#but the new one i have. it is So Personal to me

[infamous-if]

Infamous is 2 years old!

So sorry this was late! Funnily enough, I was deep in the Infamous trenches that I didn't remember until now! Ha! Two years is a long time. I didn't think this would turn into anything when I posted the intro post.

Infamous was born from my desire to read a band IF after a weekend binging band-related stuff. You can imagine I was gutted that there was a hole of music/band related stories in this community. The (amazing!) band stories were either demo-less or dead. Once that happened a seed of an idea was planted in my head. One I couldn't shake off :,) and thus Infamous was born.

500k words, three chapters (lol) and nearly 10k of you later (woah) and here we are! I love Infamous with all my heart and I'm happy to see that it's touched some of you, no matter how big or small. The art, the fanfic, the questions and funny musings in my inbox; they give me a lot of energy and motivation. I'd probably have given up on this a long time ago if not for how kind and supportive this community is to me. You guys do not have to welcome me the way you do every day. Or be so gracious and patient with my ramblings and stupid ridiculous jokes and Savina teasing but you are. I am very lucky. Thank you.

I wish I had something prepared but as we know I am not a very organized person. Instead, as a way to celebrate, I've uploaded an extended Chapter 4 snippet. For those on Patreon who have already read it, I did extend this one—not by a lot but still. It's something new.

There will be typos, errors (if there are game-breaking errors, lmk!), skipped scenes, some paragraphs/convos not fleshed out, and empty choices because I am lazy and fill those out near the end. (I usually write a big picture skeleton first and then map out the scenes in deeper detail). Plus, I don't want to spoil too much haha

I hope you enjoy it. And thanks for loving Infamous! More to come!!!

Amy <3

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

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

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

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

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

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

You know, a Lemurian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do my neck too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you wanted to see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked better, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once he began to create, however...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

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

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Receptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently they had.

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

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

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

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

Which was dry.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

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

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

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

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, this man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

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

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

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

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

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

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

It was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not until you.

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep going like this.

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

And you had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So adorable. So endearing.)

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

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

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

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

“…Rafayel?”

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

He could… He could skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a weak man.

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep being like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Focus.)

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

And then. The tug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

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

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

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

His robe.

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

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

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

He felt a push at his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you bit him.

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? Now?

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

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

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

More than this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a homecoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

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

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

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

“Or, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was that easy to change his mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just returning to the original plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth wide open.

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

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

"Pffft!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel.”

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

“Rafayel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke first.

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

Then you yanked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a reward for that?”

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

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission to talk?”

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

“Go ahead, handsome.”

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

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

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

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

"Are you really asking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Just how pent-up was he?

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

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

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

"Rafa—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was beyond insatiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, did he listen well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel just smiled.

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Self-On Kode with Mark ⋆⭒˚.⋆

idol!Mark x f!idol!reader

summary: you and you boyfriend Mark are paired up for an interview, but do you even know you're texting each other? No.

(cw: f!reader, idol!reader)

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Mark got comfortable in the plush, pink chair of the Kode set with a shy smile, "Ah hello, I'm Mark from NCT." He pushes his earbuds into his ears and begins playing his music, "today I'll be known as Cheetah. Um, I couldn't really think of anything else and the fans already call me a cheetah so it was easy to think of."

On the opposite side of the wall, you settle into your own chair while smiling at the camera while introducing yourself, "I was so confused when I was asked to pick a wild cat as my screen name. It was such an oddly specific category, and even weirder when you told me cheetah was already taken. Anyway, I chose Tiger because they're the next prettiest."

Your music begins to play through your earbuds as your phone vibrates from the first message from your partner. "Yo?" you read in confusion, staring at your screen with pure confusion, "is that it? This is a man isn't it? Girls don't talk like this."

On the other side of the wall Mark laughs softly, covering his mouth as he reads the message. "This person is so happy. I've never seen anyone write hi with this many i's."

You and Mark text back and forth for a while, sharing your hobbies and sending memes back and forth until the both of your are giggling madly on your respective sides of the set. Of course, after nearly 2 years together you'd know how to make each other laugh, even without knowing you're texting each other. Your partner still doesn't give you any identifying traits or hints as to who they are. Well, besides clearly being a man based on how he texts.

Following the instruction of the staff, you send a screenshot of your home screen. You pout, feeling slightly bad for your partner. Just two days ago you'd gotten a new phone and hadn't yet had the time to make it yours. It was stuck with the boring default background and a handful of apps you considered to be essential. You explain as much with the text accompanying the screenshot.

And Mark's screenshot? Well, it might as well be just as boring as yours. He has the blur set on the photo so all you see is an indistinct mess of colors. Two distinct blobs which could be the shape of two people or two flowers or two guitars or two cats.

"Wow," you say as you typed out the word, "we are two very boring people. You really don't want me to know who you are."

Mark laughs out brightly while he reads your text, "me? You haven't even changed your own yet!"

"I told you I just got a new phone and haven't had time yet!" You laugh to yourself while typing out your message.

Your joking back and forth gets the two of you off track while you playfully poke fun at each other back and forth until the staff ask you both who you think you're texting. Mark looks at the camera while he tries to think, "I have no clue. It's a girl, surely but it could be anyone. Do you pick random people off the street to do these videos?"

On the other side of the wall, you blush softly, covering your face while your face cools down, "is it weird if I say it's my boyfriend? He just seems so much like Mark."

It's one of the few times you've ever referred to Mark as your boyfriend for any sort media. You and Mark had technically been a public couple for about a year now, since your respective companies had come out with their statements to reveal your relationship. How you'd been able to conceal a year of your relationship was beyond the both of you. Well, a lot of dark, oversized clothes and hats and masks to conceal your faces.

After the company statements, you and Mark seemed to be even better at hiding. You barely glanced at each other at award shows, and if you did, it was only friendly, nothing that could be interpreted as anything else. There were very few glimpses into your relationship beyond birthday and anniversary posts with obscured faces and sharing each other's most recent comebacks on your stories. Privacy was something you both valued and of course you were more than ok with doing any type of promotion with Mark, it just never worked out that way. Until now (not that you knew). Plus, it wasn't like this interview would give anyone any important details of your relationship anyway.

When the staff prompt you both to share a screenshot of your most recently listened to songs, you stare at your screen with a look of blank surprise, "this is just a mix of Drake and Justin Bieber. It's Mark, it has to be."

You zoom in on the picture, mumbling about how you see more music that is so distinctly Mark while on the other side Mark looks at the screenshot you send excitedly. "She's a fan! Of me! Wow, she's listened to Child and Golden Hour and 200! Ok, I have to chill out a bit," he tells himself even as he types out his message telling you that you have good music taste.

You snort at his message just as the staff laugh at the exchange at the same time. The head producer instructs you both to find your baby pictures to send to the other.

You look up from your phone, looking at the camera and the staff, "surely, you'd think a couple who have been together for this long have seen pictures of each other when they were kids, right?" The staff nods in response before you speak again, "well, we haven't! I've only seen what has been posted online. Same for him!"

Mark sends you a picture of him as a baby where he's a few months old and you coo immediately. You zoom in as close as you can drawing your phone closer to you face as you star adoringly at the baby on your screen. "He's the cutest little thing I've ever seen! I've never seen a cuter baby in my life! Oh, I just want to squeeze his cheeks and cuddle him," you gush over the adorable picture of the chubby baby boy with an adoring look on your face.

Mark looks at his phone, the camera, the staff, his phone again, the camera again with a look of pure and utter confusion as he looks at what he can only assume is a child covered in frosting. "You can barely tell this is a human, how is this supposed to help me figure out who I've been texting?" Mark asks, zooming in on the picture while the staff bursts out in laughter. When he finds out who he's talking to...

So when he staff ask for a final guess as to who you've been texting you say Mark's name confidently while Mark ultimately utters out, "Maybe someone from a girl group... maybe it's Yeri."

When the staff ask you both to stand and get ready to face each other to reveal yourselves. Instead of walking toward Mark, you find yourself behind the set so you're behind Mark.

Mark walks forward slowly, waiting to see when he'll spot his interview partner, but when he sees an empty spot, he faces the camera and the staff with a quizzical smile, "was I talking to a ghost?"

They laugh softly and murmur amongst themselves while you finally reach forward and tap his shoulder softly. Mark jumps, completely scared by the touch. He turns to you with his eyes wide with surprise, "you?!"

"Yes, me!"

After you're both seated at the high top table and calmed down from the surprise meeting with on another, you're both ready to talk to each other in front of the camera once again. You smile softly at your boyfriend, "I knew it was you."

Mark scoffs, "how?"

"Yo," you repeat the word from his first message with a poor imitation of his voice, "all the Drake, all the Bieber-- oh my gosh, Mark! Your baby picture!"

Mark laughs, taking your hand in his out of view of the camera, "speaking of baby pictures, what did you send me?"

Your brows furrow softly at his question, "I sent you a picture of me as a baby."

"There's no way that was you. You look like a little cake monster."

"It was from my first birthday..." you pout at Mark.

"Don't get pouty with me, you were completely covered, how could I have known? I can pout too! My face used to be your homescreen and now it's the plain default screen," Mark tells you with a playful pointed look.

"Mark," you deadpan, "you were with me when I got my new phone."

"Oh yeah..." Mark blushes with embarrassment.

"Anyway, who did you think I was?"

Mark squeezes your hand nervously beneath the table, his thumb rubbing at your knuckles a little anxiously, "I had no clue, to be honest. I knew you were a girl but I didn't know it was you."

When the staff ask Mark how he didn't know but you did, all he can do is blush and laugh out a nervous response. You turn to him with a playful accusatory look of your own, "yeah, how come you didn't know?"

"I don't really pay attention to how you text, just what we text about..."

You and the staff coo as you pinch his cheeks and cup his face lovingly, "you're so cute, but you were cuter as a baby."

"My mom says the same thing," Mark rolls his eyes.

Your conversation winds down and you both pose for the selfie at the end. You both pull silly faces, cheeks pressed together and eyes scrunched shut with your tongues sticking out.

Despite the stupid picture you both took, the screen fades to black with a completely different picture of you and Mark laughing while looking at each other with hearts in your eyes and bright smiles on your faces.

[autumngracy]

One time I was walking down a hallway at college and this guy was having a panic attack on the stairs and I asked him if he was okay. He noticed the pentacle I was wearing. We were total strangers, but because of that pentacle he decided I was a "safe" person to talk to, because he was satanist, and felt I would understand where he was coming from.

