᅠ REWIND TO YOU ──── ᅠ ( myung jaehyun )
𝓹recis ⠀ : ⠀your reunion with one of the most important people in your life, myung jaehyun, was not like what you hoped for at all. instead of a heartwarming session of two best friends meeting each other after a decade of lost contact, you’re facing a person who seemed to forget a meaningful childhood spent together, like it meant nothing at all.
ᅠ 명재현 ⠀⠀◜◡◝ ⠀⠀𝒇 shy!reader ⠀wc 14.6k ⠀ genre fluff angst childhood friends to lovers high school au ⠀ contains mentions of food skinship random ocs some bnd members and shinyu ⠀ tagging @a-dream-bookmark ,@/k-labels , @k-nets , @k-films , @sgz-net , @onedoornet
ᅠ ᅠ BEST ENJOYED WITH .. l i f e i s c o o l by boynextdoor, amnesia by boynextdoor, in bloom by zerobaseone, teenage dream by stephen dawes, unfinished business by neriah, if i say i love you by boynextdoor, old with you by grentperez, but you by ikon & serenade by boynextdoor
ᅠ note ᅠ from ᅠ 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈 ! ᅠ i hope all of you enjoy this spin i made out of the usual childhood friends to lovers trope! and soph.. i dedicate this to you (Pls Spare me), and if you ask, yes i will dedicate every single leehan and myungjae fic to my wifey!
ᅠ >︿ please leave feedbacks & reblog

“I HATE YOU, MYUNG JAEHYUN!”
Your screams echoed through the playground, accompanied by Jaehyun’s loud giggles. You took a deep breath as you chased him around, your hair flying behind you. Jaehyun had ‘cheated’ when the two of you were playing hide and seek a few minutes ago—he went on asking around the other kids if they had seen you. And one of the stupider kids did tell him that he saw you inside the slide.
Jaehyun was quickly out of breath as he was laughing his heart out while running, and you caught up to him pretty quickly. You launched yourself at him, tackling him to the ground. You hit his chest several times, pouting.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Jaehyun said, blocking your hits. His laughter died down, but that insufferable grin was still glued to his face. He was obviously loving all the attention he’s getting from his best friend—even though she’s sitting on top of him, sulkily pinning him to the ground.
“It’s unfair,” you huffed. You eventually stopped hitting him, but you were still a little upset. How could Jaehyun win, especially by cheating?
“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” he said, his dreadful smirk morphing into a small yet soft smile. “You’re just too good at hide-and-seek.”
“That doesn’t mean you can cheat,” you replied, a pout still evident in your expressions.
Jaehyun pursed his lips, and for a while, he stayed silent—the gears in his brain working to think of a solution for you. “What about this—let’s go to the convenience store and buy some Pepero or whatever you want. It’s on me!”
You couldn’t stop a smile from erupting on your face. The key to your heart was the simplest thing in the entire world: food, and Jaehyun knew this—and he often used this fact to its fullest potential. It didn’t really help that he’s your best friend, too, so he clearly knew what your favourites were. You weren’t exactly complaining, though. Jaehyun liked to tease you, and as compensation for making you a little pouty, he’d buy or offer you some food.
A win-win situation for seven-year-olds.
“Okay!” you agreed cheerfully.
And that’s how you found yourself, happily munching on Pepero and chocolate churro chips on the way back to the playground from the store. Jaehyun walked next to you, holding a bunch of candy in his hands.
You were munching on your snacks, and were just about to thank him for the Pepero when Jaehyun leaned in, stealing a big bite of the Pepero from your hand.
You shrieked in shock, pouting after realising what had happened.
“Jaehyun!” you whined, hitting his arm.
Jaehyun giggled. “You snooze, you lose,” he teased with a stupid grin.
You crossed your arms, huffing. “Some best friend you are.”
Jaehyun’s grin immediately faltered. He quickly broke the chocolate chip cookie he was nibbling on in half, handing you the bigger piece. “Here. Best friends share, right?”
You eyed him rather suspiciously before taking it. “Fine. But you owe me for life.”
“How does that work?” Jaehyun asked, tilting his head slightly.
“We’d have to be best friends forever,” you replied. The look on your face was enough to tell how serious you meant your words, even for a first grader. “That way, you can always buy me food every day.”
“What if… I won’t be here tomorrow?” Jaehyun asked. You immediately turned to him, confused. That wasn’t what you expected from him as an answer.
You took a minute of munching through your chips for you to analyse Jaehyun’s doubtful expression. “What are you talking about? Don’t be silly,” you shoved his shoulder. “You’re always here.”
Jaehyun smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then, promise me—let’s be best friends, no matter what happens.”
You paused, staring right into his eyes.
Jaehyun looked at you, his face mixed with some kind of fondness and amusement. “Promise me, Sunshine?” he asked, holding out his pinky in a solemn promise. “Best friends forever.”
You returned his gaze, a smile forming on your face as you linked your pinky with his, sealing the promise without a second of hesitation. “Always.”
The words echoed in the air, and from the way the winds caressed your skin, it’s like the universe had taken note of your promise to each other.
However, you were completely unaware that this would be the last day you’d spend with him.
The next afternoon, after completing tasks that your mother had told you to do, you rushed to Jaehyun’s house—a few mere blocks away—with a bag of homemade cookies in hand. A big smile was painted across your face, you were excited to surprise Jaehyun with the sweet treats that you had baked with your mother last night.
But something was wrong.
The front yard, usually scattered with Jaehyun’s soccer balls and bicycles, was oddly empty. The windows were shut tight, and the driveway—where his father’s car was always parked—was vacant.
You felt your heart thump hard against your chest. Your grip on the paper bag tightened, and you approached the front door.
You knocked.
Nothing.
“Jaehyun?”
You knocked again, harder this time.
“Myungjae? It’s me, Y/N–”
“Sweetheart? Who are you looking for?”
You turned towards the voice straight away. It was the old lady who lived next door, the one who always made sure to give you and Jaehyun a popsicle whenever you two passed by her house. She had a gentle yet unreadable smile on her face. You ran up to her, head spinning with a dozen questions.
“Where’s Jaehyun?” you asked her.
“My dear…” she began, her voice soft. “Jaehyun left early this morning.”
You blinked. The words were heavy, but you couldn’t understand what they meant. “Left? Where?”
“They moved away.”
Nothing made sense. Jaehyun moved? No one had said anything about moving.
You looked back towards Jaehyun’s house, hoping that the door would swing open and that he would come running towards you, grinning like he always did.
But he didn’t come.
The house was quiet, empty.
Your throat tightened. “But he promised to play. He said he would… stay.”
The lady kneeled in front of you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
You bit your lips, and you didn’t realise you were crying until you tasted salt on your lips.
Later that evening, you had found yourself wandering back to the playground, the noisy chatter of kids playing around fading into the background. The paper bag still in hand, you walked around aimlessly. You could still hear Jaehyun’s laughter ringing in your ears, the sound of your footsteps blending with his as you two ran around.
Jaehyun was gone.
And he didn’t even say goodbye.
You sat down at a bench overlooking the playground where the two of you always played, staring at the place where you both had linked pinkies and made a promise. A promise you had believed in with all your heart.
A promise that, it seemed, only you remembered.
“I’LL see you after school, sweetie,” your father says into your hair. You set your lips into a line, nodding timidly.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” your mother asks, appearing from behind your father. “We can always accompany you to school–”
“Darling,” your father reminds your mother by putting a gentle hand on her arm. “Our Y/N will be fine. She’s almost eighteen now, I’m sure she can handle it all.”
You give your parents a reassuring smile before walking away, each step bringing you uncomfortably away from home.
The morning felt weird, anyway. You’re here, in a new school, in a state you’ve never set foot to before. The air here feels like a heavy fog, clinging to your chest as you stand in front of the towering school building. You could feel the weight of an agonising unknown pressing down on you. It’s a sensation that you could never get used to, despite the sun peeking through the clouds, and the bustling cacophony of students around you. You stand at the gates, fingers tightly grasping the straps of your backpack. You take a deep breath, remembering your mother’s advice to help overcome your nerves.
You walk into your new school, the new feeling of being somewhere so unfamiliar enveloping you. It feels different from the school you left behind—the campus is bigger here, the hallways seemed endless and much wider, and each turn made you feel like you’re lost in a looping maze. They even have a separate building for the library.
You find your footsteps slowing down as you reach the middle of the common area, unsure of where you should go. Your eyes dart here and there, desperately trying to find some kind of clue that could help you.
You had always been the quiet one, preferring to keep to yourself, listening more than you talked, the one that often found herself slipping to the background of a party and corner of classrooms. Currently surrounded by boisterous students, each seeming to know what they’re doing, you feel slightly overwhelmed. The school map you opened on your phone suddenly feels too complicated for you to understand.
Suddenly, something solid crashes against the back of your head, causing you to stumble forward, the impact hard enough to make the books you’re holding fall to the ground.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!”
You turn to reply, but find your words stuck in your throat.
A tall guy in a basketball jersey stands before you, his hair tousled in an athletic tangle. He picks up the ball—the solid object that hit the back of your head a moment ago—and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He gives you a sheepish smile, trying his best to convey how sorry he is—but you’re too focused on his sharp features and messy brown hair. It’s all too familiar.
Myung Jaehyun.
Before you could say anything, he leans down and picks up your books. He hands them to you, a charming smile replacing whatever backward expression he had earlier. “Careful there, newbie,” he says, teasing. “Wouldn’t want to be trampled on your first day here, no?”
You take your books from him, dazed.
He doesn’t recognise you.
You watch as he jogs back to his friends, spinning the orange ball in his hands. You stand there, exactly where he left you, unsure of what to do next.
YOU’RE sitting alone at lunch, perfectly at peace with your packed lunchbox. You sit quietly, not wanting to stand out. This is your first day at a completely new school, and the last thing you want is to make yourself the centre of attention.
Unfortunately, fate had written that this was your first mistake.
You’re about to enjoy your lunch in the comfort of solitude, a figure that you didn’t expect to see, again, slips into the seat in front of you.
“Hey, newbie,” you hear Jaehyun say as he takes a seat. “Eating alone?”
You simply nod, not knowing what to say.
“So, um,” Jaehyun finds himself stuttering after not receiving a reply from you. “You’re the new student, right? That explains the self-introduction in class just now.”
You nod again. Seeing the pitiful look on his face, masked poorly by a confident demeanor, you decide to reply. “Yes. I just moved here.”
Jaehyun’s face lights up like a lightbulb.
“I’m Jaehyun, if you didn’t know that,” he grins. “I’m in your homeroom! My seat is behind you.”
You noticed that, of course. Who wouldn’t recognise someone whose laugh echoed throughout the room, brightening the atmosphere like the rays of a bright spring morning?
You give him a small smile.
“Your seatmate, Sanghyeok, is my friend! He told me you seemed… er, lonely,” he hesitates for a while, “so I came up with a genius plan,” Jaehyun reveals with a grin that you’re a bit too familiar with.
He’d always flash that big smile towards you whenever he wanted to propose a plan, but didn’t really want to take credit for it, in case it was a little too ridiculous.
“What is it?” you reply.
“We should be friends,” Jaehyun responds, and your eyes widen almost immediately.
What does he mean by that?
Your heart begins to race, not just because you’re shocked to see Jaehyun, who was once the most important person in your life, after so many years—but from the fact that he naturally is taking charge, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it came to him with no hesitation.
“It’s all good! I talked to my friends—Sanghyeok, Sungho, Yoona and Minji—about this, and they all seem pretty cool about it.”
“Oh,” is all you’re able to manage. Everything is moving a little too briskly, and you’re feeling a bit dizzy from how fast things are escalating.
You feel your brain short-circuiting.
Just like that?
No hesitation? No ‘wait, Y/N? Is that you?’? No recognition?
You swallow hard.
“Thank you?” you say, wary. You take a small bite of your sandwich. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Jaehyun beams, and as if on cue, he waves towards a group of people behind you. You turn around, eyes slightly bulging at the way Jaehyun’s friends are quickly approaching your table. You recognise Sanghyeok, naturally, and the girl with a bubbly smile that you assume would be Yoona, but the rest of his friends are new faces for you.
Jaehyun barely left any room for you to process anything.
As quickly as they came, the air begins to smell like snacks and sports equipment—a strangely uplifting scent.
“Guys, meet Y/N!” Jaehyun announces as soon as his friends arrive, putting away their things. “She’s the new kid I told you guys about.”
You look at him for a few seconds.
Jaehyun is beaming with a smile, and the way he introduced you with such confidence, like you’ve been best friends since forever, makes your heart thump in a weird way.
“Wow, that was fast,” the tall, broad shouldered boy comments, whistling playfully. “Already claiming her as one of us?”
Jaehyun puffs his chest out. “Of course, I have a talent for spotting good people–”
“Hi, nice to meet you, Y/N,” Yoona quickly says, rolling her eyes at Jaehyun. She takes the empty seat next to you. “We’re in the same homeroom. My name is Im Yoona.”
You give her a polite smile.
A girl with sharp eyes and an amused smile displayed on her face slips into the seat next to Yoona. “So, did he actually ask if you’d like us to sit with you, or did he have you sit here unwillingly?”
You hesitate. “Unwillingly…?”
“Shut up, Minji,” Jaehyun grumbles as the entire group bursts into laughter.
“That’s Jaehyun for you,” Sanghyeok, your desk mate, says to you. He then gives you a warm smile, just like earlier. “Do you like how KOZ Academy is so far?”
You take a little bite out of your sandwich. “It’s fine. I like how big the campus is.”
“That’s what I always brag about this school,” Minji, who’s been quiet for a while, adds in. The smile on her face is relaxed. “I’ve been here since freshman year, and I still can’t fathom the way we have a swimming pool and tennis courts.”
You nod enthusiastically, recalling how you did see the facilities she mentioned in the school map.
“Speaking of that, should we give the newbie a tour of the school?” Jaehyun suggests, his face lightening up with excitement. He barely swallows his food as he’s giving you a bright, friendly grin.
“You speak of her like she’s not in front of you,” the tall boy sighs. He turns to you, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. Y/N, isn’t it? I’m Sungho.”
You nod. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
“Do you want us to give you a tour of the school?” Yoona asks. She gestures to Jaehyun. “Don’t worry, this dumbass won’t be in charge of it.”
“Hey!” Jaehyun exclaims.
“You’ll just show her the boring parts of school,” Minji chimes in.
Jaehyun makes a bewildered expression. “I will not–!”
“Remember the time when Sanghyeok first came to this school? You showed him all the unnecessary classrooms that you didn’t have time to show him where the lunch card machine is,” Sungho adds, laughing.
Jaehyun rolls his eyes. He passes you a snack. “You’re all so dramatic. Anyway,” he says, shifting his gaze to you. “Don’t mind them, Y/N. You’re welcome here—just sit back and relax.”
You nod, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that it’s the only reaction you’re able to give them so far. You’re not so sure that you’re able to relax when all these new faces have their eyes on you, but surprisingly, their energy isn’t too bad. It’s welcoming, bustling with a friendly spirit. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but it’s not unkind.
Jaehyun passes you another snack he grabbed from Sanghyeok’s stash, and something in your chest begins to warm.
Maybe it’s not too bad at all.
THE next day feels like a dream.
You arrive at school pretty early, and much to your surprise, you’re greeted warmly by Yoona, who also happens to arrive at the same time as you. She hops off the bus and jogs towards you, catching up to you as soon as you park your bicycle.
“Good morning, Y/N,” she smiles at you.
You mirror her expression. “Good morning.”