It's been too long for me to remember the details, but basically his professor had made some shitty comments to him in front of his classmates (possibly religious in nature) and set off like, the equivalent of RSD. I talked with him on the stairs until he felt better and we became friends after that.

I'm sure I was in the middle of my own class or something when I saw him there, but I was the only one around, and he needed someone to talk to, and he had judged me as safe.

So I sat with him and talked, and because of that I made a new friend :)

idk thinking about how sometimes you have to show up for people you aren't that close to, because sometimes you're just the person who's there. sometimes you invite a new friend to a party and end up having to sit with them through a panic attack. sometimes you run into an acquaintance on their worst day and they need to talk about what happened. sometimes someone is crying in a stairwell and you're the only one around to ask if they're okay. and none of this is "trauma dumping" or whatever the fuck it's just being there for people because you're the one in the room with them.

[uyuforu]

❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。 ༻ Astro Observations XI ༺ ❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。

All pictures were found on Pinterest

Other posts you could like:

જ⁀➴ Union Asteroid in Natal Chart

જ⁀➴ Groom/ Briede/ Juno Aspects in Natal Chart

જ⁀➴ Astro Observations X

❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。 ❀°。❀。 • *₊°。 ❀° 。 • *₊°。

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⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Natal Chart

❀ I read somewhere that Aries Rising often ignore people, even the closest people. My sister does that often, and she is also Aries Rising. ❀

❀ Also, the Rising sign and degree can say often how you look, your appearance but don't forget planets and other placements in your 1H! ❀

❀ Moreover, the Ruler of your Rising can also tell a lot about your appearance, meaning the sign and house placements of your Ruler. ❀

❀ I also noticed that whenever the Sun or Venus was transiting my 1H I was changing something on my appearance. It can also just be me adopting a new way to do my hair or my make up, etc. ❀

❀ Having Aries Descendant is a sign you'll have a spouse who will make you realize you are too nice, you are too generous with others, and they will teach you it's okay to tell people to go f*ck themselves. ❀

❀ Men who have Virgo Rising are the finest in my opinion, perhaps because I'm Virgo Venus but girl they are just so neat and take care of themselves so much, it's so refreshing. ❀

❀ Moreover, Virgo Rising men often age like fine wine. Their hot era is never ending. Just take Benjamin Bratt as an example. ❀

❀ If Pluto transiting your Natal Chart will give you clarity over which house it transits, and it will also be a huge transformation in it. I have it in my 4H, and I can tell you I see my family differently and learn a lot of hidden things. It hits like a b*tch. ❀

❀ Can we stop generalizing MC signs ? Cancer MC doesn't mean necessarily the person will do a job related to taking care of others. The sign over your MC is often a way to describe your needs in a career, but the planets in the 10h and the sign it is in matters, AND the ruler of the 10H as well. ❀

❀ Saturn conjunct Juno often means you'll marry your destined person later in life, and you could also meet later in life as well. ❀

❀ Juno conjunct Chiron is a sign your FS is wounded, in depression, or that they will need to heal to be with you. Being with your Future Spouse could also require a lot of sacrifices. ❀

❀ 4H Ruler in 7H people could often depend on their partner emotionally. They can also be the kind of person to want to only settle down with a partner. ❀

❀ Saturn 7H can have the same effect as Venus conjunct Saturn , you could have a delay in your love life, or find yourself having many lessons about it. You could have to live some failed relationships or romantic interactions in your early life, yet perhaps around your Saturn Return, you could have a better and long lasting love life. ❀

❀ Jupiter conjunct Saturn 7H could mean a delay in your marriage, perhaps marrying close to your 30's, but it could also mean after being married, your life will be very good, and you'll gain a lot because of marriage, and perhaps a lot of knowledge and wisdom as well. ❀

❀ I feel like even if you try hard, you'll never really know someone with Sun 8H/12H. They are quite good at showing exactly what they want you to see. ❀

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Synastry

❀ Rising conjunct Venus often means Venus person will think Rising person is their ideal type. ❀

❀ I often found that when it's not a romantic connection, Sun in 7H Synastry is not a good relationship, yet often a toxic one. Sun person can tend to hate 7H person. ❀

❀ I feel like 2H, 6H & 10H are really underrated houses in Synastry. I think it's really good to have those houses, mostly if big 3 are there. ❀

❀ Sun conjunct Venus often makes the Sun person think Venus person is very attractive. They could also find Venus very charming and their type. ❀

❀ I often saw Juno 1H Synastry when there was love at first sight between two people. Often Juno person having love at first sight for 1H person. ❀

❀ Venus/ Juno/ Jupiter is very beneficial for "finding the house person good looking", and often if you have those planets in someone's 1H or conjunct their Rising, they will be your type. ❀

❀ Every time I had a friend who wanted to befriend me and who was also someone I got along with so much, they have a Stellium in my 11H. ❀

❀ Sun 12H Synastry can possibly make the 12H person forget about you often. ❀

❀ In some relationships, Venus in the 12H can say that 12H person doesn't feel the love Venus person try to give them, and could also feel unloved. ❀

❀ Moon conjunct Saturn can also be that Moon person feel totally misunderstood by Saturn person, or they could feel judged often by Saturn person. ❀

❀ Mars 3H can mean Mars person can often know the right words to hurt 3H person, they can speak to them in a harsh way as well. ❀

❀ Sometimes 12H placements aren't that bad, so take it with a grain of salt. For example, my mother has a Stellium in my 12H, and we are very connected. ❀

❀ Sun conjunct Jupiter often makes the two natives adore each other, they often get along very well, laugh together but also they often share the same opinion. Jupiter person often teach a lot of valuable lessons to Sun person. ❀

❀ Chiron conjunct Moon often means Chiron person will hurt Moon's feelings. I have this aspect with my uncle, he often is harsh with his words. I was scared of him when I was little. ❀

❀ Sun 8H can mean 8H person can feel like Sun person doesn't like them. ❀

❀ Moon 12H in Synastry can often tell us that Moon person will struggle to say to 12H person how they feel, or often share personal things about them. Though, it can also be a sign of deep spiritual connection. ❀

Thank you for reading!

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[callmearcturus]

tobias

radiation

fox

is working on the new soundtrack to OFF

hang on the interview with them is actually interesting

What did you think about composing some tracks for the new soundtrack? Well, it's a complicated feeling. Let me clarify. Obviously, Fangamer and Mortis wanted to use the original soundtrack. They tried to reach out to the composer, ACC, to get the rights to use it... but ultimately, he felt nervous about signing anything and disappeared. However, he has stated that he doesn't mind that his music isn't being used, and he has no problem with the new soundtrack. So, it's a bit weird, but everything is chill. That being said, OFF is a very atmospheric and memorable game, and the soundtrack contributed a lot to that. It's an integral part of the memories that people have built of this game. Trying to replace those songs feels like breaking into somebody's house and pasting your face into their family photo album. But, Mortis asked me if I was interested, and, given that his game really inspired me, and he's a super nice guy... I decided I would try my best to help. To ensure that new players, even if they didn't get the exact same experience, would get a pretty cool one. I ended up handling a lot of boss tracks. I attempted to match the game's "style" by aiming for idiosyncrasy and atmosphere over everything else. I think the results are pretty cool. I also was assigned... the normal battle theme. I'm gonna be honest, just feels like I got assigned to take a bullet in the back for everybody else. I looked up almost every jazz song from the 1920s, I commissioned Carlos to make an entire fake jazz song for me so I could cut it up into samples, I tried making like 6 entirely different songs, but nothing I could come up with on my own felt quite right. In the end, I summoned Camellia to help me out by re-remixing my first track into multiple versions, and so ultimately I think it will feel pretty cool as you go through the game. (But, I'll be the first to say that I can't replace your memories...) By the way, I did the music for free, and I'll upload my tracks for free after the game comes out. Personally, I don't think the original music is replaceable, so I want to treat what I made like "fanmusic", made just out of love and respect for the original. Alright, see ya.

Love the remark about "assigned to take a bullet" because for fucking real, imagine being a game music composer and being asked to make a new "Pepper Steak"

for people who are not Certified Game Likers, it's like being asked to make a new version of The Fifth Element. nothing you do will replace the original and most likely you were heavily influenced by its existence, so what do you even do?

/slinks off to listen to "Pepper Steak" again

[mephisto-reporting]

I Love You: Caleb Edition

Premise:

Trope: Angst with open ending

Pairing:Reader x Caleb

Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship. but there is implied mutual attraction. This can be read as MC or non MC reader... I kept the details as vague as possible. Let me know if you want to be a part of my taglist. HELP (If anyone has a nice header of his warmer memories, please share because I struggled to find them online and I need them for my fics.)

Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition

The evening air felt oppressive, a strange mix of warmth and chill that matched the storm brewing in your chest. The world around you blurred into muted lights and faint sounds, the hum of traffic in Linkon and chatter of pedestrians barely registering in your ears. You should have been paying attention, counting steps, tracking the time—but your thoughts were too loud, too consuming.

Caleb.

His name echoed like a ghost, haunting your every waking moment. It had been weeks since Skyhaven, weeks since you discovered that the boy you’d grieved, the boy you’d buried in your heart, wasn’t dead after all. For months, you’d carried the weight of his loss, only to find out that he’d been alive all this time. That he hadn’t told you. That he’d let you believe he was gone.

And he wasn’t the same as you remembered him.

The Caleb you remembered was warm, his laughter infectious, his presence a steady comfort. He’d been your rock, your protector, the one who made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you as long as he was by your side. The explosion had taken him, or so you thought. You’d mourned him, grieved the loss of the one person who had always been your anchor. And now? Now, he was a Colonel of the Farspace Fleet with a cold, calculated aura that clashed with the warmth you used to know. It wasn’t that his warmth was gone, but there was something hidden, something tainted in him that existed alongside the man you thought you knew and lost. A man who moved through the world with an iron grip and a sharp edge, commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

At times, it was like looking at a stranger wearing Caleb’s face.

You rounded the corner to your street, the familiar sight of your small home coming into view. But there, sitting on the steps of your porch, was the very ghost you’d been trying to escape.

Caleb.

Your heart clenched. He was dressed casually, his black and orange flight jacket unzipped, revealing the crisp shirt beneath. His head was bowed, but as you approached, he looked up, those piercing purple eyes locking onto yours.

“Hey…” he greeted, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“What are you doing here, Caleb? Or should I say, Colonel?” Anger, confusion, longing—it all tangled together into a knot that threatened to choke you.

“I needed to see you...” he replied simply, standing to his full height. His presence was overwhelming, a mixture of the Caleb you knew and someone entirely new. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “Avoiding you? Avoiding you?” The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. “I didn’t even know you were alive, Caleb. You let me think you were dead. For months!”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I mourned you!” you continued, your voice shaking. “I grieved you. And now, suddenly, you’re here, alive and well, acting like everything’s fine. Like you didn’t lie to me. Like you didn’t leave me behind!!.”

“It wasn’t like that!” he said, his tone clipped.

“Then what was it like?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Tell me, Caleb. Explain to me why you couldn’t let me know you were alive. Why you couldn’t trust me enough to—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. “Why you couldn’t trust me???”

“It wasn’t about trust,” he said, his voice softer now. “It was about protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” you repeated, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how much it hurt? How much I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “No. You don’t get to say it was for my own good. You don’t get to make that call.”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “I had to. If you knew, if anyone knew, you would’ve been in danger. I couldn’t risk that.”

“Danger from what?” you snapped. “From who? You keep talking like you’re some kind of martyr, Caleb, but all you’ve done is shut me out and expect me to be okay with it. Well, I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay with you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything I did was to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” You let out a harsh laugh, the sound breaking into a sob. “You think this is what safe looks like? I lost you, Caleb. I lost you, and now I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re not the same. You’re not…” Your voice faltered, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m still me... This has always been me...” he said, stepping closer. “I’m still the same Caleb who—”

“No, you’re not!” you interrupted, your voice rising. “You’re colder. Harder. You kept me in the dark, Caleb. The boy I knew, the boy I loved, would never—”

You froze, the words catching in your throat.

But it was too late.

Caleb stared at you, his eyes wide, the mask of control he always wore cracking. “What did you say?”

You let out a frustrated groan, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “You’re impossible...” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This is all too much, Caleb. I can’t—I can’t keep doing this. Not when…” You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. But they burned to be said.

“Not when what?” he pressed, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

“Not when I’m in love with you!” you burst out, the confession ripping from you like a dam breaking. “I mourned you, Caleb. I mourned the man I loved, and now you’re here, and I don’t even know who you are anymore. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Caleb stared at you, his eyes wide.

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t do this, Caleb. I can’t keep pretending like I’m fine when I’m not. I’m not fine. I’m in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

The silence that followed was deafening. “You…” His voice was barely a whisper, and he took a step closer. “You love me?”

Before you could say anything more, he closed the distance between you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I love you too.” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. I never thought you’d feel the same. Not after everything.”

You tried to pull back, to argue, but he held you tighter, his face buried in your hair. “Don’t.” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. Not yet. Just… let me hold you. Please.”

You tried to pull back, to look at him, but he held you tighter. “Caleb, this doesn’t fix anything. We still have—”

“Shh...” he interrupted, his lips brushing against your temple. “We’ll figure it out. Later. Just… stay here. Let me have this moment. Let us have this moment.”

The plea in his voice shattered what was left of your resolve. With a shaky breath, you leaned into him, your hands clutching his jacket as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. His scent—smoky and faintly metallic, like the air before a storm, flooded your senses. The steady beat of his heart against your ear was grounding, a reminder that he was real, that this moment was real.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, his lips pressing against your temple. “I’m so sorry for everything. But I swear to you, I’ll never let you go again.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hold onto this moment and never let it slip away. But the questions, the doubts, lingered at the edges of your mind, waiting for their turn to be heard. For now, though, you let them fade into the background. For now, you let yourself fall into him, into the warmth that had once been your home. Whatever came next, whatever truths or battles awaited, could wait. Right now, you had Caleb, and he had you.

And that was enough.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentativel fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly done south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[genderqueerdykes]

i think that people forget that the transtrender thing from a few years ago predominantly effected and targeted transmascs. treating us like we were girls who just wanted to feel special. i honestly could not give you any examples off the top of my head of transfems being called trenders. im sure it must've happened at some point, but all of the "this is a normal trans person. and this is a WEEEIRRRRD TRENDERRRR who thinks that boys don't have to wear bras uwu i don't have to shave my legs :3 blue hair he/they/xe/it and if you don't use my one thousand neopronouns you're transphobic!!!!!!!!" stuff was so so so so obviously pointing towards transmascs.

and then we got out of it for a bit! things improved! transmascs started becoming comfortable with being gnc again! trans people in any direction started playing with neopronouns and mogai terms!

and now we're right back where we were before. not only that, but it feels so much worse. back then, i had enough confidence to puff my chest out and say "actually yeah! i wanna take pride in my neopronouns! i wanna dye my hair weird colors! i wanna have a billion neogenders! and if you don't like it, you can bite me!"

but now it isn't just attacking "surface level" things. it's attacking the very CONCEPT of being transmasc. i didn't have to seriously consider going back in the closet when the trender stuff started. but i have now. on multiple occasions. it's just so tiring. i have no idea how people think that trans men are somehow more privileged. it feels like we keep getting kicked down as soon as we find a new community to just exist in. im so fucking tired, man.

-TB

oh wow, true, i forgot about that. damn i haven't thought about that term in quite a while but you are very right. while i'm sure there were and are transfems affected by it, there's no denying that the bulk of the targets were explicitly transmascs and trans men. like, i'm almost certain the term was coined specifically to harass and misgender transmascs and trans men.

people have been erasing and being horrific to trans men and mascs for decades, they just keep changing hats and making up new terms. thank you for pointing this out, i really appreciate it. trans men are not inherently any more privileged than anyone else, especially if they're closeted, no transition, pre transiton/early transition, intersex, a person of color and so on. people just go out of their ways to punch laterally on trans men and mascs and it's so old. we don't have it better than any other type of trans person just because we are men and mascs. it doesn't make our lives any easier- it just gets harder after we come out. same as everyone else.

take care of yourself! thank you for sending this ask, i really appreciate you.

[realprissygirl]

❥ — maramaxxing:

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ becoming prissier and sexier 🥂👛🐈‍⬛˖ ࣪

❤︎ ྀི˖𓍢 my personal pinkprint to aligning with my princess agenda—style, mindset, and routines to embody my future self. as I pivot in life, this will be one of my final blog posts like this. i’m transitioning it off blogging and will now document everything in my video diary… 𐙚

🎀 self prioritization, boundaries, and independence - i come before anyone else. i have no children and my only commitment is to make myself happy.

🍨 shadow work - to reveal what has made me how i am (strengths, traumas, interests, fears), i’ve done so much reflecting on my triggers and responses to specific stimuli. it feels good to know that i’m getting to know myself. that says growth to me.

🎀 studying my birth chart - finding out hope my placements, and which houses they’re in has really made my day to day interactions and experiences very insightful and fun to dissect.

🎀 so fab so glam lately - my vibe lately has been just g-l-a-m, glamorous. just oozing sex appeal and hyper femininity with a sophisticated twist. i can’t wait to document this on youtube.

🍨 bougie and sexy - black and satin have been a common theme for me. my aesthetic is naturally going in a very sultry direction along with animal prints, lace and diamanté detailing.

🎀 body mods - back dermal piercings, more ear piercings and super pretty tattoos, nothing too much just small and pretty embellishmentz!

🍨 fab color palette - brown, cream, soft pink, metallic accents (champagne gold, white gold), and leopard print. my everything.

🎀 gold n pink jewelry - this combo is so pretty on everything else so why wouldn’t be just as pretty on my personal adornments? ordered three gold and pink belly rings and i can’t want to mix the metals once my piercings heal.

🍨keeping a physical lookbook in my fashion diary - this year i’m not holding back. the looks are coming. the photos are coming. i want to document my fav looks, accessories, and details in real time. almost like personal portfolio.

🎀 sexy and grownifying my closet - investing in a luxurious, cohesive closet that says grown. gonna be using high heels and casual glamour to achieve this. the fabrics and cuts are extremely crucial too.

🍨 staple designer bags - if you know me you know i love designer purses. especially if they’re neutral colored and essential. i definitely plan on expanding my repertoire of bags.

🎀 customizing my wardrobe - i’m getting a sewing machine and i’m learning how to hotfix rhinestones to personalize and bedazzle anything i want to. i’m so so excited!

🍨 making my own jewelry - i’m so excited to talk about this! i’m making a kit of chains and threads along with beads and charms all in my color palette and i’m going to start popping out with so much custom made shit! body chains, waist beads, charm bracelets, just so exclusive + #prissy.

🎀 new makeup styles - been loving smoky eyes and black waterlines, overlining with a muted brown, lash clusters, rhinestones, and more sultry details.

🎀 currently healing my gut - psyllium husk supplements, fiber, kombucha/prebiotic soda, chia seeds and an adequate amount of water have all become a part of my routine over the last month or so and i definitely feel different.

🍨 #prettiedup - bleach my hair, signature makeup routines, regular nail appointments (found a tech that i can rely on 🎀), korean skincare + african black soap, and anything else to boost my beauty.

🎀 got a personal trainer to maintain my “skinny bbl” look - i’m a tall girl with long legs and that with a tiny waist and round butt is so my look. currently training for it and i’m pretty happy so far. at this rate, by the end of march i’ll be at my goals.

🍨 building my vitamin and supplement routine - collagen, probiotics + prebiotics, maca, berberine, + some hum essentials.

🎀 my love of teas - cannot live without tea. it’s my favorite form of caffeine. and herbal teas always help me feel as if i’ve boosted my health. my favorite teas right now are green tea, matcha, and double spice chai. also love black, spearmint, and raspberry teas.

🍨 weekly digital detox - one day a week i go out of my way to avoid my phone. i simply rely on other things for entertainment, radio for music and try to interact with those around me.

🎀 hair extension wardrobe - tape ins in natural black and honey blonde, vixen sew ins with 30” bundles (i’m a tall girl so long hair to me is at least 26”)

🍨 cycle syncing - i’ve changed the way i eat depending on where i am in my menstrual cycle. i find my gut responds to the things i eat better. even with the time of day, being intentional with the way i live my life is so important to me now.

🎀 new personalized diet - high protein and low artificial sugar is pretty much what i’ve been following. what i typically eat in a day is berries, rice, oranges, lots of water, almond and peanut butter, etc. my fav sources of protein are grilled chicken, sushi, steak, salmon and eggs. of course i still like sweets they’re for sure few and far between.

🎀 trust in my intuition - it’s taken a while but i’m finally learning to trust myself. if my body is telling me to do something i do it, i don’t try to force what isn’t there, and i respect my mind by honoring the discerning abilities i was blessed with.