“It’s still early… Do you want to go to the common area?” Yoona suggests. “I’m sure the rest will already be there.”
You simply nod. “Cool. Let’s go.”
Yoona links her arm with yours, and together, you walk towards the common area. It’s bustling and loud despite it being only half past seven. Most of the energy radiates from Jaehyun and his group of friends: the boys are tossing a basketball up and down—even though they’re clearly indoors, and they shouldn’t be playing with a ball inside. Minji sits on the sofa nearby, leaning back as she lazily reads through a novel, completely unbothered with the ruckus around her.
As soon as you arrive, Yoona puts her bag down, sitting down next to Minji and they both begin chatting about whatever topic that comes to mind. You, however, aren’t used to this kind of energy—fast-paced, full of jokes and friendly banter. You sit at the edge of the sofa, unsure of how you’d insert yourself into the conversation.
Jaehyun, on the other hand, is thriving. As always.
“Bet I can make the shot from here,” he brags, crumpling a snack wrapper in his hands. He gestures to the trash can, located at the far corner of the room.
“No way,” Sungho scoffs. “That’s, like, ten feet away.”
“You’re all talk, MJ,” Sanghyeok chimes in, laughing.
Jaehyun smirks, turning to you. “Yo, new kid. Believe in me?”
You meet his eyes, blinking profusely. “Uh…”
The group laughs, and Jaehyun gives you an exaggerated gasp. He puts a hand over his chest in a dramatic manner. “Wow. The hesitation? I’m hurt.”
“Well–” you say, pausing. You’re unsure if you should say what your thoughts really are, or if you should play it safe. You bit your lip, suddenly feeling self-conscious of the way you’re sitting.
“You’ll miss, definitely,” you quietly mumble.
For a second—one that felt way too long—Jaehyun stares.
Then, he throws his head back, laughing his lungs out. “Yo, she’s got a bite! I like her.”
You gape at him, not knowing what to respond to the grin he flashed at you amidst his loud laughter. Your face begins to burn, but the others are nodding in approval.
“Good job,” Minji pats your shoulder. “You’re keeping him humble.”
Sanghyeok hands you a juice box, grinning like his gesture is a kind of initiation. “You’re officially one of us.”
You hesitate, but eventually accept it.
“Told you you’d fit right in,” Jaehyun says, nudging your side as he grins.
And just like that, you find yourself smiling back.
YOU’RE not sure if it’s just you, or it’s that Jaehyun does not remember you at all. It has been quite a long time, you admit that, but you don’t think that it’s reasonable for someone to completely forget someone so important, no matter how long you’ve been without them.
So, for the following weeks, you decided to test the waters, to see if Jaehyun truly did forget you, that if you’re just a passing memory in his childhood.
“Jaehyun!” you exclaim, running up to the soccer court. The boy perks up, his eyes lightening up as he watches you jog up to him. He was scrolling animatedly on his phone, but when he heard his name being called by you, whatever that he was interested in was tossed aside.
“Are you done with soccer?” you ask, panting slightly.
Jaehyun nods.
“What’s up, newbie?” he then grins, wiping off his sweat using the towel hanging around his neck.
You cringe slightly at the nickname. “I have a name, you know.”
Jaehyun laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Y/N. What’s wrong though?”
“Nothing,” you reply. You then rummage through your backpack, bringing out a bunch of strawberry fruit roll-ups. You give Jaehyun a small smile before handing them to him. “Here, I thought you’d want them after practice.”
Jaehyun beams, delightfully grabbing the candies. He opens one of them, and when he’s about to put it in his mouth, he pauses mid-action. His eyes turn straight to you, looking fixedly into your gaze. “Wait.”
You bite the bottom of your lips, trying to contain yourself.
“What?”
“How’d you know I like these?”
Your eyes bulge slightly, and you quickly purse your lips together to mask a smile. You knew Jaehyun liked these—ever since you started being friends with him, he had made it clear that he liked everything and anything that tastes like strawberries. You remember spending a lot of time in your childhood, trying the various breeds of strawberry, as well as strawberry candies and snacks that Jaehyun had shared with you; and over time, you just naturally knew specifically what he liked.
And turns out, the five foot seven inches high school senior that’s standing in front of you with a baffled expression on his face still does like strawberry flavoured things.
He is the Myung Jaehyun that your heart holds dear, even after so many years.
You shrug. “Just a feeling.”
Jaehyun places the fruit roll-up in his mouth, his gaze still trained on you. In his eyes, you can see that he’s questioning your words. But as the candy melts in his mouth, the doubt begins to dissipate, and his charming smile reappears.
“Thank you,” Jaehyun’s grin twinkles. He grabs another candy and pops it into his mouth.
“These things are crazy—I can’t get enough of how good they taste!” he begins to chatter as he packs his things, his movement as swift as the speed of the words coming out of his mouth. When he’s done, he stands up straight and looks towards you, the expression in his eyes cheerful and full of energy.
“Let’s go?” Jaehyun prompts.
You adjust your backpack’s straps on your shoulders. “Go… where?”
“Home?” Jaehyun replies, perching up his eyebrow. He looks at you like you’ve asked the dumbest question he’s ever heard. “You live in my neighbourhood, don’t you? I always see you cycling home from the grocery store on Saturdays.”
You hesitate.
The fact that you do live in the same neighbourhood as Jaehyun does is bothering you in ways you’d never thought it would. It reminds you of the painful separation you faced in your early years of life, and to be hit with such a strong déjà vu years later, you’re not sure if you can handle it.
Seeing you waver, Jaehyun wears his bag on one shoulder, putting his other arm around you. Your shoulder tense, feeling weird at how he’s so completely at ease with you, like he’s grown up with you for years.
“It’s okay, Y/N,” he says, his voice oddly absent from the cocky confidence he usually wears. Instead, his voice is comfortingly firm. “C’mon, let’s walk home together.”
As he walks with you to the school gate, the warmth of him being close to you makes your heart ache in ways that are alarmingly familiar.
IT’S been a few weeks of you trying to execute your attempts at making Jaehyun remember you. But, of course, your efforts decided to fail you. It’s annoying—the way he’s obviously out there treating you like you’re the greatest friend he’s ever had, yet whenever you bring up an old joke or an old nickname that you used to call him, he puts on this confused face that makes you want to slap him and yourself.
One day, during an afternoon study session, you and your friends had pushed your desks together to mug up upon your studies. You were seated between Yoona and Sanghyeok, and directly in front of you was Jaehyun.
Tired of solving math problems, you began watching Jaehyun solve a math problem, leaning over his desk. His brows were furrowed deeply, showing how tricky the math problem was. And you notice one thing.
He was subconsciously sticking out the tip of his tongue slightly. It clicked inside your head, and a roll of memories came playing into your sight. His habit is still the same—exactly like he used to when the two of you were playing jigsaw puzzles.
You snorted to yourself. “You still do that?” you whispered to yourself.
However, your whisper was loud enough for your friends to catch. “Do what?” Yoona asked, perking up from her physics homework.
Her question pulled the entirety of Jaehyun’s attention, and his eyes were locking with yours at once. He had a questioning look on his face, and he didn’t say anything, waiting for you to answer.
Your eyes widened, and you immediately shook your head. “Nothing,” you stammered, looking away as you bit the inner corner of your cheek.
A few days after that, you were sitting on the bleachers of your school’s soccer field, your homework sprawled over your lap. Jaehyun had made you and the girls come over to watch him, Sungho, and Sanghyeok play soccer at the field. You and Minji didn’t want to at first, but Yoona saw it with a positive note—you were sick of studying at the library every afternoon, so studying at the field could be a nice change.
It was a windy November afternoon, and autumn was giving way to winter, so every single gush of wind felt like a harsh bite to the skin. You squinted, trying to do your homework as you fought with the wind and the coldness it brought along. You’re not too interested in sports, and it didn’t help that you got there when the match was already halfway through, so you didn’t understand a thing that was going on.
One thing for sure is that it was quite an intense match.
“I’m not sure if this was a good idea,” Minji muttered. She shoved her hair into her coat, zipping it up. “My hair is flying everywhere and I can’t even see Sanghyeok. How am I supposed to do anything?”
“Sanghyeok, huh?” Yoona laughed. “You can see them a bit—see, look!” she exclaimed, pointing at the slightly smaller figure of the boys, fiercely in their game. “Sungho and Jaehyun’s about to score!”
Hearing that, you immediately looked up from your homework, your attention officially snatched away from the assignment. You watched intently as the game progressed: Sungho, with the ball in his control, dodged a tackle, swiftly running through the field before powerfully passing the ball towards Jaehyun, who effortlessly scores their winning goal.
It’s a friendly match between your school’s soccer team and another school, but the celebration that roared through was something else.
Sanghyeok pulled Jaehyun and Sungho into a bear hug, ruffling both their heads. You heard Jaehyun’s victorious laughs and screams echoing around the air. You smiled.
Soccer has always been one of his passions, and seeing him flourish in it makes your heart bloom in ways you never imagine it would.
You were proud of him, and it’s a refreshing feeling that you never got to feel years ago, when seven-year-old Jaehyun was telling you all about his soccer dreams.
After freeing himself from Sanghyeok, Jaehyun ran up to the bleachers. Much to your surprise, he was headed straight to you. He came up to you with a pleasant grin, his face flushed with sweat.
“Hey, I did it,” he said, breathless. He brought his hand out for a high-five.
And before you could even think, you stood up and clasped his hand in the old secret handshake from your childhood with him. It came to you like second nature—you couldn’t even stop yourself.
Jaehyun stiffened, his hand still clasped around yours.
You were equally as shocked as he is.
Why did you even do that?
And what was that reaction?
However, Jaehyun was quick to react—he laughed it off, quickly redoing it into a normal high-five. He gave you another grin before turning away to chug water, leaving you confused and unconvinced.
Now, you’re not too sure that Myung Jaehyun actually forgot you.
This theory was drilled into your head even more after another incident or two.
It was a random Tuesday, where Jaehyun had dragged you and the girls to accompany him to do soccer drills at the field with his team.
“Remind me why we need to do this again,” Minji grumbled, slumping against the seat.
Yoona sighed, stifling back a grin. “Because MJ said so.”
“I don’t understand! Why can’t we just wait for them at the library? We need to study anyway,” Minji complained, stomping her feet in frustration a few times.
“They probably just need some moral support,” you chimed in, watching absentmindedly as Jaehyun is making his team run around the field.
“They’re seniors already, they should be done with all this,” Minji huffed.
Yoona shrugged. “You know how they are with soccer.”
“Absolute maniacs,” Minji commented, shaking her head.
You simply nodded and chuckled along to their conversation, eyes trained on Jaehyun coordinating his teammates in soccer training. The actions then became repetitive, and you quickly got bored. You stared off into space, zoning out. Then, without you realising, a soccer ball from a group of freshmen that were practicing near your seats came flying directly towards you.
Before you could react, Jaehyun instinctively stepped in front of you, shielding you from the ball with his body.
The ball bounced off him with a thud, and you gasped. You rushed towards him, Minji and Yoona following you from behind.
“Jaehyun, are you okay?” you asked frantically.
Jaehyun picked up the ball, turning slightly to give you a grin that tells you that he’s okay. “I’m okay!” he answered, flexing his bicep. “See?”
And the memory hitted you like a truck—all this reminded you of the time when the two of you were kids, when Jaehyun would always stand in front of you during dodgeball insisting “you’re too small to get hit!”
A quiet gasp escaped between your lips. “You always do this,” you muttered.
Jaehyun, who was about to walk back to his teammates after tossing the ball back to them, turned to you. “Do what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. Your eyes narrowed—you could tell that he was feigning innocence.
“Never mind,” you said, giving him a tight smile. Jaehyun nodded, and you watched him jog back to his teammates, carrying out the practice like usual, a million thoughts racing through your mind.
He remembers.
The next week, on a Thursday, you had just gotten back home from your after school Chemistry class—Jaehyun and his mother had dropped you off. After cleaning yourself up and changing into your pyjamas, you sat down at your desk, wanting to get some homework done before you ate dinner.
Then, your phone pinged with a text notification from Jaehyun.
hey sunshine
Are u done with the english hw? i wanna see how u did it
Sunshine.
The nickname that Jaehyun used to love calling you when the two of you were kids, and used to live only a few houses away from each other back in your old neighbourhood. He used to call you that because, quoting him, your smile was as precious as the sunshine on a winter morning. You didn’t—and still don’t—genuinely smile often, but Jaehyun was one of the only people who could trigger it out of you with not too much effort.
The nickname meant a lot to you.
You stared at the message in a daze, and when you finally were about to reply, the text was gone.
y/n, i meant
sorry
You held your hand against your chest, heart pounding like crazy.
“What the hell was that?” you whispered to yourself.
So he does remember.
IT’S a Friday, and you’re sitting down at your desk, unable to focus your brain into another set of math problems. Instead, you sit there, pretending to read through your completed English essay while sneaking glances at Jaehyun. He’s laughing about something with Minji and Sungho, effortlessly conforming with his friends, flashing that same stupid grin that you’ve always remembered from your childhood.
Your fingers curl around the edges of your desk.
How could he look so familiar yet feels so distant like a stranger?
You desperately want to believe that he’s forgotten—too much time has passed. But deep down, you know that it doesn’t make sense. He’s too comfortable around you, too quick to include you too. He’s too at ease around you, especially for someone who’s apparently just met you for around two months.
And the worst part? Your heart is still skipping a beat every time you look at him. Your heart still reacts the same way it did when you were kids—probably even more defined now—cheeks turning pink at his gestures, heart warming at his voice.
This isn’t fair. Nothing is.
You watch as he ruffles Minji’s hair, annoying her by ruining her hair that she spent an entire morning trying to perfect. He laughs as she swats his hand away, hissing curses at his face.
He used to do that to you.
Your grip tightens.
Maybe you’re just overthinking it. Maybe he really did forget, after all.
But you can’t just get it out of your head—the way Jaehyun treats you, the small, fleeting glances and the way he easily includes you in every conversation he has and everything he does. It makes you doubt yourself.
And why do you even care so much?
You turn away, biting your lip. It’s stupid. Everything is just so dumb—you shouldn’t be jealous or feeling worked up about some boy that happened to still be the most important part of your life even after so many years. You shouldn’t even bother yourself with something that happened years ago. You know you shouldn’t hold on to memories that you’re not even sure he still held.
But you are.
And that fact alone is making you despise everything.
BY the end of the day, you’re lazily packing your bag after the last bell rang. You’re drained after an entire week of classes and endless assignments, and you don’t know if you can survive your after school Math class. Beside you, Sanghyeok is also packing his bag—but he’s doing so at a much faster pace than you are. He gives you an acknowledging smile, a piece of bread in his mouth, before walking out of the classroom.
“MJ, are we going to the extra football practice coach said we’d have earlier?” Sungho asks, stacking his books into an organised pile before sliding them into his bag.
Jaehyun looks up from his phone, humming. “Yeah, I’ll go. I’m the captain—can’t miss any sessions, can I?”
Sungho nods in agreement, but before he could say anything in return, Jaehyun’s focus is already shifted to you.
You’re packing your bag slowly, as if by doing that, you’re able to avoid going to your after school class. You zip your backpack close, feeling someone’s gaze boring into you. You look up, turning towards the source of the tingling sensation.
“Going home already?” Jaehyun asks, an idle grin displayed on his face.
You slip your arms into your puffed coat. “Yeah,” you nod, “I have extra class.”
“Let me walk you home,” Jaehyun says, zipping his bag shut smoothly. He swings it over his back.
“Jaehyun, we have practice,” Sungho reminds. He’s already at the door, gesturing with his chin.
Jaehyun swats his hand, without even looking at his friend. “It’s fine—you can go first.”
As Sungho leaves with a sigh, Jaehyun grins at you. “C’mon. Let’s stop for some tteok skewers while we’re at it too.”
You stare at him, eyes unblinking.
Is he being serious? Why is he always insisting on walking you home? Doesn’t he realise what his actions are doing to you?
Your frown begins to deepen as you recall Jaehyun’s treatment of you ever since you transferred to KOZ Academy: always next to you, effortlessly handing you snacks and drinks—specifically the ones you always preferred, always seeming to prioritise you over everything else that he has; walking you home, buying you food as often as possible, and all the other little things that made your heart somersault.
You don’t want any of this.
You don’t like how conscious you are of yourself whenever he’s around. You don’t like how he makes you feel like you’re the most important person in this world. You don’t like how he makes you all smiles—you despise the way he easily brings you out of your shell.
You clench your fists.
This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.
Jaehyun has been nothing but very kind and welcoming to you since you first came here. He has included you, so naturally nothing seemed awkward or forced. He introduced you to his friends, and they were all so welcoming you feel like you’ve been friends for ages. He treated you like any other classmate, normal and friendly.
And that is the problem.
Because you know that, to Jaehyun, you’re just like any other person here. You’re just a normal classmate. Not the girl who used to braid flowers into his hair as the two of you talked under the shade of the oak tree, chatting your afternoon away. Not the girl that he used to enthusiastically greet every day, eager to share his strawberries. Not the girl that he swore he’d never leave behind.
You know you mean as much to him as much as his other friends do. You know that his stomach doesn’t do this funny dance whenever you’re around. You know that his cheeks don’t become warm whenever he hears your voice. You know he doesn’t look forward to seeing you every day, like it’s one of the only things that keep him going.
Your throat burns with this feeling. It’s stupid. You hate whatever’s going on—the faint sliver of hope that Jaehyun just might remember you after all. Maybe he was just pretending.
But for what?
Because everytime you look into his eyes, you don’t see the Jaehyun you cherished with your entire heart. All you see is someone, still the same Myung Jaehyun, who had long since moved on.
You’re fine on your own. You know that. You’ve always been.
You’ve always been by yourself, you didn’t realise how fun and fulfilling it’d be when there’s a special someone in your life.
When Jaehyun left with no warning ten years ago, you had thought it was the end of the world. You had put yourself through the painful process of moving on, of finally accepting that maybe Jaehyun wasn’t meant to be yours forever all along.
But then, Jaehyun reappeared. He made his way back into your life, a decade later, as smoothly as the way he first introduced himself to you as a four year old.
Yet he had the audacity to treat you like you’re a new friend.
You close your eyes for a quick moment, trying to suppress all the memories that are rushing back into your head.
“C’mon, Y/N, you’ll be late for your class,” Jaehyun says, tapping your shoulder. It brings you back to reality, and without realising, you’re staring sharply at him with that alarming sensation of tears collecting in your eyes.
Jaehyun, of course, is quick to notice this. His grin fades into a frown. “What’s wrong? A-are you sick?”
You inhale sharply, taking your bag. “No,” you say, slowly shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Okay,” you hear Jaehyun quietly responding as you walk past him. You walk out of the classroom and into the hallways, too tired to even stop Jaehyun from following you. You let him accompany you to the after school tuition centre in town, silently waving him goodbye as you watch him cycle back to school.
You turn around, sighing.
YOU know you’re about to hit the end of your patience.
Your school is hosting a winter festival, organised by juniors and sophomores, a few days before winter break. It’s fun when you think about it, but not as much when you’re paired with Jaehyun for a game.
The school courtyard is bustling with students, all bundled up in wooly scarves, mittens and puffy jackets, gathered together at the booths set up for your school’s winter festival. The ground is carpeted with white, fresh snow, and a large part of it had transferred into a battlefield for snowball fights, complete with stacks of hay, snowbanks, and random objects as forts.
“Sorry Y/N,” Yoona says, setting her lips into an apologetic line.
You shook your head, sighing. Everyone is already paired up with each other—Minji with Sanghyeok, Yoona with Sungho—and you’re left with Jaehyun for the snowball game. You look at Jaehyun, who looks very eager.
“You’re with me, Y/N!” he exclaims, sliding his arm around your shoulders. His smile is bright and, as much as you didn’t like it, it makes you smile too.
“So we’re going to draw some sticks and see which teams are going to go against each other,” Jihyeon, one of the juniors in charge of the snowball game booth, says as she comes up to you and your friends.
“You can go first,” you say to Minji, and she nods.
She reaches her hand in the cup Jihyeon is holding out, and pulls out a random popsicle stick. The edge of it is coloured red.
“It’s red?” she asks, a little confused.
Jihyeon smiles. “That means you’ll be competing against another team who pulled out a red stick!”
“That’s us!” Jaehyun, who’s standing next to you, suddenly exclaims. He holds a red popsicle stick in his hand. You turn to him, slightly surprised. You didn’t even realise he had been picking a popsicle stick for the two of you.
“You don’t mind me picking for us… Do you?” he whispers to you. You give him a small smile before shaking your head.
“I don’t mind.”
You and Jaehyun are going against Minji and Sanghyeok for the snowball game, while Yoona and Sungho are fighting against another pair of seniors. Jihyeon gave each team five minutes to make as many snowballs as possible. You and Jaehyun worked your best to form the snowballs—you weren’t too good at handling cold snow, but Jaehyun seemed to be the best at it.
“We’ll win this,” Jaehyun says to you, crouching down behind your side of the area. You crouch down next to him, awkwardly nodding.
He smiles at you in reassurance, and some kind of positive energy fills you up.
And before you could even process any of it, Jihyeon blows the whistle, indicating the start of your snowball fight. A chaos, made out of crazed giggles and snowballs crashing against bodies, begins to erupt, and you lose sight of Jaehyun in the middle of it.
Jaehyun is immediately in his element—his snickering laughter ringing through the school courtyard as he hurls snowballs at Minji and Sanghyeok. He ducks and dodges behind a snowbank, his chequered brown and red scarf flying behind him like a flag.
You’re standing awkwardly behind a stack of hay tall enough to cover you, holding a snowball with both of your hands. Jaehyun suddenly lands next to you, and as soon as he sees you, he tilts his head with a smirk. “Y/N,” he says loudly against the frenzy, “you’re supposed to throw the snowball, Sunshine, not hold on to it like a favourite teddy bear.”
Jaehyun gives you a teasing grin before dashing off to hurl more snowballs towards Sanghyeok, triple the amount he just threw to his face moments ago.
You remain there, standing still.
Sunshine? What was that?
Your cheeks turn pink underneath your knitted scarf, and it’s hard to tell whether that was caused by the cold or from the way that Jaehyun’s grin made your heart flip.
You watch as Jaehyun plays around in the snow, his giggles resonating around the air. You stand there, your heart thumping loudly in confusion.
He definitely remembers.
You absentmindedly take a step back, clutching the snowball in your hands harder, the stinging cold no longer bothering you.
A second later, Jaehyun arrives next to you, almost slipping. He pants, and despite that, he’s still grinning joyfully. He locks his gaze with yours, and upon noticing your expression, his smile falters a little.
“Y/N?” Jaehyun asks, “are you okay? Why aren’t you playing?”
“‘Sunshine’,” you state plainly, eyes unblinking. “What was… that?”
Jaehyun freezes. He opens his mouth, but for a while, nothing comes out. He stares at you, something unreadable clouding his eyes. The wind blows at his messy hair, flopping against his forehead.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, chuckling rather sheepishly.
You narrow your eyes. You’re not letting this go. “Jaehyun,” you press on. “Answer me, Myungjae.”
Upon the nickname, his eyes widens.
Jaehyun hesitates, and for a while, it looked like he was about to give you the answer you desperately wanted. However, your hopes were crushed as a snowball from Minji came hurling towards your direction, crumbling upon impact against your hair. Jaehyun’s eyes widens, and his focus turns back to the snowball match.
“We have a minute left,” he says, rushingly grabbing several snowballs. He’s about to turn to Minji and Sanghyeok, wanting to throw more snowballs at them—but he pauses. He leans close, brushing snow out of your hair with his free hand.
Your breath catches in your throat. A rush of warmth goes up your cheeks, despite the raging emotions and thoughts in your head.
He’s too close.
Jaehyun chuckles. After making sure all of the snow is gone, he ruffles your hair, trying his best to make it look okay again. “There,” he says, his voice low and comforting. “All good.”
You watch him turn his focus back to the snowball frenzy, unable to utter a word. You stare at him, his grin decorating his already handsome face. Your heart claws against your chest as you try your best to pull your eyes away from Myung Jaehyun, who looks too gorgeous with his brown hair adorned with sparkly snowflakes.
You know he’s lying. You know he remembers.
But why is he doing all this?
THE last bell of the day rings, the entire school erupts in a chatter of celebration. Students run out of their classrooms, walking out with their friends as they chat the rest of the day away. Several student council members are doing several of their last duties of the day, making sure that everything is perfect before leaving the school for a month.
You’re at your locker, double-checking everything. You make sure to stuff your bag with things that you’re not too confident at leaving at school for a month—your chemistry textbook, the mirror that your old friends got you. You also made sure to replace the tape that’s holding up the polaroid pictures of you and your family, hoping that it’d stay up for longer this time.
Your eyes linger around the polaroid of you and Jaehyun—taken at the young age of six. It was the first day of school, you vividly remembered.
You used to look at that picture with a bittersweet, reminiscent feeling. You always used to look at that picture with some kind of hope that you’d meet Jaehyun one day.
But now, you can’t do that anymore.
You glance at Jaehyun’s direction, a few metres away from you. He’s at his locker with his friends, Ricky and Sungho. He’s laughing, as always, and he’s effortlessly blending in like he always did. He’s enjoying his time with his friends, like he didn’t just spend the last few months unknowingly ripping you into pieces.
How could he be so carefree when you’re feeling like this?
You hate it. So much.
Too much.
You hate how your chest aches whenever you catch Jaehyun looking at you, the way he looked at you like any other classmate, betraying the years you spent together. You hate how he seemed to have easily erased you from his past, like you meant absolutely nothing to him. You hate how he seemed to have forgotten you so heartlessly, when you have spent years holding onto him.
But now, you can’t hold it in anymore.
Jaehyun had finished his conversation with his friends, and now he’s walking towards you, tossing his ball up and down, flashing that same easygoing smile that had captured your heart—and something inside you snaps.
“Do you really not remember me?”
Jaehyun pauses, his eyes bulging and his footsteps halting.
You didn’t mean to say it.
You had spent weeks bottling it all up, second-guessing yourself amidst all the mixed signals. You constantly told yourself that it didn’t matter, that Jaehyun truly did forget you, and that it had been too long for him to even remember you as much as you remember him.
You can’t just bottle it in any longer.
Jaehyun blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”
You exhale sharply. You can’t take it back anymore. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”
JAEHYUN bangs his head against his bedroom door, regretting every single thing he’s done.
Why did he even do that?
After he said goodbye to Ricky, who was going on a winter vacation to Italy, he turned to you. He approached you, subconsciously having that same stupid lovesick grin that his lips somehow form whenever he’s around you. He’s walking towards you, like how he does it every other day.
Usually, you’d greet him with that adorable little smile of yours.
But today, he was smothered with a menacing glare and a question that he doesn’t expect instead.
“What are you talking about?” Jaehyun said, trying his best to sound innocent. He was unable to pry his gaze away from you, but he hoped that you didn’t catch the quiver in his eyes.
You didn’t say anything for a while, and he watched as whatever emotions you had swirling in your beautiful eyes changed into a solid look of hurt and betrayal.
Jaehyun felt his heart drop to the floor.
It’s like everything stopped, and his stomach began to twist, the memories rushing back as they played through his mind like a broken film tape that he couldn’t stop from playing.
“You really, really don’t remember me,” you said, quiet with a humongous amount of hurt. Your voice cracked, and Jaehyun’s heart began to crumble because of it.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Jaehyun replied, forcing out the words as firmly as he possibly could.
His words felt like acid on his tongue. Jaehyun had told this lie many times before, but today, it felt more painful than the others. But Jaehyun did it anyway, over and over again.
Because it’s easier than admitting the truth to you. It’s easier than having to acknowledge the feeling that’s twisting his heart, hurting his chest.
You exhaled shakily, and for a second, Jaehyun swore that he could see through you—your eyes searching him, like you were finding the real Jaehyun, who had been the one that promised he’d be your rock until the end of time.
And the fact that you still had that effect on him—making him feel like he’s on Cloud 9—after all these years, only made it worse for him.
“You’re lying,” you snapped, your eyes starting to sparkle with unshed tears. Your voice began to rise with every word you uttered. “You do remember me. You remember everything. Don’t you?”
His heart began to thump loudly against his ribs. He had never seen you so worked up like this, he had never heard you raise your voice like this.
Jaehyun stared into your eyes, the truth burning at the back of his throat. He hesitated, almost spitting it out.
But in the end, he swallowed it.
“I don’t get it, Y/N,” he countered, trying to sound confused. Though, it didn’t sound convincing, even to him. “Maybe we’ve met before, in-in the past, but I truly don’t remember anything.”
Your gaze stiffened, and the desperation in your expression faded. Jaehyun kept his guard strong—he couldn’t let you see him crack, even though the weight of your disappointment was heavy on him.
Then, after a minute of silence that felt too long, you gave him a straight smile.
“Okay,” you whispered. You slammed your locker close and immediately walked away, not giving Jaehyun a chance to say anything else.
He wanted to chase after you. But he couldn’t.
He watched you turn away, and as the doors closed behind you, he felt the loss crumbling upon him, heavy and unbearable.
YOU’RE not even sure why you’re feeling like this, but you are angry. Upset.
Who wouldn’t be, especially after witnessing the only person who made you feel truly understood shun you out, saying that he doesn’t remember you?
You didn’t really like leaving your messages unread and unreplied, but for the first time, you let your text channel with Jaehyun clog up.
It’s the morning of Christmas, and you wake up to almost fifty new texts from Jaehyun alone. You don’t open any of them, but you couldn’t help but read some of it from the notifications bar.
y/n, did i do something wrong?
y/n, are u okay?
y/n, i can’t believe u declined to go snowboarding 2gether yesterday. we had so much fun!!!
okay fine. i shouldn’t have used that tone
honestly it kinda sucked to not have u around
i know u’d like seeing the sunset from on top of the mountain
y/n i hope u’re eating well
y/n, did u go see the big christmas tree in the city centre? i’m in front of it rn.
y/n. merry christmas.
enjoy your day
You sigh, turning off your phone. It pained you, probably just a little bit, to ignore all of Jaehyun’s attempts to reach out to you. You did feel a bit sad that you’re missing out on fun plans that he wanted to do with you—but what could you possibly do? You know you’re not ready to face him without baring your teeth at him.
You enjoy the day with your family, happy to see them after a long time, especially your cousins and grandparents. You ate a lot of good food, took a lot of pictures, played a lot of games with your nieces and nephews, and of course—exchanged many memorable moments and laughter with your family members.
You were playing in the snow with your little cousins, your heart stinging a little. Not from the cold, but from the memory that you have associated with snowball fights—Jaehyun. There was something warm about hurling cold balls of snow that made the tips of your fingers red. Maybe it was because you were fond of the person smiling at you during that time, or maybe because the way snowball fights produce heartwarming laughter reminds you of the person that you’ve cherished for so long and how his laughter fills your heart with joy.