🍨 gratitude and thought reframing - so many things in my life changed for the better when i learned to flip my thoughts. in a glass half full fashion. it’s literally the law of assumption. i’m forever grateful for everyone and everything i have. and miss universe has only blessed me with more because i’m now so much more receptive.

🎀 no bull shit + not easily impressed - i literally have the shortest tolerance. i expect a certain standard of behavior from those that wish to be in my presence and this is because i give a certain level of care, consideration, authenticity and respect.

🍨 manifestation journal - my literal best friend. everything i write in my LOA journal comes true. i’m not exaggerating. i read it in the morning and tend to write in it before bed. i keep it right next to my bed along with some stickers and gel pens.

🎀 semipermanent beauty treatments - making appointments for lash lifts and brow microblading as we speak. also super interested in finding a great medspa in my area.

🍨 youtube #vloggingbabe🎀 - i finally made my long awaited comeback and i’ll actually be recording some of the things in this post on video. i love recording and editing. it feels like the best form of self expression to me right now! subscribe!

🎀 glam squad (esthetics, hair, nails) - i’m so anal about things being seamless and easy to remember. i like to go the same place for particular services and i’m determined to find a reliable hairstylist and esthetician that i can stay loyal to (i already have a bomb ass nail tech)

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Unfortunately it's the Daily who broke this story, so I'm torn between "this is a rightwing gossip rag known for wholesale lying" and "the thing is this does track with my knowledge of detainee culture in usa prisons and detention centers"

Like, the history of political prisoners includes a GREAT DEAL of documented resistance from within prisons by the people suffering detention. It is both a way of asserting power in a system that severely restricts individual and communal autonomy, and a way of performing activism and advocacy from within authoritarian suppression.

The message of ensuring a political prisoner is well-groomed and styled is two-fold: 1) ensure they are able to show up in court with as much visibly communicated shared humanity with the "jury of peers" as possible, thus reducing the risk of state neglect and abuses influencing jury opinion on the prisoner, and 2) communicate clearly to everyone within the judicial system that powerful underground systems of solidarity and care have their eyes firmly trained on this person's well-being, and anything that happens to them will be taken as a severe act of aggression against that system of solidarity and care.

This may feel conspiracy minded, but it's important to remember that while we rarely hear about prison riots on the outside, every prison protest from the famous and historic Attica Uprisings to the recent Uprisings in North Carolina after they were abandoned in a flooded and lethal prison during Hurricane Helene in 2024 is an extension of this internal system of care. The battles fought are intentional and based in the risk/reward calculations of allowing a certain precedent to be set by hegemonic forces/systems.

It would not be an acceptable precedent for them to kill or harm Mangione in prison, nor to railroad his trial. People in a prison may not have much control over what happens to Mangione once he leaves the facility they know how to navigate. But they can certainly send a message to the outside world "if you harm this man, you invite a war"

Regardless of whether Mangione is guilty, innocent, convicted, pardoned, declared innocent, whatever, he is a political and politicized prisoner. That makes him an effective method of access and communication to the outside world. And that makes him someone worth protecting even on top of everything else that may already motivate his fellow prisoners to look out for him.

Basically: I'm not sure if the fade specifically is that message (although several former inmates/inmate activists online have disclosed they believe it IS), but it's clear that message is being communicated intentionally all the same.

I do think it's particularly interesting to me that people may have been imagining a world in which it would ever be realistic for prisoners to assault or harm Mangione. Regardless of HOW they communicated it, this message of solidarity from prisoners is both expected by anyone involved in prison resistance, and was practically announced to the whole world on live news by the detainees in Mangione's facility some time ago

"Luigi's conditions suck" is a very clear intro to "and we're angry enough about it to make sure the whole world can hear us"

If anyone is finding themselves surprised by these ideas or curious to understand better why people are talking about this and why they're making the assertions they do, I highly recommend reading some examples of prison letters and texts written by historic political prisoners and civil rights leaders. Letter from a Birmingham Jail is one of the most famous of these, but there are TONS and they're really fascinating insights into the complex community organizing of prison resistance. Angela Davis wrote prolifically in prison, including her work "If They Come in the Morning" and others. The Marshall Project also receives and directs letters from prisoners by the thousands and have collected some of the themes in the writing they receive from every day prisoners here, you'll find a lot of overlap.

Former prisoners & COs reveal that Luigi's new look was likely done by fellow inmates & is a symbol to show that they support & protect him.🥺🥺 ❤️ Huge blow to all the haters who for weeks have been fantasizing about Luigi getting assaulted in prison. lol

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

One of the things that gets me about Bells Hells unilaterally deciding to reorder the world based on what they think is the best third option (and for the sake of argument right now let's assume it actually is) of having the gods turn mortal to hide from Predathos, is I don't have any confidence that most of the party is going to be willing to knuckle down and do with the work of dealing with the political specifics of mortal gods. How will religious institutions handle this in the day to day? How will we deal with the fact that the Betrayers are now going to be on the mortal side of the Divine Gate with armies at their command? How are we going to manage the practicals of constantly reincarnating mortal gods?

Bells Hells are notorious as an adventuring party for constantly dragging their feet about actually going to go save the world, with Laudna in particular constantly fielding the idea that they could just ripcord out at any time and leave this all behind. With the threat passed, would she be willing to stick around and help deal with the particulars? Imogen seems like she would be willing to work on these things, and indeed would have to as the Vessel, but she would be doing it, as she has all campaign, with Laudna whispering in her ear that she could just leave it all behind to go live in a cabin in the woods if she doesn't like the pressure. How long could her resolve hold out, especially since she is also restraining the god-eater? Would Ashton, a nihilistic punk who didn't believe they'd live this long have enough vision for the future to help sketch it out once things have burned? Would Fearne, who just wants to explore the Material Plane and have fun with her friends, be able to deal with the monotony of politics? Would Chetney, who is most interested in creating a legacy through his craft, be willing to give up spending whatever remaining time he has honing it to manage institutions?

Honestly, of Bells Hells, I can only see Braius, Orym, and (due to some personal breakthroughs he made last episode) Dorian actually willingly taking up a role in the managing of a reorganized world. Braius, devoted as he is to Asmodeus, would probably take it upon himself to help his lord adjust to mortality and continue expressing his will on the Mortal Plane. Orym is dutiful, incredibly so, and since he started all this he would see it through, whatever that demanded of him. And Dorian, having recently reconciled himself with the fact that he is royalty, and that with Cyrus's death leadership will be demanded of him, will have to tend to the people of the Silken Squall, especially since the Squall's representation in the Exandrian Accord indicates it's going to be less isolationist going forward than it once was. These three I can see doing the work, but they're also a minority of the party, the others seem like they'd set the gods up as mortals, and then just leave it at that. Even though that is just step one of making a new Exandria.

[rootedinrevisions]

Shattered and Rebuilt

SUMMARY: After a week of poor decisions drifts you and Tyler apart, a life-threatening tornado brings you and Tyler face to face with your deepest fears. Amidst the wreckage of the storm, you discover the vulnerability and love you've been hiding from each other. As you navigate jealousy, insecurity, and past mistakes, you must find a way to rebuild what was almost lost and redefine what it means to be truly vulnerable with each other.

A/N: Thank you so much to @imagine-all-the-fandoms for sending this request in! I know you sent it back in November, and I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get it posted. I wrote this and then kept adding more and more to it because I kept coming up with new ideas or ways to develop the story even further. Hopefully you enjoy it! xx

WORD COUNT: 11.9k

TAGS: In Comments.

The hum of Tyler’s red Dodge pickup truck filled the air as the tires crunched over gravel, signaling your arrival at the roadside gast station. Out the window, Oklahoma stretched endlessly, a patchwork of flat fields and distant clouds that carried a whisper of the chaos you were chasing this week.

A “Once in a Lifetime Tornado Outbreak” they had called it. And as soon as Tyler got wind of it, you and the rest of the team were loading up the gear and making your way from Arkansas to Oklahoma.

“All right,” Tyler announced, his voice warm but laced with a slight hint of his usual no-nonsense drawl. “Gas stop. Grab whatever you need ‘cause after this, we’re not stoppin’.”

From your spot in the backseat, you stretched, bumping into Ben, the South London journalist currently occupying your personal space as you were squished between him and some of the gear Tyler kept in the backseat. He shifted awkwardly with an apologetic smile.

"Quite the operation you’ve got here," Ben said, his crisp accent standing out like a sore thumb in this dusty corner of America. "I imagine this stop isn’t just about petrol, though. Snacks are the real fuel, yeah?"

Boone, in the passenger seat, barked out a laugh and twisted around to face us. "Damn straight, mate. Tyler’s got a thing for gas station jerky. Won’t admit it, but he eats that stuff like it’s gourmet."

Tyler shot Boone a glare that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, and you’re one to talk with your armful of chocolate donuts every time we stop. Besides,"—his gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror, locking with yours for just a second too long—"some people come outta these places with enough candy to stock a piñata."

You smirked, leaning forward between the seats so your chin rested on the back of Tyler's shoulder. "Are you saying you have a problem with my impeccable snack choices, Owens?"

He didn’t look at you, but you didn’t miss the twitch of his lips. "Didn’t say that. Just pointin’ out that your ‘impeccable choices’ mean sticky fingers all over my truck."

"Like jerky grease is any better?" You shot back, raising a brow.

Boone groaned, pulling a ball cap down over his face. "Here we go again."

Ben leaned over, amused. "This feels like foreplay, doesn’t it?"

"Ben!" I shot him a look, feeling heat crawl up my neck, but Tyler, ever unflappable, simply chuckled as he parked by the gas pump.

"Y’all are hopeless," Tyler said, pushing open his door. He turned to you, one boot on the pavement and an easy grin playing on his lips. "You comin’, or are you too busy defendin’ your snack habits to stretch your legs?"

"Depends," You said, hopping out of the truck and closing the door with a satisfying slam. "You gonna buy me a drink, or are you just here to trash talk my love of Skittles?"

His eyes glinted under the brim of his weathered Stetson. "That depends. You gonna keep makin’ me regret lettin’ you in my truck, or you finally gonna admit you’d be bored if you rode with Lily?"

You rolled your eyes, tossing Tyler a glance over your shoulder as you headed toward the gas station with Boone, Lily, Dexter, and Dani in tow. "If I admit it, you’ll never let me live it down. And we can’t have that."

Tyler’s laughter followed you as the glass doors of the gas station swung shut behind you, the cool air blasting away the lingering warmth of the Oklahoma sun. The gas station smelled like cheap coffee and cleaning supplies, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. 