Your mother called you inside, and after shaking off all the snow from your coat, you joined everyone else for the gift unboxing time. You got many gifts from your family and friends alike, but when it came to the largest box addressed to you, you can’t help but feel a little pang in your heart.
Who was it from?
You flip the card attached to the gift, the world going completely silent for a second. Your eyes widen at the sight of Jaehyun’s name scribbled onto it, along with a short message.
Merry Christmas. I hope you enjoy this.
“When… how did this get here?” the question escapes your mouth almost instantly, but you know that’s not what you really wanted to ask.
“A boy came off to drop this just now, when you were playing in the backyard with the kids,” your aunt replies, handing you a piece of brownies. You put it in your mouth, chewing slowly as you try to process her words. “I asked him if he wanted to come in and talk to you, but he refused and ran away so quickly I didn’t have time to stop him.”
You merely nod, unable to say anything due to the heavy feeling pressing down your chest. Slowly, you rip the wrapping paper open, holding in a breath you know wasn’t necessary.
You didn’t know what you expected.
An apology letter, maybe.
Or something that he remembered that you always liked.
But instead of that, your hands are holding a gingerbread house kit and a store-bought Christmas card taped to it.
Whatever hope you still had remaining for Jaehyun fades, and your jaw clenches.
It’s time to stop.
“LOOK, it’s Shinyu,” Yoona nudges you, giggling rather uncontrollably. You glance at his direction, a little wide eyed from how blatant her statement was.
You’re walking with Yoona and Minji to your school’s library, located in the middle of campus grounds. You’re almost there, when you spot Junghwan—or more famously known as Shinyu, and his group of friends walking in the opposite direction.
“Shush,” you whisper. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”
“‘Cause he’s such a gentleman, duh,” Yoona replies, deadpanned. Though, that kind of expression on her face lasts only a second. As you and Shinyu’s steps grow closer to each other, and heat begins to rise up to your cheeks, Yoona couldn’t hold her smile back.
“We’re just friends,” you state, dismissing whatever she’s about to say. You shove your hands deep into the pockets of your puffed jacket, and you set your gaze straight ahead.
Yoona gives you a raised brow. “I never said you guys weren’t. Are you saying that you guys are more than that?” she asks, the octave of her voice going higher.
“Someone’s excited,” you mumble. You quickly turn to Minji, desperate. You’re going to walk past Shinyu and his friends anytime now.
“Min, help,” you plead between gritted teeth.
To your surprise, Minji laughs, putting her hands up. “I’ll always defend you, but this time, I can’t—you and Shinyu are too cute for me to prevent it.”
Your heart skips a beat, and your mouth is agape. Though, before you could say anything to counter Minji’s remark—that’s already making her and Yoona laugh—Shinyu is already next to you.
“Hello,” he says, his voice sweet like honey.
You freeze in your steps, and you quickly turn to him. Shinyu, standing much taller than you, has a fresh smile plastered on his face–the sincerity of it feels like it’s only for you. Though, you don’t want to get your hopes up for anything. You and Shinyu had recently started becoming friends, right after winter break ended a few weeks before this: he’s in your English and PE class, and he often sits near you when you’re studying in the library. You always see him playing basketball after school, too.
You give him a small smile. “Hi, Shinyu.”
“Where are you going?” Shinyu asks. He nods in acknowledgement to Yoona and Minji.
“Library,” Minji replies, looping her arm with yours. “Do you wanna come with us?”
Shinyu glances towards his friends, who’s talking amongst themselves.
“I promised my friends I’d come to study with them in the common room,” he says, before shifting his gaze back to you, and there’s some kind of determination shining through. “But you know what?”
Flustered, you blurt out. “What?”
“Yo, guys, I’ll be studying in the library,” he announces to his friends. Some of them roll their eyes, but eventually, they all agree to meet up after school.
“Let’s go then?” he says, flashing you a smile.
Yoona clears her throat, and even though muffled, you can clearly hear her giggling. You press your lips together, nodding. You’re feeling shy for no reason. “Okay. Let’s… go.”
Shinyu grins, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The four of you walk to the library—Yoona and Minji, to your right, are giggling their hearts at the way Shinyu’s walking to your pace, his position perfectly shielding you from the sun.
You force yourself to look forward the entire time, Shinyu’s presence suddenly making you feel beet red. Unknowingly, you’re smiling to yourself—Shinyu is well-known amongst your peers for his good manners, and undoubtedly, he’s one of the nicer people you’ve met. You lost count of the amount of times he’s taken care of you, especially when you’re studying.
You chuckle.
Shinyu’s not bad.
“Someone’s in love, huh?” Yoona jests, pushing the library door open. You jolt back to reality, scowling at her.
“I’m not in love,” you whisper sharply. “Also, shut up, he’s next to me.”
Yoona throws her head back, unable to contain her amusement anymore. You ignore her snickering in the back, and you walk inside the library, clutching the straps of your backpack as you try to find a table with enough seats for all of you.
As you’re looking, a familiar voice pulls your attention towards its owner.
“Y/N!” you hear Sungho call you, his voice quiet but loud enough for you to catch. He motions for you and the rest to come over. Yoona and Minji notice this, and they immediately jog over, delighted to see the boys.
However, you’re a little sceptical.
Your eyes meet with Jaehyun, who looks rather wide-eyed to see you. You hesitate, your footsteps heavier than before. You haven’t been really talking to him ever since school reopened after winter break, and this is the first time you’re facing him directly.
Shinyu notices your mood drop. He leans to whisper, “are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and as far as I know, ghosts don’t really appear in the day.”
You almost burst out laughing at Shinyu’s wooden remark. You bit the bottom of your lips before tugging Shinyu’s sleeve. “Let’s go sit with them?”
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice suddenly shaky.
You nod. “I’m sure they’ll be okay with it!”
You’re not too sure what made you feel so brave to do so—but you pull Shinyu towards the table that all your friends are sitting at, gesturing for him to sit next to you. Jaehyun, who happened to sit directly in front of the seat that you’re claiming as yours for the day, watched with a dumbfounded expression on his face, his jaw dropped. Yoona and Minji smirked, seeming to know what you’re doing, but Sungho and Sanghyeok looked a little hesitant.
Other than the sharp gaze that Jaehyun gave you, lingering a little longer than you’d like, you notice nothing wrong with him.
Not until an hour into studying together.
Shinyu, Sungho and Sanghyeok had gotten along quite well, and you often find yourself trying to stifle your laughter at their jokes. You also saw Minji, who was quite hard to impress, laughing along as well.
You’re mid-laugh when you notice it—Jaehyun’s easygoing demeanour has disappeared. He no longer had that grin that rose higher on one side of his face, one that he displayed when he was amused at something.
Instead, he’s staring.
Not at you, but right at Shinyu, who’s sitting next to you, chatting animatedly about a variety show he watched last night with his sisters. You couldn’t help but observe the boy sitting in front of you—his jaw tight, his fingers obnoxiously tapping against the table. It’s obvious that something is bothering him, given that his bright energy had dimmed.
Normally, Jaehyun would add in to the conversation, spicing things up with a joke here and there, lighting up the atmosphere with his contagious laughter.
You were about to ask Jaehyun about it, but Shinyu is quicker than you thought. He leans in to show you a video on his phone, something related to the funny moment in the variety show that he watched last night.
Your attention is almost immediately pulled towards Shinyu and his phone, but Jaehyun’s actions tugs you back to him harder.
He pushes back his chair with a loud, audible scrape.
“What the hell, man?” Minji hisses.
“Y/N,” Jaehyun says, not even looking at anyone else. “We need to talk.”
“Huh?” you splutter. You thought you made it clear that you don’t want to talk to him.
Jaehyun stomps towards you, and before you could say anything to counter, he grabs your wrist and pulls you away to a far corner.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, as soon as Jaehyun stops in his steps. You’re more confused than angry, the entire incident that happened before winter break pushed to the back of your mind.
Jaehyun mumbles something, but you can’t hear him at all.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said nothing,” Jaehyun replies, his eyes narrowing.
His reply, rather sharp, startles you a little.
And that makes you a bit worked up. “What’s up with you?” you scoff, rolling your eyes.
Jaehyun doesn’t reply. Instead, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, muttering to himself. His eyes dart here and there, as if he’s trying to find some kind of answer. You stand there, silent as you watch him do his thing, not knowing what to do as a response.
After a while, Jaehyun does something that wasn’t even in the list of things you guessed he’d do—he unzips the hoodie he’s wearing and places it on your shoulders. You stare at him with bulging eyes, mouth agape.
What is he doing?
Before you can even do or say anything to stop him, Jaehyun guides your arms into its sleeves, zipping the hoodie up for you. He takes a step closer to you, leaning close to grab the hood behind your head.
You feel your breath stuck in your throat.
He’s. Too. Close.
Jaehyun, his gaze showing how focused he is at this, pulls the hood over your head, tugging it slightly so that it’s secured. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, the world around the two of you freezes.
You clear your throat, and Jaehyun’s brought out of his trance.
A fake cough escapes him, and he shoves his hands into his pocket, acting cool before he starts walking back to the table.
“Jaehyun?” you call after him. “What’s this?”
Jaehyun looks back at you. “Nothing. Just keep it on. You get cold easily, don’t you?”
You go back to your seat, feeling extremely weirded out. What’s up with this guy?
A part of you tells you that he’s trying to mark you as yours.
You grimace, shutting up that tiny part of you.
He doesn’t even bother to remember me, so why would he do that?
JAEHYUN’S behaviour just keeps on getting weirder and weirder. You really tried your best to tell yourself that it’s not a big deal—but at this point, nothing can convince you that Jaehyun’s not being weird.
You could recall quite a few moments of him being rather significantly bitter, for a reason that you’re not even aware of: one of them being a free period before lunch on a Wednesday, where Shinyu came over to you to ask you a few questions about Math.
You had barely even managed to reply to Shinyu’s request before Jaehyun suddenly got up from his seat, clapping his hand on your shoulder.
You turned sharply towards him, shocked at both the impact and the unexpected gesture. “Jaehyun, what—”
“Y/N,” he interrupted, loudly, “I just remembered! I owed—I mean, you owe me something! An answer. About… about something!”
“What thing?” you frowned. From what your memory serves you, there’s no such thing—
“The, uh—” Jaehyun waved his hand vaguely, glancing at Shinyu, who raised a brow at him. “You know? The thing we talked about yesterday. Super important. Can’t wait. Urgent. Like, right now.”
Before you can even open your mouth, Jaehyun grabbed your hand and pulled you a few steps away.
Shinyu, grabbing his papers, shook his head. “At least be subtle, dude.”
Jaehyun, hand still clasped around yours, narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Shinyu chuckles.
You looked back and forth between the two guys, sighing heavily. Just what is going on?
Another similar moment occurred the next week, at lunch on a random Friday, where Jaehyun was annoying the living daylights of Shinyu for some stupid reason that you’re not too sure of. Shinyu, being the absolute angel he is, completely dodged Jaehyun’s attempts. He remained next to you, chatting about whatever topic that came to mind. He also made sure to include the rest of your friends, and to give you any part of his lunch that he noticed you liked—that extra crispy chicken or the cream cheese bun that he hadn’t touched yet.
Shinyu had to leave a bit early because his basketball coach had something to discuss with him. He bid you farewell, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Jaehyun immediately perked up, smiling like none of his attempts at making Shinyu pissed off ever happened.
Tired of the same kind of thing happening each day, you decided to confront him about it. At first, you didn’t want to—afraid that you’re just imagining things, but after discussing it with Yoona and Minji, you knew it’s for the best.
“You’re acting weird,” you finally said, eyes pointed straight at Jaehyun.
Jaehyun paused midaction, his noodles slipping down from his chopsticks. “Are you talking to… me?”
Minji punched his shoulder. “Stop being so dense, idiot.”
You nod in Minji’s direction, before turning back to Jaehyun. “Yes, you.”
“Me?” Jaehyun scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not being weird.”
Sungho snorted in his drink, and Sanghyeok shook his head. You bit back a smile—you’re definitely not imagining this.
“You glared at Shinyu for five minutes. Did not blink.”
“I did not.”
“And you interrupted every time he spoke.”
“Coincidence.”
You gave him a deadpanned look. “You literally dragged me away mid sentence more than two times.”
The falter in Jaehyun’s cocky gaze tells you that you’re right.
Jaehyun groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, maybe I’m acting weird. But it’s not because of him. Not because of Shinyu. I just—”
He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
You stared at him, more confused than ever.
Jaehyun avoided you gaze, and that confirms everything you’re questioning
“...Right.”
He’s definitely acting weird.
JAEHYUN is in a mess. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—and he definitely doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do either.
He knew, from the moment you stopped even reading his messages over the winter break, that he’s truly messed up. But he doesn’t really know what to do, and the only logical solution in his head is the option that he wants to avoid the most.
Jaehyun is dragging his feet through the hallways, dodging noisy students chatting and huddling in groups at the lockers, when he hears a familiar voice talking as he’s passing by.
Shinyu.
The guy that gets on Jaehyun’s nerves whenever he’s around you—the audacity that he has to be flirting openly with you, to show off the fact that he might have a bigger chance with you than Jaehyun ever will.
He wasn’t paying attention at first, and had his foot out to step away already.
“I think I’ll do it in the courtyard,” he hears Shinyu say, “it’s the most perfect spot. Besides, Y/N likes the marigolds there.”
Jaehyun feels his heart stop, his body freezing mid-step.
He barely registers the students passing him, hitting his shoulders multiple times. Shinyu’s words sink in, heavy and dangerous.
“Damn,” another voice speaks, “so you’re really confessing? On Valentine’s day?”
“Yeah, of course,” Shinyu replies confidently. “I mean, Y/N’s amazing. I’d be an idiot not to try.”
“Doesn’t she see you as just a friend?” a voice points out.
Shinyu sighs. “I know, but what’s the harm in trying?”
“She’s quiet, though, isn’t… she?” another voice asks.
Shinyu shrugs. “I don’t mind, she’s perfect in my eyes anyway.”
Jaehyun’s stomach twists. His fingers are clenched into fists at his sides, and he knows he should just walk away.
But his feet won’t move.
Jaehyun stands there, his heart hammering violently against his chest. He frowns, pretending that whatever he heard didn’t get under his skin at all.
Shinyu is confessing. To you.
And the worst part is Jaehyun has hardly any idea what to do about it.
JUST as he thought his day couldn’t get worse, Jaehyun spots Shinyu running up to you after the last bell rang, a bunch of snacks in hand. He intercepted you from Jaehyun, who was on his way to you, a box of Pepero in his hand.
It slips from his hand, falling on the ground.
Jaehyun knew.
From the way your eyes begin to light up whenever you see Shinyu, and the way your smile is just so bright whenever he’s near. The way you talk more and more, prompted so effortlessly by Shinyu. The way you look like you’re glowing when you’re with him… it hits Jaehyun.
He’s going to lose you.
His vision becomes blurry as he stands in the middle of the courtyard, as still as stone. Jaehyun can’t ignore this any longer.
He can’t ignore the way his heart is eager whenever he sees you. He can’t ignore the way the world seems a little less gloomy, a lot less lonely when you’re around. He can’t ignore the way his chest hurts, like it’s about to burst, whenever he sees you flashing that adorable, rare smile around anyone else. He can’t ignore the fact that he feels like he’s about to throw up flowers everytime he sees you with Shinyu, all giggly from whatever he says to you.
He just can’t disregard the fact that he has obvious feelings for you, that he still loves you after all these years.