You stood in the candy aisle, staring at the two options of brightly colored Skittles packets as if your life depended on the choice between regular and sour.

"Regular or sour," You muttered under your breath, weighing the pros and cons as if this wasn’t a completely ridiculous debate. Regular was classic, reliable—always good. Sour was bold, unexpected, a little more fun. Your fingers hovered between the two when a glimpse of movement outside the window caught your attention.

You glanced over the top of the shelf, peering out into the midday sun, where Tyler’s familiar figure was strolling across the grassy lot. Your brow furrowed slightly as you followed his path to…her. 

She was standing just off to the side of the gas station, her light hair pulled up with a claw clip swaying in the breeze as she gazed out at the horizon. She was new. Or at least you assumed since you’d never seen her. She was apparently tagging along with Storm Par for the week, and while you didn’t know much about her, she seemed okay.

Tyler reached her, and you watched as she turned to him as he said something. He gestured out toward the horizon, his hands moving as he spoke, probably talking about something weather-related.

That was just Tyler—always the helpful one. Always looking out for everyone, wanting to make them feel welcome.

That’s all it was, you told myself. Just him being his usual kind, good-natured self. But then he gave her that smirk. The one that was all effortless charm and made you feel like you were the only person in the world he cared to talk to.

A strange pang stirred in your chest, sharp and sudden, and you quickly looked away.

It’s nothing. You grabbed the bag of regular Skittles off the shelf, hesitated, and grabbed the sour ones too. He’s allowed to talk to whoever he wants. He’s even allowed to flirt with whoever he wants.

Still, the pang lingered as you made your way toward the checkout. Passing the jerky section, you paused, scanning the shelves until you  found it—Tyler’s favorite brand and flavor. Without thinking, you grabbed two bags and tucked them under your arm.

At the drink cooler, you slid open the glass door and grabbed two bottles of his usual drink. It was an easy rhythm, something you’d done countless times without a second thought. He’d grumble and tease you about spoiling him, but you always noticed how he’d crack a smile and finish every bite and sip.

By the time you reached the register, your arms were full. Skittles for you, jerky and drinks for Tyler.

You dumped the lot onto the counter, pulling a crumpled twenty out of your pocket as the cashier scanned the items. You focused intently on the cashier’s polite small talk, anything to keep from glancing out the window again.

Because you didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling myself.

* * *

The motel’s neon vacancy sign buzzed faintly in the warm night air later that day, casting a faint red glow across the gravel lot where the storm-chasing teams had gathered. Most of the trucks were parked in a line, their roof racks empty, and gear scattered across the lot as repairs and tune-ups were underway.

The hum of your laptop filled the air as you and Dani hunched over the screen. The numbers were staggering.

“Nearly fifty thousand people at one time,” Dani said, leaning closer to the screen. She looked at you with wide eyes and a grin. “This is huge. One of our biggest streams yet.”

“Yeah, we did it,” Boone said from the doorway, his arms crossed as he leaned against the frame.

“Now we gotta figure out how to top it,” Dani smirked, nudging your shoulder. She glanced at you slyly. “Maybe we should give the viewers more of you and Tyler. That always gets people talking.”

You rolled your eyes, though your face heated at the comment. Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the chatter outside.

“City girl.”

The nickname made your head snap up. You turned toward the roof of the truck, seeing Tyler perched, his hands still fiddling with a piece of equipment as he looked up toward the staircase.

Your gaze followed his line of sight to see Kate— that was her name—standing on the landing of the second-floor staircase. She leaned casually against the railing, looking down at Tyler with a faint, curious smile.

“The cells to the west will choke each other out, she said. The one to the east will put on a show,” Tyler recited, his tone laced with amusement.

“Didn’t throw you off the scent,” Kate replied smoothly, her expression unreadable.

“Hey, that’s what makes Tyler famous,” Boone chimed in, grinning as he wiped his hands on a rag.

“You mean on YouTube?” Kate raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in a barely-there smirk.

Tyler froze for a second, glancing up from the equipment in his hands, and you could almost see the flash of slight irritation in his eyes. He hated when people reduced what he did to just being about clout.

“Uh, y-yeah. Yeah, we’re on the YouTube,” he said, trying to recover with his usual confidence. “We’ve got, what, about a million subscribers now?”

“Yes, sir!” Lily called from across the lot, her voice cheerful as the rest of the group laughed.

“Kate what?” Ben interrupted, scribbling furiously in his notepad. He glanced up at her, pen poised. “Your surname, just in case I include you in my piece.”

Kate hesitated, her posture shifting slightly as if the question made her uncomfortable. “Oh, um, just Kate’s fine,” she said finally.

“She’s a tricky one,” Tyler said, his voice light but teasing.

Boone pointed his finger toward Kate, grinning. “Actually, you made a good call earlier. That eastern cell? It looked stronger, but the cap never broke. You nailed it.”

“Where did you guys all meet?” Kate asked, quickly steering the conversation away from herself. “Did you, uh, study meteorology at the U of A?”

A chorus of laughter erupted from the group. Dani shook her head, Lily and Dexter chuckled, and you stifled a smile.

“No, no,” Boone said, raising a hand. “All right, Kate, me? I just flow with the wind, you know? Never went to, like, school or nothing.” He pointed toward Tyler. “Now, Tyler, though—he studied meteorology.”

“Him?” Kate asked, her tone incredulous as she looked at Tyler.

Tyler simply nodded, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, he’s a cowboy scientist,” Boone continued. “He’s got this natural instinct. Taught me everything I know—”

“Boone,” Tyler interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut Boone off before he said too much. Boone just shrugged. “Our crew’s not like your crew, Kate. We don’t need PhDs and fancy gadgets to do what we do. I guarantee you these guys have seen more tornadoes than anyone else in this lot combined.”

“Is that right?” Kate said, her tone thick with skepticism.

Tyler leaned back against his truck, lifting a can of Budweiser to his lips. “But if you can keep up, we’ll put you in the episode,” he said with a smirk before taking a slow sip.

“Wow,” Kate replied dryly, her sarcasm thick.

“Where are you chasing tomorrow?” Lily asked, looking up at Kate.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Tyler said, cutting in before Kate could answer. “Not falling for that again. Kate’s from New York. Can’t trust a thing she says.”

Kate shot back without missing a beat. “Well, can always trust a guy who puts his face on a T-shirt.”

The group erupted into laughter, and you glanced over at Tyler, catching the way he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek in response to her quick jab.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he’s flustered, you thought, shaking your head. You couldn’t believe he was letting her get to him like this.

* * *

THE NEXT EVENING

The team returned to the motel just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The exhaustion from the day’s chaos was written all over everyone’s faces. After hours of chasing storms, and helping devastated families sift through the rubble of their lives, the weight of it hung heavy in the air. But there was a collective unspoken agreement—you needed to decompress before the next round.

Boone stretched his arms overhead as he leaned against the truck, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Alright, I don’t know about y’all, but I need a drink. There’s a bar down the road that looked promising. Who’s in?”

Dani perked up immediately. “Count me in. I could use a little fun after today.”

Dexter didn’t even hesitate. “I’m game.”

Ben nodded, brushing dust off his shirt. “Sounds nice.”

You glanced at Tyler, who stood off to the side, wiping his hands on a rag after finishing some last-minute adjustments to the equipment. “What about you, Ty? You coming?”

He paused, tossing the rag onto the tailgate before meeting your gaze. “Think I’m gonna sit this one out. Got some old friends from the rodeo circuit in town. Thought I’d swing by and catch up.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, crossing your arms. “You can’t leave me with these guys.” You gestured toward Boone, Dani, Lily, Ben and Dexter, who were already debating what drink to start with. “And besides who’s going to make sure I don’t get into trouble?”

Tyler chuckled, his smile easy but firm. “You’ll be fine. Besides,” he said, pointing a finger at Boone and Dani, “if anyone’s gonna get into trouble, it’s those two.”

You hesitated for a second, then ventured, “I could come with you instead. I don’t mind skipping the bar.”

He shook his head, a soft look in his eyes as he leaned against the truck. “Nah, you go have fun. You earned it.” He smirked. “Just don’t go using my credit card this time. Pay for your own drinks, sweetheart.”

Boone let out a loud laugh. “You hear that, sweetheart? Daddy Tyler says no spending his hard-earned YouTube money!”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you shot back, rolling your eyes as Tyler fought to hide his grin.

“Seriously, though,” Tyler said, his tone lighter but still genuine, “go unwind. You guys deserve it after today. I’ll catch up with y’all later.”

With that, he grabbed his hat off the dash and settled it onto his head, giving you one last nod before heading off in his truck. You watched him for a moment as he drove away, the familiar rumble of his engine fading into the night.

“Well,” Boone said, clapping his hands together, “guess it’s just us. Let’s go get a drink.”

You followed the others down the road, but your thoughts lingered on Tyler. Something about the way he’d brushed off your offer to join him left a strange feeling in your chest.

Shaking it off, you decided to focus on the night ahead—Tyler could handle himself, and so could you.

The bar was alive with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and a live band playing a familiar country tune in the corner. Boone and Dexter were deep into a game of darts while Dani and Ben sat at the bar debating their drink choices. You sipped your second drink of the night, enjoying the rare chance to unwind after the chaos of the day.

Just as you started to relax, your phone buzzed on the table. At first, you ignored it, assuming it was some random notification, but the persistent buzz caught your attention. Picking it up, you saw the words that sent a chill through your veins: Tornado Warning: Seek Shelter Immediately.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you quickly opened your weather app. Your fingers moved on autopilot, pulling up the radar. The ominous red box of the warning covered the area around the motel, and the storm cell you saw forming earlier had grown stronger—far stronger.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered, your eyes locking on the radar.

The tornado wasn’t just nearby. It was forming right over the motel and the rodeo.

The others noticed your sudden change in demeanor. “What’s up?” Boone asked, stepping closer as he wiped his hands on his shorts.

“There’s a tornado warning,” you said, your voice tight. “It’s right over the motel—where Tyler is.”

Boone’s face went pale. “Are you sure?”

You spun the screen around to show him. The rotating cell was unmistakable, its path heading straight for where Tyler and the equipment were. “We have to go. Now.”

Ben stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket. “Is it normal for one to form that fast like that?”

Dani shook her head and grabbed her phone, already calling Tyler, but the call went straight to voicemail.

“He’s not picking up,” she said, her voice edged with panic.

You grabbed your keys, adrenaline surging as you bolted toward the exit. “We can’t wait. We need to get to him and warn him before it touches down.”

The group rushed outside, the once-clear night now eerily still. The wind had picked up, and the air carried that unmistakable electric charge that came before a storm. Clouds swirled above, illuminated by flashes of lightning.

As you all piled into Boone’s van, your hands shook, not just from fear but from the overwhelming thought of Tyler being caught in the middle of it. You could only hope he’d noticed the signs in time to take cover, but with the storm forming so quickly, the chances felt slim.

Just minutes later the van screeched to a halt in front of the motel, and all you could do was stare at the scene before you. The motel looked like a warzone. The roof had caved in on one side, chunks of debris littering the parking lot. A power line was down, sparking dangerously near the edge of the lot. The neon motel sign flickered weakly, barely clinging to life.

Your breath caught when you saw Tyler’s truck. The hood and windshield were buried under a pile of rubble. But it was there.

He’s here.

Without waiting for the others, you threw the door open and bolted out into the night. Boone’s voice called after you, but it was muffled by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Tyler! Tyler!” you shouted, your voice cracking as you scanned the wreckage. You tripped over a piece of broken siding but barely noticed, your eyes darting frantically through the chaos. “Tyler!”

And then, through the haze of rain and debris, you saw movement by the pool. A figure emerged, soaked to the bone and covered in dirt, but unmistakably him.

Tyler.

Your feet moved on instinct, the world around you a blur as you sprinted toward him, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Each step felt impossibly long, the distance between you and him stretching endlessly even as you pushed yourself harder. The rain soaked through your clothes, stinging your skin as debris crunched beneath your feet, but none of it mattered. All you could see was him, standing there, alive.

When you reached him, you didn’t slow down. Your body collided with his, and your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, clinging to him with everything you had. It was as if letting go would make him vanish, as if the storm might take him from you after all.

“Tyler,” you choked out, your voice thick with relief and fear. Your fingers dug into his soaked shirt, gripping it like it was your lifeline.

His arms came around you immediately, strong and steady, pulling you against him with a quiet desperation. You could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the chill of his wet clothes, the solid reassurance of his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands splayed across your back, holding you tightly, as though he needed the contact as much as you did.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the tremor in it. His breath was warm against your temple as he pressed his cheek to your head, his lips grazing your hair. “I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m fine. I promise.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face against his neck, the faint scent of rain and dirt clinging to him. “I thought—” Your words caught in your throat, a sob threatening to break free. “I thought I lost you.”

He pulled you even closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You didn’t,” he said softly, his voice firm and steady now, as if willing you to believe it. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

The strength in his embrace felt like a shield against everything—the storm, the fear, the chaos. In that moment, nothing else existed. It was just you and him, the rest of the world fading into a dull hum.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still clutching his arms. His green eyes met yours, and you saw a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and something deeper—something unspoken but unmistakable. Rain dripped from his hair, streaking down his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His focus was entirely on you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His hands stayed on you, one at your waist, the other brushing lightly against your shoulder. The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions too raw to name.

Then a voice broke through the moment. “Kate! Are you okay?” Dani called out, her voice carrying across the rubble.

You turned your head, and your stomach dropped. There, climbing out of the pool behind Tyler, was Kate. She was just as soaked, her hair plastered to her face, and she looked shaken but unharmed. Behind her, a mother and her young daughter emerged as well, both clutching each other tightly.

Your chest tightened. Kate was with him?

You looked back at Tyler, and something flickered in his expression—relief, maybe, or concern. You couldn’t tell.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.

“I’ll explain later,” he said, his tone even but weary. His arms loosened around you, and he took a small step back, his gaze shifting briefly to Kate and the others.

You felt Boone’s hand on your shoulder as he and the others caught up. Dani and Lily rushed to check on Kate and the mother and daughter, their voices buzzing with questions.

But you couldn’t focus on them. Your eyes stayed on Tyler, searching his face for something—an answer, an explanation, anything to quiet the unease now gnawing at you.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING

The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, a pale glow stretching across the room and nudging you awake. The sound of your phone buzzing on the nightstand pulled you the rest of the way from sleep. With a groggy groan, you rolled over and grabbed it, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

It was a text in the group chat, from Tyler.

“Not looking like an active day for storms. You guys take the day off, relax a little. I’ll be back later—gotta go do something.”

You stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times. There were no details, no clues about where he was going or what he needed to do. Just that vague statement—gotta go do something. It was so typically Tyler, giving just enough information to let you know he’d be fine, but not enough to satisfy your curiosity.

A faint pang of unease settled in your chest. After everything that had happened yesterday, you weren’t sure you liked the idea of him heading off on his own, even if the radar was clear. But Tyler wasn’t the type to sit still when something was on his mind.

The group chat pinged again. Boone was the first to respond. “Copy that. Holler if you need backup.”

Dani chimed in next. “What’s the plan for later? We still grilling? Going into town? Let us know!”

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of you wanted to ask Tyler where he was going, but you stopped yourself. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.

Instead, you sent a quick reply. “Okay. Be safe, Tyler.”

The unease didn’t fade as you set your phone back down and stared at the ceiling. You couldn’t help but wonder what it was he needed to do—and why he felt like he had to do it alone.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY

The next afternoon, you still hadn’t heard from Tyler. His silence gnawed at you more than you cared to admit. You told yourself he was fine—that if something had gone wrong, someone would have heard about it by now. But that didn’t stop your mind from replaying yesterday’s text or the way he’d disappeared without a word.

When your phone lit up with his name, your stomach did a little flip. For a second, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen. You wanted to answer. You wanted to hear his voice, to ask him where he’d been and what the hell he’d been doing for the past day and a half. But you didn’t.

With a frustrated sigh, you let the call go to voicemail and tossed your phone onto the bed.

Boone raised an eyebrow from where he was sitting across the room, scrolling through weather models. “Was that Tyler?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

You shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “He disappeared for a day and a half without telling anyone. He can wait a little longer.”

Boone didn’t push it, but the look he gave you said he didn’t quite buy your indifference.

It wasn’t long after that when Lily’s phone started ringing. She glanced at the screen, then at you. “It’s Tyler.”

Your stomach twisted as she answered, putting him on speaker.

“Tyler?” she said.

“Hey, Lil,” came his familiar voice, sounding calm and easy, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “I need your help with something.”

“Where are you?” Lily asked, her tone more concerned than yours had been.

“I’m a few hours away. We’re headed to a trailer dealership outside of town. I’ll send you the address.”

There was a pause as Lily glanced at you, her eyebrows raised. Boone leaned forward, curious.

“What are you doing at a trailer dealership?” Lily asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“I’ll explain when you get here,” Tyler said, his tone giving nothing away. “Can you come?”

Lily sighed and looked to you, Boone, and the others for input. When you didn’t say anything, Boone nodded. “We’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’ll text you the address.”

When the call ended, Lily turned to you. “So, are we going?”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. As annoyed as you were with him, you couldn’t ignore the slight urgency in his voice—or the curiosity bubbling up inside you.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “Let’s go see what this is about.”

The team pulled into the dealership parking lot, the mid-afternoon sun glaring off the rows of shiny new trailers. Your stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and apprehension as Boone parked the van.

“Is that… Kate?” Lily said, squinting toward the far side of the lot.

You followed her gaze, and sure enough, there she was—climbing out of Tyler’s truck. Your breath hitched. Tyler was already walking around to meet her, his familiar, easy smile plastered on his face as they exchanged a few words.

Boone let out a low whistle, smirking as he glanced over at you. “Well, well, well. Looks like Kate’s the new partner-in-crime.”

“Relax,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” Dani chimed in, her tone teasing as she leaned over the seat to get a better look. “Because it kinda seems like it is.”

“Guys, come on,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing despite your best efforts.

“You’re totally jealous,” Boone added with a grin.

“I’m not jealous,” you shot back, maybe a little too quickly. 

Boone and Dani exchanged knowing looks, but you ignored them, crossing your arms as you watched Tyler and Kate make their way over.

When Tyler reached you, his expression softened, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

“Hey,” you replied, your tone guarded as you shoved your hands into your pockets.

“I’m sorry for disappearing yesterday,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly. “I should’ve told you where I was going.”

You shrugged, forcing a small smile. “It’s fine. I wasn’t upset.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering like he didn’t quite believe you. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, looking away. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. Not really. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. It was the sting of realizing you didn’t mean as much to him as you thought you did. You’d always assumed the team was more than just a group of storm chasers to Tyler, that you were family. His silence, his absence, had left a hollow ache in your chest that you couldn’t quite shake.

Tyler didn’t press the issue, but the way his lips pressed into a thin line told you he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“So,” Boone said, breaking the tension as he stepped forward, clapping Tyler on the shoulder. “What’s with the trailer dealership?”

A grin spread across Tyler’s face, his previous seriousness melting away.

“Follow me,” he said, motioning for you all to follow him.

As the group trailed behind, you couldn’t help but glance back at Kate. She was chatting with Lily about the drone, her smile bright and easy, and you hated the way it made your chest tighten. Shaking your head, you focused on Tyler, determined not to let your insecurities get the best of you.

The energy in the group shifted after Tyler and Kate’s arrival at the dealership. While everyone seemed excited about the new trailer and the possibilities Kate’s glorified science experiment brought, you couldn’t shake the knot in your chest. The idea of Kate tagging along, so comfortable around Tyler, and his seeming indifference to the team yesterday had left you feeling off-kilter.

You stayed back, letting the others crowd around Tyler and pepper him with questions about Kate’s experiment. You only half-listened, nodding absently when someone directed a comment your way. 

Tyler glanced at you a few times, his eyes narrowing in quiet concern, but you avoided his gaze, pretending to be preoccupied with your phone or the horizon.

The drive back to regroup was tense in your own head. When Boone brought up seating arrangments now that Kate was traveling with the team, you quickly volunteered to ride with Lily in the van.

“Whoa, breaking tradition?” Boone teased as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You always ride with Tyler.”

“I figured she could use some company for once,” you said lightly, keeping your tone casual even as you avoided Dani’s raised brow.

Tyler didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you from across the parking lot as you climbed into the van.

The day unfolded like a blur. The forecast showed a massive storm system moving in, with conditions that could easily spawn tornadoes. There wasn’t much time for idle chatter as everyone scrambled to prep equipment and finalize routes. You busied yourself with anything that kept you moving, anything that didn’t involve standing still long enough for Tyler to corner you with questions.

He tried a couple of times, calling your name softly as you passed, but you brushed him off with hurried excuses. “Sorry, I need to grab this,” or “Let me double-check the radar first.”