Jaehyun had always known those feelings, pushed away deep in his stomach, but these past few weeks—it keeps on growing larger and larger, more urgent and more consuming. The small flutter in his chest when he watched you laugh, the feeling that settled comfortably around him whenever you look at him with those warm eyes, and the overwhelming ache when you’re around Shinyu.
Jaehyun had tried his absolute best to ignore it.
But now, watching you interact with Shinyu—sharing snacks, smiling so shyly with him—it made Jaehyun extremely aware of himself. Shinyu, your fellow classmate who seemed to know exactly what to say, the one who made you giggle and smile the way Jaehyun used to always do… the feeling hits Jaehyun differently.
Jaehyun felt like the ground underneath him was about to crumble, and the earth was about to eat him alive. His heart twists so painfully it makes him feel like he wants to run and hide from the shattering realisation that you might never look at him the same way he has always looked at you.
He wishes that he had been more courageous, more brave to admit to you that you’re his world, and he’s orbiting you—that you hadn’t left his mind, ever since he left ten years ago. Not even once. He wishes that he had been more valiant, and that he told you, the first time he bumped into you, after a decade of not seeing his favourite person—that he missed you dearly. Your laughter, your smile, and the way that it’s reserved only for him to see—he wishes he said that to you the first time.
Honestly, Jaehyun wasn’t even really sure why he lied to you. Sure, he was scared, afraid that you might not remember him at first. But after a while, he just didn’t want his feelings for you to be out in the open. He knew you remember him—but he was simply terrified.
What if you didn’t like him the way he did?
What if he’s the only one that’s feeling like you’re the most important person in life?
Jaehyun was too afraid of you rejecting him to stop lying.
Though, he thought that his way of showing his feelings, rather subtly in his opinion, through little acts of service could make you notice.
Even so, Jaehyun knew that it only made you more confused.
He really wanted to be happy for you—he really does. You deserve all the goodness in this world, and you deserve to be happy with someone who looks at you the way Jaehyun looked at you all this while, but his chest twists with a blazing jealousy: an emotion he never thought he’d feel when it comes to you.
It’s not fair.
Not to you, not to him.
How could he be so stupid? How could he be such a loser, a coward?
Jaehyun takes a shaky breath in. He could tell, from the way you looked at him, and from the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at him, that you had no idea. No absolute idea about the chokehold you have on him—the way every shared moment, every glance and every smile is carved into his soul.
You have no idea how much he’s hurting, from the way you’re clearly upset with him, the way you’re growing closer to Shinyu, and the way you’re slipping away from his reach with every passing moment.
But then, something clicks in him. He’s not going to let the ache, the jealousy and the frustration take the reins—he’s no longer going to shrink back into the shadows.
This is going to be his moment. His time to shine. Jaehyun could feel the determination settle firmly in his chest, and his mind begins to come up with a plan. The fear and the doubt is burned to ashes, and it’s no longer going to hold him back.
He had been such a fool.
This time, no more hesitating. No more waiting. No more wondering what if.
If he wants you, he’s going to fight for it.
He’s not going to let himself lose you to anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re his best friend, his rock, his confidante. You understand him in ways others don’t, and he knows you more than you even know yourself, even after all these years. And if anyone is going to make you realise that, it’s him.
JAEHYUN hadn’t meant to walk this way.
It’s the night before Valentine’s day, and somehow, his feet had brought him to your house, a couple blocks away from his own. He’s in a new neighbourhood, and the house he’s approaching is new, but the feeling is familiar.
He slows to a stop, staring at your house—remembering how it used to be some kind of second home to him. It’s a new house in a new state, but Jaehyun could still remember sitting on the front steps with you, munching the afternoon away with your mother’s homemade snacks. He still remembers doing homework with you on the porch, laughing at the way you huffily grumbled under your breath when it came to difficult questions you couldn’t solve. He still remembers building a pillow fort in your living room, calling it your ‘secret base’.
His fingers curl around the strap of his guitar.
Have you ever realised how much you mean to him? How much do you always mean to him?
A gust of wind blows through the quiet street.
Jaehyun stares at your window, the warm glow radiating from inside. He swallows hard.
It’s now or never.
Taking a deep breath, he takes a step forward and begins picking his guitar.
YOU shove your headphones down your neck, heart thumping fast.
What’s the noise outside?
You walk towards your window, nervous upon hearing the melodious guitar and the singing muffled by the bricks in your walls.
“Man, I'm so nervous to death
I relax my stiff lips
I might fail miserably like this
I might mess up
Hi, the weather's nice. Wanna take a walk?
My shy voice is just for you!
Ah, please, don't say no
Oh, I won’t beat around the bush
From my head to toe
No, even my heart’s under pressure…”
You recognise that voice.
Jaehyun.
What’s he doing here, in the middle of the night?
You peek through the curtains—and your assumption is correct. There he is, Jaehyun, standing rather awkwardly in front of your driveway with his guitar.
Your eyes widen. He’s singing.
Or more accurately, screaming.
“I love you, baby, baby, baby
I’ve been screaming the whole neighborhood knows
I like you!
My neighbors go, yah, yah, yah
Let's get some sleep, yoo-ooh, oh-oh
I swear you'll like it.”
You close the curtains sharply, turning your back to the wall. Your face begins to feel hot, and your breaths turn to short, ragged gasps.
You close your eyes, trying to drown Jaehyun’s voice out, but you can’t.
Slowly, you open your eyes again, letting yourself to hear him out.
And soon enough, you realise the meaning behind the words he’s singing.
“Ah, please, don't say no
Oh, I don't want to be just friends
From my head to toe
No, even my heart's under pressure!”
You push your curtains aside, taking in the view. You expect him to be singing rather calmly, but instead, you’re greeted with Jaehyun, kneeling on the road as he’s serenading you.
“I love you, baby, baby, baby
I've been screaming the whole neighborhood knows
I like you!”
You barely processed what he just sang.
One second, you were in your room, standing frozen as your breath hitched at the sound and sight of Jaehyun’s singing echoing through the neighbourhood.
Next, you’re running out of the house.
You didn’t think—you just ran.
Your parents, who were alarmed by Jaehyun’s singing, didn’t even have time to react. You flew past them, socks sliding across the wooden porch, nearly tripping down the slippery steps.
“Y/N! Your coat—”
Too late.
“I love you, baby, baby, baby
I've been screaming𑁋”
You bolt towards Jaehyun, crashing into him with so much force he barely had time to catch his guitar.
“𑁋the whole neighborhood knows
I like you𑁋oof!”
From the door, your dad raises a brow. “...did we miss something?”
Your mother merely chuckles, smiling knowingly.
“You really—” you gasp, your breath visible in the air, “—had to do this in front of everyone?”
Jaehyun grins, entirely unbothered. “Of course.”
You cover your face with your hands—you were embarrassed, at first, but now it’s not even about all that. Your body is trembling, not from the cold nor embarrassment, but from the overwhelming warmth that is engulfing you.
Jaehyun gently pries your hand away. “Hey,” he says softly, his grin now a gentle smile, “did it work?”
Your lips part. “What? Did what work?”
“Making you fall for me.”
Jaehyun barely had time to flash you another of his smirks before you fling yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist.
He lets out a startled laugh, stumbling back slightly. “Whoa—hey, what’s–”
“You’re so embarrassing,” you say against his jacket, your grip tightening. “And loud. And ridiculous.”
And just so, so cute.
Jaehyun giggles, running a hand through his hair. “So,” he says, and you pull away to look at him. “How was it?”
You look at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “How was what?”
“I just serenaded you. That basically means you have to date me now, right?”
You gasp, hitting his chest. “Jaehyun–!”
“I mean, that’s like, a rule or something. I put in all this effort, to sing to you on a very cold winter night—made myself look completely ridiculous, and now you have no choice but to fall for me. That’s how it works,” Jaehyun continues, a smug look on his face.
You roll your eyes, to hide the obvious flush in your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable–”
“Unbelievably charming?” he cuts you off, wiggling his eyebrows.
“No. Unbelievably embarrassing.”
Jaehyun dramatically gasps. “Excuse me, that was romantic. I even practiced the song! Twice!”
You swat your hand, face burning, but he catches it.
You stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart dangerously racing.
“Y/N, listen… I know I can be a lot,” Jaehyun begins, his voice softer and more serious now. His grip on your hand tightens. “And you’re quiet and reserved, but I think we fit perfectly. With each other.”
You want to say something, but you keep your silence—you don’t really trust yourself to say anything in the state you’re in.
“You know why?” Jaehyun continues rambling, his grin morphing into one of the most lovesick smiles you’ve seen, and you find yourself mirroring it. “I love making you smile, and I want to always keep on making you smile until, like, forever—”
Your heart makes a backflip, or something, but you feel your face flushing even more. “Jaehyun, stop–”
“And if you don’t like me back, that’s fine. That… is… totally okay! I will totally accept rejection gracefully, I’ll just be heartbroken for like, ten years—”
“Oh my god—”
“—but if you do like me, please tell me before I make a bigger fool of myself.”
Jaehyun pauses, catching his breath. His eyes find their way back to you, and in the silence he’s left between the two of you, you can’t hold yourself back anymore.
You grab the front of his jacket and yank him forward.
“Shut up, Myung Jaehyun.”
And you kiss him.
Jaehyun lets out a startled sound, but it isn’t long before he melts into you, his hands gripping your waist as he kisses you back, deep and eager.
It isn’t shy. Nor is it soft.
It’s everything—messy, desperate, and full of all of the things you couldn’t say to him.
By the time you pull away, Jaehyun is a breathless mess. He blinks at you like you had just punched him square in the face.
It’s certainly out of character for you, you know that, but you didn’t expect Jaehyun to look absolutely smitten.
“...Well.”
You pant, glaring up at him. “There, you finally shut up,” you mumble.
Jaehyun licked his lips, his grin slow and teasing. “…You can do that anytime.”
You gasp, shoving him.
Jaehyun giggles, grabbing your hand before you could run back inside. He pulls you close, and places your arms around his waist, in the warmth of his jacket.
He rests his forehead against yours, your noses brushing.
“So, are we official now, or do I need to sing another song?”
You look at him, your heart beating with a certain answer.
I love you.
Though, of course, you’re too embarrassed to say that to him. You smack him before hiding your face in his chest.
“Shut up, Jaehyun.”
Jaehyun only laughs, and a warm feeling fills you up. He pulls you closer, hugging you tight. “Okay, sweetie, I think that’s enough singing for tonight.”
― © htaesan, 2025.

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Weird Boyfriend — ot7



synopsis: things your Enhypen boyfriend does
tags: bf!ot7 x f!reader, crack/ humour
warning: none
word count: n/a
likes + comments appreciated
author's note: Thank you for 1k followers! i know i don't actively post on here because its a hobby account but i seriously am so grateful for for all the support!!
#°❀⋆manny's 1k celebration event .ೃ࿔*:・
희승 | heeseung
- has toxic league humour running in his veins
- don’t let his cool sexy hot guy persona fool you
- one time you caught him on YOUR twitter account OLBITERATING his own haters
- lich got you banned on twitter for saying kys your mums a hoe!
- thank god he doesn’t know how to dox or else he’d abuse that shit out of that ability
제이 | jay
- actually tends to drown you out on instinct now
- NOT BECAUSE HE DOESNT LOVE YOU
- but you seriously talk so much and about so many different things
- your ability to switch from one topic to another is uncanny so he’s bound to miss a few things
- plus he can’t waste good memory storage on the 100 reasons why superheroes are just grown adults with accepted fursonas
데잌크 | jake
- is so smart and yet lowk so dumb
- like his brain just turns off around you and you don’t know if you feel happy that he feels comfortable around you or sad that he makes you do all the thinking
- playing fire boy and water girl would suck! because you’re yelling at him to wait for you because he can’t jump over the green liquid but bro is nawt listening and thinks he can raw dog it (he doesn’t)
- makes you rage quit!
- also the type to say “babe i just found this awesome new underground artist i think you’d love them”
- and it’s like rex orange county or soemthing 😭
성훈 | sunghoon
- leaves a message that only appears when the mirror fogs up
- something like “you’re stunning”
- also leaves cute messages around the for you to find.
- “you got this!” “you’re the best!” “you’re so handsome” “you are so strong and buff!”
- okay that was a bit weird but you love sunghoon regardless
- you bring it up with him and he laughs like it’s the smartest idea in the world
- only, his laugh seems a bit too genuine
- turns out he’s been leaving those messages around for himself.
- #can’tgoadaywithoutmydailyaffirmations!
선우 | sunoo
- lowk a diva
- gets mad when you don’t want to go and get a sweet treat with him
“im just too full, get one without me”
- fuck off. and he sulks until you cave in.
- when you bring him around on shopping days with your friends, he ends up gossiping with them and shopping and you’re just standing there like YOUR the bf being forced to walk around and follow them
- at least he ends up getting ALL the tea and you debrief at home
정윈 | jungwon
- lowk judgemental but loves you so much so don’t take it to heart
- like you bite his bicep and he gives you a look that’s akin to killing all his future hypothetical bloodline
- or pull on his teeth
- or pick his nose
- like stop being a weirdo (affectionate)
- but then he says outrageous shit
“okay but like what if we fuse, i would totally be satisfied with life if i lived under your skin” “wonnie… you aren’t going to skin me alive… right?“what? no i just want to crawl under your skin, i think it’d be warm, and snuggly”
- you may do weird shit but he says weird shit
- “i just want you to stop saying odd shit”
- but don’t be fooled, he still judges you with a loving look
니키 | niki
- fake ass emo!
- spends at least 20 minutes posing to take a good selfie for you and sends it to you and actively checks if you seen it
- and when you do see it, acts like he “just took it randomly” LIKE WE KNOW YOU VOGUED THAT SHIT RELAX
- tries to act nonchalant when you give him a dry ass reply:
“okay, riks, whatever you say”
- JUST BELIEVE HIM FOR YOUR OWN SAKE
- one time on call, he caught himself using his higher register
- so next sentence he drops like 2 octaves and acts like it’s his normal voice
“and so i totally think big chill is the hottest alien out of ben’s arsenal” “yeah 👹” “????”
- gaslights you to thinking that’s what he sounded like the whole time
- also, would give you a thousand yard stare if you take a photo of his left side
#mandukkul#mandukkul’s aquarium#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen niki#nishimura riki x reader#niki enhypen#riki nishimura x reader#ni ki x reader#yang jungwon x reader#enhypen jungwon#jungwon x reader#kim sunoo x reader#sunoo x reader#enhypen sunoo#park sunghoon x reader#sunghoon x reader#enhypen sunghoon#shim jake x reader#shim jaeyun x reader#enhypen jake#park jay x reader#park jongseong x reader#enhypen jay#lee heeseung x reader#heeseung x reader#enhypen heeseung#enhypen imagines#enhypen headcanons#enhypen fluff
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You know how you know that Gwyn and Azriel are not love interests? They could never meet again and it would not affect either of their character arcs at all.
You know how you know that Gwyn is not the next FMC? We could never see her again and nothing about the ongoing plot and narratives would be affected.
This is why Gwynriels cannot come up with a plot for a Gwynriel book. Because Gwyn and Azriel's arcs do not depend on each other. And Gwyn is not detrimental to the main plot.
None of the above can be said about Elain, Azriel and Lucien. Following the narrative established in the past five books, they have to be the key characters in the next book, regardless of whether you think Elucien or Elriel is endgame (I personally think it's obvious it is Elriel).
THIS THIS THIS.