Tyler wasn’t one to push, but the way his jaw tightened each time you slipped away told you he noticed.

By the time the team split into vehicles to chase the storm, the air was thick with tension—not just from the impending weather, but from whatever had shifted between you and Tyler.

“You sure you don’t want to switch back?” Boone asked as you climbed into the passenger seat of the van.

“I’m good,” you said, forcing a smile.

From the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of Tyler in his truck. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

The storm loomed dark on the horizon, a swirling mass of gray and green that promised chaos. You focused on the task at hand, pushing everything else to the back of your mind. Whatever conversation Tyler wanted to have would have to wait—assuming he still wanted to have it after today.

The storm had reached its peak intensity, and you were well aware of it. The air was thick with tension, but it wasn’t just from the storm—it was from everything that had been building between you and Tyler over the past days. But that was all drowned out by the noise of the wind, the clattering of debris, and the sound of the storm tearing through the world around you.

The team had done everything they could to guide people to shelter. You were now in the theater with the others, feeling the tremors of the wind pushing against the walls, the heavy sounds of destruction that seemed to grow louder by the second. It was chaos—people crying out, the wailing of the sirens, and the unrelenting storm closing in fast.

You’d just seen Tyler heading toward Kate, and the pang in your chest was sharper than before, but before you could even process it, the ceiling above you gave way. A deafening crash followed by an intense, blinding flash of debris. The next thing you knew, you were on the floor, trapped beneath the wreckage. The weight of it made it hard to breathe, and panic set in as you struggled to move, only to realize you were pinned down.

"Tyler!" you screamed out, his name being the first thing that came to your brain. But you barely heard your own voice over the wind outside was deafening, the sound of the tornado ripping apart everything in its path—closer now, just outside the building. You knew he probably wouldn't hear you.

The world around you felt like it was collapsing, and the reality of it hit hard. This wasn’t a close call. You were in the storm’s path, and you had no idea if you’d make it out. Your chest tightened as you cried, helpless.

You were terrified—scared out of your mind—and the thought that this was how your life would end, trapped here under rubble with nothing you could do, made you feel utterly alone.

Then you felt a hand. His hand. You knew it without having to look. His strong, warm hand took yours, and everything in you instantly calmed just a fraction. 

“Tyler, please—go find something to hold onto!” you managed to shout.

Tyler’s voice, loud but distant, called out to you through the noise, his words a lifeline. “I’m not leaving you.”

The wind howled, tearing through the air with force, and the walls of the theater groaned. But Tyler’s grip never wavered, his hand wrapping tighter around yours, holding you in place. His other hand reached out and wrapped around the metal chair leg next to you, anchoring himself as best as he could to something solid, something that could keep you both from being swept away.

You closed your eyes and tried to steady your breathing. The storm was closing in, its fury pressing down on the entire town, and you knew that at any moment it could sweep through the building and tear you apart.

It was a sickening feeling—waiting, knowing that every second might be your last. But as you lay there, thoughts of what could have been surged inside you. All the things you’d never get to do with Tyler, all the feelings you’d never be able to express if this was truly the end of your life. You saw flashes of what a life together might have looked like: a first date that you’d spent months fantasizing about, a wedding, a family. You’d never even gotten the chance to tell him how you felt.

And then, in the quietest moment, you turned your head toward him. His face was intense, focused, trying to keep you safe. You locked eyes, and you knew—this was your moment, even if it seemed impossible.

“I love you!” you screamed, your voice cracking with emotion.

But the wind was too loud, the storm too ferocious. He couldn’t hear you over the chaos. He glanced back at you, his brow furrowed. “What?” he yelled back, his face a mask of confusion.

You shook your head, frustrated, heart pounding, but there was no use in trying to say it again. The storm was too loud, and you could barely catch your breath.

But at least you said it. Even if it was in the middle of this madness, even if he couldn’t hear you. You said it. And that was enough.

You squeezed his hand harder, letting the feeling of it fill you. You were scared, yes, but you weren’t alone anymore. Tyler was there. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to get you through. Or at least let you die in peace knowing that the one person you loved most was with you when you took your last breath.

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake. The deafening roar of the wind disappeared, and for a moment, the world felt still—too still after everything. You blinked, disoriented, the faint ringing in your ears slowly fading, and then the reality of the situation set in. Boone and Dexter were kneeling beside you, their voices sounding distant at first, then clearer as they checked on you.

"Are you okay?" Boone's voice was sharp, urgent, but also full of concern.

You tried to speak, but your throat was raw. Instead, you muttered Tyler’s name, your breath coming in shallow gasps. His hand—his warmth—was gone. And that instant panic surged again. You reached for where his hand had been, but the space was empty. You looked around, your eyes darting, searching for him.

“T-Tyler. Is he—?” Your heart skipped, the thought barely finished before it threatened to break you. Were you alone again? Had you been abandoned in this moment of chaos?

Boone and Dexter exchanged a quick glance before assuring you, "He’s fine. He’s okay." They both turned their heads to glance at Tyler, who was standing at the front of the theater, his body tense, scanning the room as if looking for something—or someone.

You felt your pulse calm just slightly. He was alive, and that was something. But then, the silence between the men and you stretched long, and your chest tightened again. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the weight of the last few minutes of your life flashing before you.

But as they started to help remove the debris from you, trying to free you from the mess of broken wood and metal, you couldn’t help but watch Tyler.

For a second, you held on to the hope that he’d come over, that he would check on you. You had been through hell together in the last few minutes. You thought, maybe, just maybe, he’d come running to you now, just like he did during the storm. You waited, your body aching, heart racing, trying to ignore the pain as you glanced over at him, your chest tight with anticipation.

But that hope shattered as soon as you saw him climb onto the stage, his attention locked outside, and without a glance in your direction, he bolted for the exit. Your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. He didn’t even hesitate, not even for a second. He and Javi rushed out, their voices barely audible as they called for Kate, their shouts cutting through the stillness.

The silence in the theater felt deafening, and it echoed in your head as your world seemed to spin. In that moment, it hit you like a punch to the gut. Tyler hadn’t even looked back at you before running to her. All the things you thought you had between you, all the moments you’d shared that made you believe you were more than just a passing person in his life… none of it seemed to matter.

Tyler was gone, running after someone else.

Your vision blurred, your knees buckled, and your body felt weightless as everything you’d been holding back came crashing down. A sob broke free from your chest, a sound so raw and painful that it felt like it was tearing you apart. You couldn’t even catch your breath before your legs gave way entirely.

Before you hit the ground, Boone’s arms were there, catching you. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his grip strong around your shoulders. But his words were drowned out by the sound of your heart shattering.

It felt like the world had closed in around you, like you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All you could do was fall, over and over again. You wished, for just a moment, that Tyler would have come to you. But it was too late now.

And as Boone gently helped you back up, you couldn’t shake the feeling that a piece of you had just been lost forever.

* * *

The paramedic’s voice was a soft hum in the background, but all you could focus on was the sharp ache in your chest. They had checked your vitals—pulse, blood pressure, everything. You had a slight concussion, they said, but nothing too serious. Some cuts, bruises, and a few scratches, nothing compared to what could have happened. You nodded along with the questions, but your mind was elsewhere, and your gaze kept flickering to the ambulance beside you.

Kate was on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, and Tyler stood beside her, speaking in a calm tone to the paramedic who was tending to the cut on her head. He was focused on her—his attention so completely on her that it felt like the world around you shrank. Your heart fell, almost as if it were being dragged down into your stomach.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, the ache inside growing stronger with every passing second. The images from the past few days started to replay in your mind. Tyler, always by her side. The way he complimented her ideas, how he seemed to listen to her like he had no other cares in the world. How he just... dropped everything to help her, as if she were the only one who mattered.

And now, even after everything—after the storm, after the danger he’d been in right alongside you—here he was, tending to her. He hadn't even come to check on you.

It felt like the last little thread that had been holding you together snapped.

You looked down at your hands, fingers trembling as you tried to push the thoughts away. Why does it hurt so much? You had no right to feel jealous or upset. Kate was a part of the team now, and Tyler was always protective of everyone.

But something in you felt like it wasn’t just about the tornado. It was about the way he kept gravitating toward her in a way he never did with you.

It wasn’t just the storm anymore. It wasn’t just the crisis. It was... something more. Something you hadn’t wanted to admit. The realization settled like a stone in your chest. You had cared for him, and you still did. More than you’d let yourself believe, more than you could let go of. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He wasn’t thinking of you when things got complicated. He was looking at Kate, helping her, being there for her, even now.

A wave of bitterness washed over you, but you couldn’t make yourself leave. You didn’t know if you wanted to be near him or as far away as possible, but all you could do was sit there, watching him talk to her as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Lily’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, her tone gentle but full of concern. “Hey, are you okay?” She’s standing nearby, her arms crossed, her eyes searching your face, sensing the distance in your gaze.

You force a small nod, but it’s not enough to convince anyone, not even yourself. You swallow, trying to push down the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little... tired, I guess.”

Dani, who’s standing with Lily, watches you for a beat before speaking up, her voice a little quieter now. “Are you sure? You’ve been through a lot, you don’t have to push yourself.”

You shake your head again, feeling the weight of everything pressing on you—everything you’d been ignoring. “I think... I think I need a break.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Maybe it’s time I head home. Take a step back from everything. Sit the next few chases out, you know? Take a few weeks off...maybe longer even.”

Lily exchanges a look with Dani, but they both nod, understanding. It’s not like they hadn’t noticed how distant you’d been, how quiet you’d grown since the storm.

Dani gives your shoulder a light squeeze, trying to offer comfort without pushing too hard. “You do what you need to do,” she says softly. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”

Before you can respond, you hear Tyler’s voice from behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the way his footsteps slow as he approaches, the weight of his presence so familiar it almost hurts. “Hey, can we talk for a minute?”

Your chest tightens. You want to look at him, to tell him everything that’s been swirling around inside you since the storm. But all you can do is shake your head. “I’m really tired, Tyler. I think I’m just going to head back to the motel. You should stay with Kate. Make sure she’s okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

His eyes lock onto you, the regret and confusion in them almost enough to make you change your mind. Almost. But you can’t do it. You can’t have that conversation with him now, not when it feels like everything is unraveling at once.

Tyler opens his mouth to say something, but then stops himself. He takes a breath, clearly fighting the urge to press, to make you listen to him. Instead, his shoulders slump slightly, and he nods, his voice quieter now. “Okay... I’ll... I’ll check in on you later.”