Couldn’t have said it better anon, Gwyn and Azriels arcs do not depend on each other. There is absolutely nothing tying them together currently. Gwyn does not affect the current plot which is: Troves, Koshei, TT, Cauldron, Prison and the human lands (potential upcoming war). If she wasn’t mentioned in the next book at all, nothing will happen. Her character doesn’t influence the storyline. Her and Az aren’t linked plotwise either, you dont need Gwyn for anything. This is why the gwynriel book is filled with the illyrian plot that belongs to Emerie, the autumn subplot which belongs to Lucien and finally: TT/troves/Prison which belongs to elriel. Its a book filled with stolen theories from other ships and characters. And then to fill the blanks: You have Azriel sorting out his past 2 situationships whilst healing his troubled self meanwhile Gwyn is falling in love with him and them after spending almost a year with her - he’ll realise she was the “one”. Its a terrible love story that will not do well with the current demographic and what they like.
Objectively- I can see how an elucien book would play out. At least Lucien and Elain have a bond, they’re connected to Vassa and Koshei. With elriel, given acosf + acofas + azriels bonus - they’re on a stronger footing with being connected to the prison, troves, made weapons and the cauldron. Those are solid plots for a 900+ novel.
Lucien, Elain and Azriel are important characters as they are tied to multiple plot points. The narrative will focus on the 3 of them in the next few books (I also think elriel is obvious)
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Esper/Guide, still Ninja AU
( Fire or any other Nin Countries still hasn't been unified in this AU )
Tobirama frowns, then proceeds to poke his pointer finger on the hand that was presented to him. He could hear Hashirama's loud exasperated sigh behind him. His scowled deepen. What?. Just because the one he's Guiding is a Senju doesn't mean he had to have a more physical contact with his....patients. He glared at the man in front of him and he felt pretty satisfied as the man violently flinch and looked away from his gaze. His cold Chakra immediately rushes into the veins of his patient to eliminate any toxins ( an unknown blight that plagues and accumulates in the internal body of the Espers; if they used too much of their Powers ) that was slowly spreading throughout the man's body. It seemed the idiot had tried to continously used his Esper abilities regardless of the imbalance in his body. He sneered at the man and internally he is satisfied as the man sweated bullets as he stared him down.
" Enough with the disappointed sighing, Anija. I am doing my job effectively, there is literally no reason for you to be this condescending about my work. " he shooed the man away when it looks like his complexion was back at its normal state. The man after murmuring a quiet thank you, literally jump out of the seat and nearly face planted on the floor in his haste to avoid more of Tobirama’s wrath. The Albino then glowered at his next patient, the woman who furiously blushes when he made eye contact.
" Akiho-san. You...do not even need my Guiding for today....." Tobirama wanted to close his eyes and pretend he doesn't have to deal with a Clan full of idiotic members. But he is a professional so he maintained his perfectly poker face as he non gently shooed away Senju Akiho. He ignored the woman's fake sniffling ss his Brother led her away. Tobirama’s eyes lost its frostiness as he looked down at his next patient. A small teenager that goes by the name of Senju Itsuki. The boy is only thirteen years old, yet Hashirama had to put him as a Frontline Fighter when the boy manifested as an Esper. Not yet powerful but he will be if he somehow survived up to his sixteenth birthday.
" Hello, Tobirama-sama. " Itsuki's shy voice made Tobirama internally melt.
" Hello, Itsuki-kun. I hope you had never push yourself to your maximum limit for today. "
Itsuki shook his head in denial, his blond hair looked unkempt after his impromptu shaking. " No. Aniki is with me; so I didn't really have to use my ability much today. "
Tobirama's eyes flick to the other teenager behind Itsuki. Senju Ichiro is Senju Itsuki older Brother by five years age gap. Whereas Itsuki still retain his childlike innocence. Ichiro had lost his, the day when a Gate opened atop of their house and killed all of their immediate family. Only Itsuki ( among the children ) survived that day since the boy was out with his friends to play, while Ichiro guarded one of the border of the Senju territory.
Tobirama did his best to care for the boys. But as a main Branch of the Senju he ( nor Hashirama ) cannot care for them personally but had to rely on the closest blood relatives the two boys had. Thankfully, their closest relatives are decent enough into raising the boys properly. As much as a child can be raised properly in a War torn Country that is.
The Albino took ahold of both Itsuki and Ichiro's hands. He ignored the sharp inhaling of both boys as he concentrated on expeling the foul toxins inside the siblings veins. Itsuki wasn't lying when he said he didn't use his Esper abilities since the toxins inside his body isn't much of a danger. But Ichiro did have an alarmingly high concentration of toxins already circulating near his heart. Tobirama with an annoyed huff easily guided his Chakra in smothering the noxious substance. It took at least a complete five minutes of Guiding before Tobirama deemed both boys to be healthy enough to go back to their own Home.
The Albino gracefully accepted Itsuki's bento box as a thank you gift. He ignored old man Masahiro's ( his next patient ) judging eyebrows at his action.
For the rest of the day, Tobirama did his usual routine of Guiding his Clanmates without a complaint. Even when Hashirama nudges him to eat his lunch first he ignored his Brother and continued Guiding some of the old Clan members who they cannot afford to be out of the Battlefield.
When the sun was near setting, ( and no Esper was left needing any Guidance ) Tobirama finally glance at his Brother and asked.
" There seemed to be something on your mind, Anija. Do you want to talk about it?. "
Hashirama staring back at him with a grim expression ( a first in a decade ) nearly made Tobirama jump up from his seat in surprise. He opens his mouth and was ready to demand an answer when his Anija beat him.
" Today, an Uchiha Clan missive was delivered to us. It contains a demand that they'll agree to a ceasefire and even an alliance if I let you heal one of their higher Clan mate. A strong Esper from the sound of it even. "
Tobirama took a deep breath and avoided his Brother's eyes. " The Uchiha probably thinks you'll agree in a heartbeat, since the one who needed treatment was Uchiha Madara. "
Hashirama's comforting Chakra suddenly stilling for a second made Tobirama felt quickly unsettled. He really didn't like it when his Brother controls his emotions because it always felt like a dying plant with his Sensing.
Tobirama grimaced. " I will agree to treat Uchiha Madara as if he's a Senju. Just make sure whatever contract they passed on you, Mito had to read it. Honestly, no offense Anija. But I don't trust you to read all the scrolls the Uchiha will send to us. You might missed something important if you don't let Mito take a look at it. "
Hashirama's grim face stared at Tobirama’s glowering expression.
" Are you sure you're up to do it, Tobi?. "
Tobirama's scowl deepen. " I'm a professional, Anija. I don't need you doubting me on this. "
Hashirama's face smoothens. " I am not doubting you. I am actually doubting Madara. What if you know...." his Brother trailed off. Tobirama knows what his Brother is implying. The rumors that Espers cannot resist in claiming Guides. And Tobirama with his outstanding Guiding ability ( no one outside the Clan really knows how great his Guiding was ) will probably be a great temptation to any Esper with a decent Sensing. Madara undoubtedly is one of them. He'll probably quickly gauge what Tobirama's level was if he got close enough to the man. Hopefully, by the time he managed to get rid of the Toxins inside Madara's body. The man himself would be too out of it to Sense Tobirama's presence near him.
Tobirama grimaced. " Well, I do have faith that Uchiha will be too disgusted at the thought of bonding with a Senju. So you may lay your worry to rest, Anija. "
Hashirama stared at him for a moment. " I still feel uneasy. Otouto. "
The Albino massages his suddenly aching temples. " We don't have a choice, Anija. We have to quickly unify most Clans if we want to survive the Gates for years to come. The Nin Clans all across the Fire Country cannot sustain their isolation any longer and we too are on the brink of it, whether we like it or not. "
Hashirama's unhappy expression made Tobirama soften for a moment. " Trust me on this, Anija. If we can make peace with the Uchiha, the village you dreamed of will finally come true. "
A week later, Hashirama sends his last Brother to the Uchiha with a heavy heart. It will take at least a week at most for Tobirama to heal Madara and negotiate with the whole of Uchiha.
But then a week passed and there is no Tobirama that went back to the Senju Clan. Instead, Hashirama received only a scroll of Uchiha Madara's handwriting that he will agree into building a Village with the Seniu as long Senju Tobirama will be wedded to him.
It took all of Mito and Touka's skill and determination into calming down an enraged Hashirama ( the man wanted to crush the Uchiha as a whole – peace negotiations be damned – for daring to detained and demand the hand of his Brother. )
Hashirama had to forcefully calm down his raging thoughts lest he killed most of the Senju. And for the first time in his life, he had to think logically about what correct steps he had to do next or he would never see his baby Brother ever again if he refuses to play his crucial parts.
~●~●~
It took two months of difficult negotiations before the Uchiha collectively agreed into building the village. Hashirama at that time had to restrain himself from killing the smug ( ex friend ) bastard that dared to claim his beloved Otouto.
Madara had acted as if he didn’t do any heinous crime. He talked to Hashirama as if he didn't took away the last person Hashirama whole heartedly cherished ( aside from his beloved Wife ).
When Konoha had been tentatively built with the bare bones infrastructures...
It was the only time Hashirama had finally met his Brother again...
And what he saw makes the rage in his blood roar furiously again.
He realized didn’t like seeing Madara practically smothering his Brother everywhere they went. Tobirama might not tell it with his expressions nor with words, but his cold and wintry Chakra wavering for a second whenever Madara invaded his space tells Hashirama all he needed to know.
That his Brother wasn't as happy to Bond with Madara like everyone thought.
All he know is that he needed to get Tobirama away from an obsessive Esper, who wouldn’t know how to treat him right.
( Hashirama was wrong about it, but that's a story for another time. )..
#madatobi#senju tobirama#uchiha madara#senju hashirama#esper/guide AU#amsen writes#don't ask me where this came from#my brain just suddenly spat it out so I had to jot it down#😅😆
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I've started playing Potion Permit, and so far it's one of my favorite games I've messed around with, but the most big brained move the devs made was giving you a dog on day 1, and then making that dog able to track NPCs and lead you directly to them no matter where they are in the town.
#im still early game but i like the play and the writing is passable#like#Theres a flatness#the characters Are distinct but theyre mostly just their jobs#with only a few who stand out and have like. something to really grab onto#Like rue? rues entire deal is little girl you can date. Nothing else behind those eyes. She has nothing better to talk to you about#than the fact her favorite color is red#Sorcelia? Sorcelia is a goth nun who loves singing and teaches one of the village children#Reynerd? sure is a guy#got nothing else to say about him. hes just a Guy™. Victor? Has ghost friends and loves bugs and cares deeply about the cemetery#he tends to. At the moment it feels like they're trying to imply there aren't actually ghosts. and hes just talking to himself/#insisting his imaginary friends are real people#and so far? The games been cool about it. Victor's a member of his community and his eccentricities are accepted and not ridiculed#all four characters ive mentioned are romance candidates. but its just as hit or miss with the regular towns folk#Opalheart is an older woman and a world renowned blacksmith who only takes jobs if they will do Good. regardless of whether or not they#pay well. She declines to make a dagger for a rich man but makes a helmet for a childs father bc the girl asked#and olive is here#anyways you can be best friends with a cat (shes just a regular cat) and i appreciate that#idk im putting it above sun haven in my ranking of life sim games#purely because there are older romance candidates.#no fat romance candidates. but sun haven doesn't have thise either.#and sdv has neither fat or old candidates Nor can you fuck a cat boy. it goes at the bottom.#gameplay wise sunhaven is at the bottom then sdv then potion permit at the top. sunhaven has the Most™ but having#a lot of crap doesn't mean its fun and it ends up making half the game feel really incomplete#idk. Sdv is a game you should've started playing a year ago. sun haven is a game that perpetually needs another year worth of updates#before id say its worth it bc the devs keep pushing content ™ updates instead of quality of life or polish so what is there is uh#Bad. plentiful. and a large portion is good#but a Lot is just bad.#its insincere and cant take itself seriously it gives you (the right dialogue option) an (the shit joke option) which is worse than just#i ram out of space. tldr. potion permit is good Now. sdv Was good. sun haven Might be great Eventually
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i depend on you (based and very much inspired by @/sometimes317 's piece on twitter)
process pics in read more!!^^
you can tell the moment it struck me that i was practically drawing ship art www
#re:kinder#fanart#yuuichi mizuoka#shunsuke takano#my art#i was trying to play into the whole ending of the game part#how shun basically became a life crutch for yuu in the last moments and he chose to do it regardless of what was done to him#with it making shun the yellow with the light blue eyes character of the original#which in interpretations of the og artwork brought in the question if yellow truly depended on blue the same way blue did on em#for blue has the exact same yellow for its eyes while yellow has another hue that isnt the same color as blue#i wanted to play into that to portray the one sidedness of yuu and shun's relationship#I CAME INTO THIS WITH THOSE INTENTIONS BUT ITS SO FUNNY TO ME NOW#because halfway through this i realized what i was drawing was essentially ship art#i came into this with the intention of it being very deep to be then struck by the concept of draqing ship art its so funny to me#i felt a little embarassed somwthing about drawing ship art has always made me embarrassed for no reason#like. very cute but on another hand never expect art from me ever again /j /j#on the other side i was very amused about it as well#the way it hit me was voicing the “its been one of those weeks... pass the yaoi!!!” meme in my head#which was simultaneously embarassing and very amusing to me#to end these tags off id like to communicate to you that the project file corrupted inmediately the second i finished this#i . i have no idea how it did that when it eas still opened now i literally cannot open it and thus change it ever again#the only thing my computer is missing is having very loud fans the second it starts up#it already heats up like a bomb im surprised im not hearing its fans with all it does#college computer save me college computer i miss the college computer#if i could i would genuinely go to uni just to draw but im not allowed to set up a driver for my tablet so i cant#one of these days i should just do rekinder fanart as one of my projects to have an excuse
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pulps law is that whenever i get insane enough about something, i will inevitably attempt to make a persona 5 au, regardless of whether or not i am successful at it.
#pulp speaks#anyways guys youre never going to guess what au ive been thinking of lately .#i know the correct way to go about this is make sidestep the main character but you see#i will not be doing that. and actually in fact i will not be following the storyline of persona 5 in the slightest. because lol#but morgana exists in this au purely because i dont think the others would survive without him explaining what the metaverse is 💀#the rangers are a team of detective for the public sector in this au#and dr mortum is an unassuming everyday scientist that should not peak the rangers interest in any way. at all#in the video game that exists in my head the player can pick between playing julia or ricardo#it doesnt change the storyline that much but it does make the character relationships funky so#in my head chen is best friends with julia and argent is best friends with ricardo#chen and ortega stumble into the metaverse together so if you pick julia its two best friends in a life or death situation#but if you pick ricardo its your sisters best friend+kinda your boss in a life or death situation which personally i find extremely funny#regardless of which ortega you play with the other one doesnt know about the metaverse until id say like. the end of the first palace? beca#use thats when they start getting suspicious#and because this is ortega they follow them and find out about the metaverse that way#i dont think they become a phantom thief but i think they do end up covering the others asses irl#dr mortum still isnt actually a doctor but i think theyre the one providing medicine to them at the start of the game#theyre extremely wary of the rangers at the start and ortega can barely convince them to sell them things which they still charge-#-extremely high over. i think the turning point comes when they discover the metaverse because holy fuck they are So excited about it#both because of the implications and what the metaverse could be used For#chen is not thrilled about letting them know this but theyre kind of their supplier so its not like he can argue#i think mortum joins the phantom thieves eventually but as a navi#obviously its in their best interest to provide everything for free now that theyre part of the team but they still have to order supplies-#-so i think the way it works out in game is that theres certain days supplies can be ordered and you have to pay for it but the items can b#-picked up at any day of the week#but also i have no idea how that would work practically (its all in my head anyway so it doesnt actually matter but yk)#theres still more thoughts about this but im ✨running out of tags✨ and also i cannot organize my thoughts enough to explain it#im not main tagging this its going to be my silly self indulgent au for eternity ok
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there's a lot to say about how house md treats women but I will say the show lets the women be way more complicated than some shows today
like yall still aren't ready for cameron
#☢️.txt#cameron fascinates me. both how fandom responds to her and within the show itself#her moral conflict IS interesting and the bizaare pedestal she put house on is microscope worthy#actually how she views house in general interests me. shes the first to realize a lot of what he does is to intentionally distance himself#but she also misreads him in ways no one else does. specifically because she accepted that he does care!#i also still think about how she assumes house is at fault when chase kills the dictator which tbh is a REALLY interesting opinion to me#dont get me wrong house definitely changed chase and it turned into him becoming a lot like house#however. house freaks out every time a patient asks to die. even when its reasonable house spirals out of control#trying to find a reason for it to be unreasonable. it doesnt matter if a patient is about to die unless hes completely out of ideas he#physically cannot stop. its compulsive. he does offer euthanasia in certain circumstances and theres patients where he clearly#does not care if they live or die. but his entire medical identity is based on saving lives regardless of who they are#he doesnt /care/ that a dictator got killed and probably does think chase made a decent choice. but its not what house wouldve done#house mightve set something up. tipped off an insurgent. let someone into the room. but he'd force the decision into someone elses hands#but cameron does think house would kill someone if he hated them enough. because he plays god constantly#which is such a fascinating misunderstanding of house's motives from someone who generally likes him
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I'm trying so hard not to be a hater but the more I learn about other ttrpgs the more the way that people talk about dnd annoys me
#'it's great because of how versatile it is! You can play it however you want!'#this is true of every tabletop rpg#you are making up a game with your friends of course you can do whatever you want#if you're playing dnd by ignoring over half the rules then the rules are probably over-bloated for the kind of game you're trying to play#the fact that you are having fun is a testament to your group being good sports and roleplayers/having a good gm#it doesn't mean that dnd is particularly well designed for your group#and also dnd (even 5e) is not especially beginner friendly and its shitty corporate overlords want you to pay at least $150 to play it#but it's so entrenched in our culture and rhe community has put so much effort into making it as accessible as possible regardless#that it's so hard to get people to look past it#i promise you that whatever game you want to play whether it's social intrigue or combat or dungeon crawling in whatever genre you want#somebody has made it#and somebody has also made amazing games that you never could've imagined needing but maybe they're just right for you#I'm not saying dnd is poorly designed like there's obviously a lot of good things about the huge scope of 5e and its experience#if you like using all of those systems or having them on hand in case they come up in play that is so awesome#I'm glad you found the game for you#but it isn't the game for everyone! and acting like it is funnels more money and cultural capital into the hand of wotc#when we could be supporting small publishers and indie creators making sick niche shit#y'all heard about bluebeard's bride? you play as bluebeard's new wife wandering through the rooms of his house#just the one bride. the different players play different aspects of her personality and can get into arguments about what to do next#isn't that wild and cool?#okay rant over#a podcast man made me upset through no fault of his own#and i had to get it out of my system#my rambles#negative/#tma#d/nd#ttr/pgs#i have no idea if that tag thing actually works or if tumblr users made it up#i never want to put negative posts in main tags man. I'm not a monster
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I hate the way people act in this fandom. Do they not realize we're reading Acotar of all things? Not to be that person but Acotar is not all that to be making huge theories when its right in front of our faces on whats going to happen next. Its legit a predictable book. I dont know why people are digging so deep. Its literally obvious on who the new book is going to be about- Elain. Its obvious who the next romance its going to surround-Elain/Lucien/Azriel. Its obvious a rejecting mating bond may play out. ITS OBVIOUS. Sarah isnt some deep writer people put her out to be. Acotar is literally like a wattpad book- I HAD TO SAY IT. The thing with gwyn is definitely everyones hatred for elain. Gwynriel is fanon idc. It was all about Elucien or Elriel until gwynriels decided to come in out of nowhere to be relevant. Its so ridiculous. Wouldn't feel bad if Gwynriel is never mentioned in the next book. They did it to themselves.
lmfao this. I personally feel as though Sjm isn’t a deep writer. She is just able to write certain scenes in an emotional, heart felt way which is why her books have resonated with many readers. Her books are simple, they follow patterns/parallels and she 9/10 she opts out for the easy option.
the love triangle in acotar was so “shocking” to some yet it was the most basic, straightforward “plottwist”. Looking at triologies - they all follow the same pattern of having a Li switch. And when I look back on acosf - I feel like Mass isnt going for shock factor anymore because she knows her books will sell regardless. Her books have become easy and predictable, which isn’t necessarily bad. It allows her to focus and expand on other areas.
The ACOTAR series has to have the most blatantly obvious foreshadowing a series can possibly have. People are overthinking way too much and creating all these vast theories and plottwists that are never going to see the light of day.
We’ve had Feyres and Nestas stories -> Elain is next.
Elains book could potentially have Lucien or Az as a LI. That is the love triangle. There is no Gwyn. We have 3 sisters, conveniently there are 3 brothers - each match beautifully therefore they will end up together. It is that simple. Mass wrote it out as plain as day. “Why not make them mates?” - logically no author writes that if those two characters dont end up then being mates. Gwynriel became so popular due to Elain hate. Gwynriel IS fanon as no one within the books pair Gwyn and Az together, the love triangle will always be between elu/ien and elriels, Gwynriel is irrelevant. Since Gwynriel wasnt mentioned in acosf, its safe to assume they wont be mentioned in acotar 5.
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part of me wants to post something to r/nostupidquestions but unfortunately that requires me to use reddit. sad!
#i have an account i just. idk. dont want to i guess#i dont know the site and i especially dont like the idea of being vulnerable IN that unfamiliar territory#even if everyone promises to be really really niceys idk its like. embarassing regardless but i think thats the never ask for help demons#that live in my brain#so like. whos to say#anyway hhey guys any special Weed Tips surrounding an upcoming anestheticized surgery#because i know some surgeries require a change in your behavior beforehand-- is THIS one of those scenarios? how far out do i need to go??#i dont know the logistics of whats going on and it means i have limited cards to play for what *I* should be doing#the best schema i got is abstinence is PROBABLY safest option#but well. the addiction 😔😔😔
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really is nothing quite like learning the possums in your area are brave enough to try to turn and hiss at your dog instead of playing dead at the sight of them
#i am Still Shaking.#i dont know if maybe theyre just used to it and not stressed enough to play dead but at the same time#my dog ran at it a few times and it was still brave enough to turn and hiss rather than run away#and we cannot afford vet bills nor do we live close enough to any sort of animal care center that would be open at the same time#that possums are out#fourth time. twice its been my fault. so that's NEVER happening again. dog can wait til morning.#im just praying none like sleep or hide in our yard for her to encounter in the morning bc the person who lets her out Will Not Check#yelling at the dog to come in is only going to work a few more times if that#i dont know what to do#and like what do we do if we encounter a possum during the DAYTIME cause that's not a normal possum that's either diseased or desperate#im just. so tired. and scared. there weren't any possums when we moved here but over the past year or so there's been four sightings#prob the same one(s) but also i saw a pregnant one a while ago and idk how many babies it had or are still alive#i dont know. i dont know#i feel like i need to check every time now regardless of if its day or night because my dog is too friendly to possums#and i could not handle the knowledge that my pet died because i didn't do something that could have prevented it.
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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.
#love and deepspace#rafayel x reader#rafayel x you#rafayel smut#lads rafayel x reader#lads rafayel x you#l&ds rafayel x reader#lnds rafayel x reader#rafayel#intertidal zone#lads rafayel#l&ds rafayel#lnds rafayel#lads#lnds#l&ds
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sweet sweet re:kinder community... I would like to ask y'all how you came upon the game and your experiences with it because i wanna know. im genuinely so curious to hear about other people's experiences and little opinions about this game because of how wild the game is (/pos) I'd love to hear it. do ramble to me about it
#re:kinder#not art#so in my case i once saw someone talk about it in a video and some scenes with the very vague context really struck with me#i was like wow...that is so sad... i wonder what goes on#but the thing is i watch videos talking about games like that ALLL THE TIME while im multi-tasking so i FORGOT FOR A YEAR?!?!?#until one day i was sick in pain on my bed could not move. and then it came to me. yes. “RE:KINDER. I SHOULD PLAY IT.” LIKE OUT OF NOWHERE#i will never understand how i dying of pain remembered a game i saw once BY NAME AT LEAST A YEAR LATER when jve heard of so many games#and you wanna know why it stuck with me. i saw in the video an image of the “as if id be reborn as a princess” line#i did not know the context but it was devastating#AND WHEN I PLAYED THE GAME when that scene game i was shocked to silence😭😭 BECAUSE I BASICALLY WENT COMPLETELY BLIND??#I DID NOT KNOW THE LITTLE KID WOULD BE THE ANTAGONIST???? AND THAT HE WOULD HAVE SUCH A SAD STORY??#like. i saw the sad coming i knew it was bound to happen yet i could have never been prepared for how hard it would hit me#I HAD TONS OF FUN but at first when i finished it i was so confused and so lost i was like welll.....what a game... TOO STUNNED FOR WORDS#then i thoughr of it for 20 minutes and bawled my eyes out and realized it was art#so when i got to my second playthrough i CRIED LIKE CRAZYYY😭😭 I WAS BLOWN AWAY IT REALLY HITS YOU#personally it admittedly hit close to home and while it made me bawl my eyes out it was also very comforting i felt very understood#AND IT WAS CRAZY FUN TOO i was not bored once the first time i played through it i was sleepy but i was so excited to keep playing😭😭#its funnt becayse i was initially apprehensive about playing cuz im sensitive to stories where sad things happen to kids#but i played it regardless because i was like “but what if its one of those scary media that hit close to home and i enjoy”#AND I WAS RIGHT. BUT NOT ENTIRELY BECAUSE I DID NOT THINK IT WOULD HIT AS INTENSELY AS IT DID😭😭 IT WAS MYCH MORE THAN EXPEVTED#many ways in which it impacted me but if i started listing them i would not shut up . so for now it is enough#IN SUMMARY WOW.. WHAY A GOOD GAME!! PLAY RE:KINDER!!!#i rambled more than i intended to i do apologize
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synopsis. you’ve been deliberately dodging atsumu miya. he wants to know why.
pairing. atsumu miya x fem!reader | wc. 2.0k (it wasn’t even supposed to be this long) | genres. (implied) university au, tbh i don’t even know what this dynamic is, he calls us princess, reader’s kinda bad emotionally, rain confessions
notes. for my birthday (not gojo’s eff him (/j)) i decided why not take one of my favorite tropes of all time and pair it w the loml. you’re so welcome. this is very dialogue heavy, barely proofread, and a hot mess, but i hope you enjoy regardless.
"(y/n)." the very familiar, sultry yet aggravating voice says the moment you step out of the cafe.
"oh my god!" you jump, clutching a hand over your heart that skipped a beat. it's immediately followed with a glare towards atsumu. "what the fuck, miya? you don't just come up to people like that."
"sorry." atsumu apologizes but his nose scrunches at the word. "nah, not really. didn't know how else to get to ya."
"so you had to find me at my job?" you raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
he shrugs. "yer really not leavin' me with any other choice."
"what are you on about?" you roll your eyes as you take a sharp left, carefully exhaling out. the street is nearly deserted now that the sun sunk past the horizon, leaving only the street lights and the moon to illuminate what would be a pitch black scene. puddles of water are scattered along the walkways, remnants of the downpour that occurred earlier in the day. you had clocked out later than usual, and the next flash of rain is predicted to fall within the next few minutes. you want to get back to your dorm before the worst of it happens.
"ya know what i'm talking about." atsumu huffs. "yer clearly avoiding me."
your shoulders tense when he brings it up, and you pray that atsumu doesn't catch it. "i'm not." you lie, your heart speeding up.
"yer a shit liar. i hope ya know that." atsumu shuts you down right then and there. the fact he's able to makes you wince. that's one of the many bones you have to pick with him. he can always see right through you, and it allows him to get under your skin easily since he knows exactly what to say if he wants to get a reaction out of you.
it's because of that reason that you've been avoiding him. you know yourself well enough that if you were to stand face to face with atsumu miya as you are now, he'd figure out the secret that you've been hiding for two weeks.
atsumu presses his lips together, sighing once he realizes that all he'll get from you from this point forward is silence, but he tries his luck anywayy. "can we talk?"
you let his question fizzle out in the air, continuing down the sidewalk as atsumu follows by your side. the first drops of drizzle fall onto your hand and cheek. atsumu feels them too.
"look, it's gonna rain soon. could ya at least let me take ya home? yer gonna get soaked." atsumu gently reaches out for your hand. the sudden contact and its spark of heat makes you jump. instinctively, you yank your hand away from him. your widened eyes snap towards him, and shame washes over you. maybe the street lights are playing tricks on you, but you swear there's a flicker of hurt in his gaze. you turn away from him because you can't bear the sight of it.
"are ya mad at me? did i do somethin' to upset ya?" atsumu continues.
no, you answer in your head. you can't trust yourself to say it out loud without betraying anything else. it's not that.
"(y/n), please. talk to me." atsumu pleads. you don't think you've ever heard such desperation in his voice before. you've never seen him so raw. it's almost enough to break you, but you refuse to let go the threads of your resolve. the rain is picking up; it's cold as it soaks the threads of your clothes.
"princess." atsumu throws in as a last ditch effort. you know it is because it's the one nickname that gets you riled up the most. it sparks a reaction that atsumu knows will get you talking, but unbeknownst to him it's not for the reason he expects. he wants you to snap with anger, but all your heart does is ache. all it does is melt you into putty in his hands.
"don't call me that." you finally come to a stop, turning so that you can face him, defeat in your gaze. atsumu's blond locks are beginning to lose volume; they stick to his forehead as droplets continue to fall. his hoodie is littered with small, dark stains, a physical consequence of the rain.
"oh now i got yer attention." atsumu scoffs, poking his tongue into the inside of his cheek.
"miya." you warn, voice shaking. he ignores it.
"yer not being yerself, and ya haven't been for the last two weeks." he tells you as if you don't already recognize it yourself. "what's goin' on with ya?"
"nothing!" you deny. "i'm fine!"
atsumu rolls his eyes. "cut the crap, princess."
"seriously, stop calling me that!" you spit back at him.
you're shivering. you can't tell if it's because of your cold, wet clothes or your frustration that keeps reaching new levels. you can sense it; you can sense that your heart is about to claw itself out of chest and dump itself onto the feet of atsumu miya. your hand fists the fabric of your soaked shirt as if to keep it in.
"then tell me what's wrong!" the blond in front of you demands, running a hand through his hair. his voice projects over the brutal force of the rain.
you grimace. that's the one thing you can't do, especially since it involves him. you bite your tongue, hiding your face so that atsumu doesn't see the glassiness of your eyes. "miya... please drop it." you ask him pathetically.
"why?" he pries. this is the other issue with him. he's so damn stubborn to the point that it's infuriating. atsumu miya never backs down until he gets what he wants.
"because it's you!" the first wave of tears break free. they cascade down your cheeks, mixing in the stream of rain on your cheeks; all while your hand remains pointed at atsumu. "because i fell for you!"
atsumu shuts his mouth, going completely silent. you shake your head, laughing bitterly. "i bet you didn't expect that, did you? believe me, i didn't either. day in and day out all we've ever done was argue so i don't know how this happened. i don't know why i have these feelings for you."
wiping your face is a futile attempt yet you still do it anyway. a sob gets caught in your throat, and you choke on it. "i can't stop thinking about you. i can't be near you without my heart attempting to leap out of chest. and so yeah, i've been avoiding you miya, and it's because you've made me so damn weak."
your stare finds atsumu's. you can't get a read on him, but you don't have to second guess that he can see the pain swirling in your eyes. it's so humiliating that even now the first thing that crosses your mind is how good he looks even as you feel your heart being torn apart. his hair is completely stuck to his forehead. his blond ends that are soaked through and through drip their excess water onto his face. you want nothing more than to brush them out of his line of sight, but you can't. you fight that desire by balling up your fists.
"so please just leave me alone. stop trying to find me because i can't take this anymore." you beg through hiccups.
you wait for a response. you wait to see if atsumu will kick your heart aside. in an even better scenario, which is far from likely, he accepts it. you'll take either or.
but he does neither, and that's fine too. you leave atsumu by himself on the sidewalk, and your lack of presence pulls him out of his trance. he jogs to catch up to you, reaching from behind to clasp your hand in his.
"miya, let go-"
"no." he says firmly, a newfound fire burning behind his eyes, one that exceeds the one you feel on your hand. the sight makes you gulp. "ya can't just confess yer feelings for me and leave."
you chuckle weakly, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp. "i think i can."
"no, ya can't. ya didn't even give me a chance to say anythin'." atsumu argues. he doesn't relinquish the hold he has on you.
"what more do you have to say? you don't feel the same, and that's fine-"
"could ya stop assuming things?! i never even said that." atsumu squeezes your hand ever so lightly in frustration. "and by the way, i'm not gonna leave ya alone. i'll follow ya to the edge of the earth if i have to."
you're still crying at this point, and atsumu's words are only making you more upset. "why?! why are you so fixated on me?! why can't you just-"
"because i'm in love with ya!"
in that moment, you swear the rain stops in its place, suspended in the air. surely, you must've been hearing things wrong. atsumu miya, the guy who has everyone dancing to the tune of his hand, is- no that doesn't even sound right. how could he possibly-
"god, i've been in love with ya for so long." atsumu laughs, like it's a relief to finally get it off his chest. "but ya nearly ripped my heart to shreds over these past two weeks."
atsumu squeezes your hand before letting it fall to your side. his own flex by his side as if to hold himself back. "(y/n), ya can insult me to yer heart's content if that's what makes ya happy, but don't dodge me like i'm the damn plague. i hate it. i really do."
atsumu picks up his tear-filled eyes; it makes your own fall even faster because you realize that this hurts him. you want to apologize, but the words are backed up in your throat. your cries steal away your ability to speak.
so you pull him in, yanking him by the drenched fabric of his hoodie and closing the distance between you two. your lips crash onto his, praying that this action is enough for him to understand. it takes a moment for atsumu to react, he's unmoving against you, and once he realizes what's happening, he relaxes. his hands fly to your neck, resting one on either side as he kisses you back.
it's carnivorous. he kisses you like he's been deprived of you. you feel how badly atsumu's been wanting this, how long he's been waiting for this day. you can barely keep up with his hunger. it's hot enough to overpower the chill that comes with the rain beating down on both of you. you'd kiss him forever if you could, but your lungs are begging for air.
when you pull away, atsumu's eyes reveal that he's in a daze, a happy one, like he just came back from soaring through the clouds. his damp hair presses onto your forehead as you both catch your breaths.
he pulls back. atsumu wears a soft grin as he admires you, even though you probably look like a wet dog. one of his hands find their way up to your cheek. you look at him expectantly. "(y/n), i want all of ya. i want yer stubborn ass attitude and yer insults. i want ya to be the only person who can bring me back down to earth. i want yer smiles and all yer laughs. i want to continue lovin' ya." he professes with complete certainty. his flowery words make you beam so brightly that it makes your cheeks hurt.
"i'll give you all of that and more." you swear. "but miya, i need you to kiss me again."
"oh? it seems like i got myself a needy princess." atsumu smirks, but he's already leaning in.
"shut up."
"gladly." atsumu agrees, pressing his lips to yours, smiles on both your faces.
you catch the flu the day after, and so does atsumu. but man, it is so, so worth it.
#anime#manga#haikyuu#hq#haikyuu x reader#hq x reader#hq fluff#hq angst#atsumu miya#atsumu x reader#atsumu fluff#atsumu angst#⭑ — fics ⭑.ᐟ♡#♡ — hq#♡ — tsumu
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I need the bartender Simon having to escape upstairs for a few minutes just to control the monster in his pants just because of a more direct provocation from the reader
I was saving this ask and I think this is the perfect moment after Simon sees reader in his shirt, no?
Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, sex toy, pining, daydreaming about p in v sex
He doesn't dare go up to his room - even after the bar is closed, after you and Johnny are both gone, after his tasks are complete. His mind has been scrambled ever since you came down in his shirt, looking like you'd just woken up from having a nap in his bed. He knew that wasn't the case, but it was so easy to pretend. You made it easy, looking like wearing his shirt was just your typical Friday outfit. If he tried hard enough, sitting at the bar after hours, sipping on an Old Fashioned- he could imagine you were up there right now, lying stomach-first in his bed, wearing his shirt, with "LT RIELY" on your back - you weren't objective, he certainly doesn't think of you like that - but having his claim on you aroused the most primal part inside him. If only you could see what you've done. Did you even know it?
Price comes lumbering down the stairs. Simon doesn't bother to look at him; he sits at the bar, his Old Fashioned long gone, with an empty whiskey glass and the mostly-full bottle next to him. He was hoping to replace the thought of you with drinking, but he didn't have the stomach for it.
"I'm plannin' to see if Garrick wants to join the team." Price says, shrugging on his jacket. "I know he wanted to be his own man, but we could use him. Our girl's made this place quite popular."
Simon wants to spit out the words he'd just heard. Our girl. Whose girl? John's? Soap's? The entire pub? It was his name on your back. Not Price. Not MacTavish. He was the one you came to with all those receipts, numbers scribbled in the margins, trusting him to help you ward them off. Sure, you have fun with everyone, asking them all for help - but you go to him the most easily, whenever you need to feel safe. Bad customers, bad situations - you looked to him. Didn't that mean anything to Price?
He doesn't respond to his captain, choosing to stare at his empty glass instead. Price looks at him quizzically.
"Feelin' alright, there?"
Simon grunts. "Long day."
Price knows he's bullshitting him. He knows exactly what this is about. He sighs, pulling his beanie on and tucking the money pouch into his jacket. "If you want 'er, Simon, tell me to back off. Can't read your mind."
That has him pursing his lips, grip tight around the sides of his glass. He would have punched John, was he any other man. He knows exactly what Simon's thinking, yet he makes him work for it. Typical. His pride and his jealousy are fighting tooth and nail against each other, but he can barely say a word.
Price stands there a moment, waiting for Simon to speak - but he doesn't even spare the owner a glance. Bastard's always punishing himself... he thinks, sighing again.
"Bright and early tomorrow, lad." He says, heading towards the kitchen. "Lights off when you're done here." He knows Simon's capable of closing, but he repeats it every night regardless.
"Sir."
Price stops, halfway through the kitchen door. He looks at Simon, who's now staring directly back at him. There's a look in his face, something that reminds him of Ghost - the reason he became his right-hand man.
"Respectfully..." he says slowly. "Back off."
Price almost finds it comical. Like an animal staking its claim, staring at its rival - except they’re not rivals. The only reason Simon is bothering to play his captain's game, asking for permission to have what Price would happily hand over, is because he's his superior. Even if they're all retired from the SAS, no one ever really dropped the dynamics of the team.
He smiles, nodding his head once. "Understood." He says, shoving himself through the kitchen door. "But hurry up and say somethin' to 'er. I'm sick of you losing your mind during the rush."
With that, Simon hears him leave through the back door. He stays there for a moment, his mind reeling - he feels both satisfied and angry at the same time. It was a bit humiliating to tell Price to leave you for himself - you don't belong to him. But that was a problem he was going to fix. You had his name on your back-
For Christ’s sake, he’s got to give it a rest. You wore his shirt, that was all. You wore it – with no bra. Bare. Naked underneath the 141’s insignia, under his title.
And that damn bra is still in his room.
He can’t take it anymore. He unscrews the whiskey bottle and takes a few swigs, before slamming it back onto the bar top. He leaves the bottle and the glass there as he gets up, making his way across the floor, up the stairs, passing the office, and continuing up to his studio flat.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary. If you’d gone snooping, you either did a good job of hiding the evidence, or you didn’t really rifle through too much. His bed was untouched, his books and items where he had put them last – he goes into his drawers, checking to see if you had gone through anything other than his shirts. Considering everything is still where it should be, he assumed not. Though you did leave a mess in his shirt drawer – you’d been digging around in there until you found his old SAS shirt. Did you mean to do that? Were you looking for something with his name on it, just to drive him insane?
He goes back into his top drawer, muttering a curse as he pushes the contents aside. His cock is pulsing in his pants as he grabs his pocket pussy, slamming the drawer shut and heading towards his bed. He doesn't want to draw this one out - this is nothing more than a wank, just to get you out of his head. He sits at the foot of his bed and unbuttons his jeans, pulling his hard length out of his briefs – it bounces up and slaps against his abdomen, precum already smeared across the tip. He’s been hard for hours now, trying not to cum in his pants at the thought of your tits rubbing against the inside of his shirt. Do you have small, pebbly nipples? Or ones that are soft and pliant? He growls as he smears the tip of his cock against the lips of the toy, rubbing up and down the slit. He sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You’re there, rubbing your lips on his cock, your hand wrapped tightly around his shaft as you stare up at him, licking and kissing his tip like a good girl…
He scowls and opens his eyes, sitting upright – he sees your bra hanging off the back of his chair, and he nearly passes out form how quickly the blood rushes to his cock. Pink lace, delicate and kinda skimpy… and your shirt, crumpled on the seat of the chair. You’d forgotten to shove them into your bag before you left. Or did you do this on purpose?
He's reaching out before he realizes it, slowly standing up and heading towards the chair. He wants to grab your bra, rub his cock in it until he stains it with his thick cum – but something in the back of his mind keeps him from touching it. One, it’s purely you, and he doesn’t want to ruin that. Two, he’s trying to cum. Not to cum to you. He’s doing this to get rid of your image in his head.
So, he goes for the next best thing. He grabs your shirt and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He lines himself up with his fleshlight and brings your shirt to his face; no wonder the drinks had turned it translucent, it was the thinnest fabric he had ever felt. Practically skin.
He presses it against his face and inhales: the scent of you, sweet, floral and spicy, fills his mind. It makes it all to easy to imagine that you’re sinking down onto his cock, and not that he’s stuffed it as far as he can into the toy. He groans, his eyelids fluttering shut as he pumps his hips once, then again… the tightness of the fleshlight slides over him easily, offering no resistance with the precum acting as a lube while he grinds up into it, heat knotting in his gut. The waist of his jeans hugs his thighs as he slowly and steadily pulses towards the ceiling, taking deep breaths of your scent.
He feels like an animal. Dirty, cheap, and desperate. He has to remind himself that it’s not about you, it’s about having a good wank and getting you out of his head. He drops your shirt on his chest and uses his free hand to cup his balls, groaning as he massages them. The schlick of the fleshlight around his dick is loud, the sensation borderline painful as he quickly fucks into it, curses spilling past his lips as he slams the thing down to the base of his length, catching on the Jacob’s ladder piercing on the underside, then back to the tip.
He shouldn’t, but he lets his mind slip elsewhere. What would you be doing? Would you have your hands on his chest, lips parted in a moan as you drop your hips onto his thighs, your cunt dripping and squeezing around his member…? What are you doing now? Are you still wearing his shirt? Are you lying back on your bed, playing with your breasts under the fabric and using your other hand to toy with your pussy? What do you sound like? Are you saying his name, or can you make any sound at all?
He falls back against the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck-“ he mumbles. He’s caught himself in a trap here – he can’t allow himself to indulge in the thought of you, begging him to take your hips and buck up into you – but it’s impossible to get you out of his head. Even if he could, he doesn’t think he’d be able to cum without you. He squeezes his fist around the fleshlight, groaning loudly from the pain, trying to drown out the sounds of your moans in his head… you’re always there, ever present, leaning over him and whimpering in his ear, need you, Simon, wanna cum on your cock, want it inside-
It's all too much for him, but not enough. He turns himself over, climbing up to his knees on the bed. He props himself up on his forearm, holding the fleshlight with his other hand as he ruts into it, stuffing his cock in as far as it will go, until the lips are smashed against the base. He pants and groans, mouth hanging open as he hovers over the bed; over you, holding one of your thighs up, touching his forehead against yours, watching as you’re covered in a layer of sweat, tits bouncing with each violent thrust of his hips. Both wrists secured above your head with one of his meaty hands, whimpers and whines spilling from your mouth as you struggle to remain coherent. Your cunt swallows him greedily, hugs him tightly, pulses around him, coaxes him to pound into you harder and harder, your walls twitching as slick gushes around him, your fingers digging into the back of his hand as you cry out his name, “Simon, Simon, Simon”-
He hisses through his teeth as his balls seize up, his abdomen going taut and his dick twitching in the toy. He rips the fleshlight off and grabs your shirt without a second thought, wrapping it tight around his cock and pumping it. “Gonna cum, gonna cum- fuck- oh, fuck-!” He mumbles to no one as his orgasm is ripped from him, hips canting repeatedly as cum spurts into the fabric of your shirt, leaking out around his thighs as he thrusts into it, thighs aching from the exertion. He bites into his hand and growls as he continues rutting, fighting through the overstimulation to chase what remains of his high – but he soon collapses on the bed, huffing and groaning into the mattress.
His orgasm fades slowly, his heart ramming against his ribcage and the fog clearing from his head. Realization sinks in as he’s hyper-aware of your shirt, still wrapped around his dick, now soaked in his cum. He'd have to wash it, now. Filthy doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels, but he doesn’t find it in him to care anymore. He rolls onto his side, clutching your shirt in his hand. Fuck. One quick tug was all this was supposed to be, and now, he’s picturing you lying across from him. Face flushed, lips swollen and eyes hazy, smiling at him and panting. Telling him you love him. He’d say it back a million times. Listening as you breathe, as you talk about your silly little ideas for the pub, for redecorating his room… craving the moment where you drag yourself closer to him and snuggle into his chest for the rest of the night.
He hasn’t gotten rid of you, like he hoped for. He’s only made it more clear: he wants you. He wants his life to be threaded with yours, he wants to wake up next to you, he wants you to change his routine, to pick up his broken pieces and make a mosaic – and he wants to be there when you need someone, he wants to give you everything you want and more, whether that’s a life up in the clouds or down here, in his arms, in his small bed and lackluster apartment. You’d make it better; you’d make anything better.
He sighs, slowly sitting up and on the edge of the bed. Price was right – he’s got to hurry up and say something to you, or else he’ll be drowned in his obsession. You’d either agree to take this fucked-up giant on a date and end his misery, or you’d reject him, and he could force you from his thoughts and replace you with misery. It’s worked before.
He pulls off his jeans and shirt and grabs the fleshlight, standing with a grunt and walking into his bathroom. He’s planning to clean the toy, but if he waits long enough, he might just be fucking it again in the shower.
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