You force yourself to look at him, your heart aching as you meet his gaze. There’s so much you want to say, but all that comes out is a soft, “Thanks.”

You turn away before you can see his reaction, before you can see the disappointment or confusion written across his face. You walk toward the back of the ambulance, the air around you feeling heavier with each step. You know this is what you need, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Tyler doesn’t chase you this time. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Tyler watches you retreat into the distance, his heart heavy, something gnawing at him that he can’t quite put into words. He exhales sharply, his mind racing, but he tries to push it aside for the moment, turning toward Lily and Dani, who are still standing a few feet away.

“Is she okay?” Tyler asks, trying to mask the tension in his voice, but the question falls flat. His eyes shift between the two of them, but neither of them meet his gaze immediately.

Lily sighs, crossing her arms, her expression a little more intense than usual. "Are you really asking that, Tyler?" she says, her tone laced with a mix of frustration and concern. "You’ve been... oblivious, man. It's clear what’s going on. You’ve been hurting her.”

Dani steps forward, her brow furrowed. "You think she’s just fine? After everything she’s been through, and after all this time? She's been into you, Tyler. It’s obvious, and you’ve been... distant. All week."

Tyler’s chest tightens at her words. His stomach sinks with the realization, as if the weight of it all finally lands on him. He looks away, running a hand through his hair, his thoughts running in circles. Distant? Has he really been that blind? His gaze flickers back to where you’d disappeared, and a heavy sigh escapes him.

He thinks back to the past few days, the way he’d been caught up in whatever this thing with Kate had become—just... busy. He hadn’t meant to pull away from you. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how often he’d been preoccupied with her, how often his focus had shifted, and how often he’d ignored you in the process.

And then, his mind flashes back to the theater. To you, trapped and terrified, and how his heart had pounded in his chest just being by your side. He had held your hand, clung to it like his life depended on it. And in that moment, he felt like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. He could still feel the warmth of your touch, the way your hand had fit so perfectly in his, like it was always meant to be that way. He had been so focused on getting through the storm, keeping you safe, that he hadn’t heard you when you shouted, but there was something in the way you looked at him before the wind swallowed everything up. 

Something he didn’t catch then... but he swore he saw your lips move. I love you.

His heart stutters at the thought. He’d read your lips. He’d seen it, and yet... he never said anything, never gave you a chance to tell him in a way that could’ve mattered. The weight of it presses down on him now, his mind spinning with the missed opportunity, and the fear of losing you in ways that don’t have anything to do with storms.

The urgency to fix this suddenly takes over. He can’t let you leave like this. Not without trying, not without giving you something—anything to show that he sees you, that he gets it, that he doesn’t want to let you go without telling you what’s been building inside of him.

"I’ve gotta fix this," he mutters to himself, more to his own conscience than to anyone else. 

Lily nods, her expression softening just slightly. “You’d better. She deserves to know how you feel before you let her slip away.”

Tyler doesn’t need any more encouragement. He starts moving toward the ambulance where you’d gone, his heart beating harder now. He won’t let it end like this. He can’t.

You'd said you'd talk to him tomorrow. But tomorrow isn’t soon enough for Tyler.

* * *

BACK AT THE MOTEL

You stand frozen for a moment, the knock on your door taking you by surprise. You weren't expecting him—weren't sure you even wanted him to show up. But when you peer through the peephole and see Tyler standing there, looking almost apologetic, your chest tightens. The emotions from the past few days swirl around you—hurt, confusion, and a trace of something else you didn’t want to acknowledge: hope.

You stand there for a beat, considering what to do. Should you let him in? You feel a little too vulnerable, too exposed. But then you hear his voice through the door, low and sincere.

“Please, just give me a chance to explain, darlin’.”

Your heart stirs, but your frustration, the pain of feeling ignored, holds you back. You sigh and open the door, mentally preparing yourself to face him.

“Tyler—” you start, your voice tinged with everything you’ve been holding in, but he cuts you off before you can say anything more.

Without warning, he reaches up, his hand gentle but firm as it cups your face. Your breath catches in your throat as his lips meet yours in a kiss that catches you completely off guard. It’s soft at first, hesitant, as if he’s testing the waters, but then, as if something inside of him snaps when you don't pull away, it deepens, becoming urgent, almost desperate.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s pulling you into the room, walking you backward as the door falls shut with a soft thud behind him. The kiss never breaks, and the moment is so intense, so full of emotion, that it takes every bit of your willpower not to melt into him entirely. His hands slide down your back, pressing you closer to him, while your own hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if you need to anchor yourself.

Tyler pulls away just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, his eyes searching yours, full of regret and something more.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been so stupid, so blind to how much I’ve hurt you. But I need you to know... I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You mean more to me than anything else, and I can’t let you leave thinking otherwise.”

You feel his lips brush against your jaw, trailing soft, warm kisses down your neck. Your breath hitches at the sensation, your heart pounding in your chest. The intensity of it all swirls inside of you—the confusion, the hurt, the aching desire to believe him. But there’s a part of you still hesitant, still unsure.

“Tyler…” you breathe, trying to pull back just enough to make eye contact, but he kisses your neck, whispering apologies and promises against your skin. “You’ve hurt me. All week… you’ve been…. I thought—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder. “I know I hurt you, and I never meant to. I’ve been an idiot, and I’m asking for a second chance. A real chance to prove to you how much you mean to me.”

The raw sincerity in his voice, the way his hands hold you as if he’s terrified you’ll slip away, makes your heart flutter despite the ache in your chest. He’s here. Right now, he’s here, trying to make things right.

“I’ve been a fool,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your skin once more. “But I can’t lose you. Please, forgive me. Let me make it right.”

You close your eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over you, feeling the weight of everything between you two in that single breath. You want to believe him. You want to feel what he’s offering, but the fear of getting hurt again lingers.

But in that moment, with him so close, his presence surrounding you, your heart softens just enough to let him in. Your hands slide to the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss—one that’s slow and full of unspoken understanding.

The moment Tyler pulls back just enough to speak, you catch your breath, eyes locked with his as your heart races. His arm slips around your back, pulling you in even closer, his touch possessive but gentle. You feel the heat of his body against yours, the tension between you palpable.

“Jump,” he says, his voice low, urgent.

You hesitate for a brief second, the heat of the moment overwhelming you, but you do as he asks. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you hold on to him tightly. In one fluid motion, he lifts you effortlessly, his grip firm and confident, one hand on your back while the other moves down to your ass, helping to steady you. The way he holds you makes you feel small, protected, and undeniably wanted, and it makes your chest tighten with a mix of desire and something softer, something more vulnerable.

With ease, he carries you across the room, his steps steady as he approaches the bed. As he lays you down gently, you catch your breath again, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room. The weight of everything—the past few days, the uncertainty, the rawness of the moment—it all lingers in the air between you.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you don’t look away. “I’m still mad at you,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your stomach.

Tyler’s gaze softens, and for a second, he doesn’t speak, just studies you with that same intensity that’s been there all along. “I know,” he says, his voice low, sincere.

Before you can respond, he leans back in, his lips capturing yours once again. This time, the kiss is different. It’s not just apologetic or desperate. It’s full of promises—unspoken words, a connection you’ve both been fighting to acknowledge. His lips are warm against yours, and you melt into it, losing yourself in the sensation, the depth of the emotion between you.

His hand moves to your face, brushing back a strand of hair as he deepens the kiss, each movement slow and deliberate. You can feel the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid pressing between you, but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the now, the feeling of his body against yours, the way his hands move with intention, as if he’s trying to make up for everything he’s missed.

As the kiss deepens, Tyler’s hands begin to move with purpose, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slide down your sides, brushing against the soft fabric of your t-shirt. You can feel the heat radiating off of him as his lips leave yours, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss a quiet declaration.

His hands grip the bottom of your shirt, tugging it gently as his lips continue their descent, kissing along your collarbone, and then lower, just above your stomach. You can’t help but gasp softly at the sensation, your breath hitching as his lips move slowly, deliberately, pressing light kisses between the curve of your breasts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against your skin, his voice a low murmur, the words vibrating against your body like a promise. “God, you’re perfect.”

He pushes the fabric higher, inch by inch, his lips following the trail as if memorizing every inch of you. Your skin tingles under the heat of his kisses, and you feel the overwhelming pull of desire tighten in your chest. He moves with a careful, almost reverent pace, as though he’s savoring this moment with you, drawing it out.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathes against your skin, his hands now lifting your shirt higher, his eyes drinking in every curve, every movement of your body as he works it over your head, leaving you bare under his touch.

His lips trail upward, kissing you again—softer this time, but with just as much intensity as before. You feel his warmth, his presence, his need in every touch, every whispered word. His hands move gently over your body, as if reminding you that you’re not just wanted, you’re wanted deeply.

“Every inch of you is perfect,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with the raw sincerity you’ve longed to hear.

You start to undo the buttons on Tyler’s flannel, your fingers brushing against his chest with each movement. His skin feels warm, a contrast to the cold air around you, but you’re too focused on him to notice anything else. His breath hitches slightly when you reach the last button, and he smirks, a playful glint in his eyes as you move your hands to tug it off his shoulders.

The moment the shirt falls to the floor, you reach for the white tank top underneath, eager to see more of him. Tyler leans back slightly, his lips curling into a smirk that melts away any hesitation you might have had. With a smooth motion, he lifts it over his head, revealing his bare torso to you. 

Your eyes immediately follow the muscles that line his chest and stomach, the way his abs ripple slightly with every breath, and the trail of dark hair leading downward.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing over the dusting of hair on his chest. The connection feels electric, and you can’t help but marvel at the feel of him—his warmth, his strength, everything about him drawing you in. Your hands trail down, and you can feel the pulse in your fingertips as they brush the waistband of his jeans. Without hesitation, you reach for his belt, your fingers working quickly to undo it, your heart pounding louder with every moment.

Tyler’s eyes lock onto yours, and he watches you with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter. “You’re killing me, you know that, sweetheart?” he mutters, voice rough with desire.

His hands are at his sides, waiting, the energy between you both crackling with anticipation. The space between you both feels charged, and you can sense he’s just as eager to see where this moment takes you as you are.

You continue your movements, unbuckling his belt, slowly but steadily, until it’s free. The moment is slow, deliberate—your body aching to feel his against yours.

Tyler’s hands are gentle as he reaches for you again, his fingers brushing against your skin with an almost reverent touch. There’s no rush in the way he moves, only a quiet assurance that makes your heart race. His eyes lock with yours, searching for any sign of hesitation, but you only find warmth and something deeper—something that has been growing between you for days, for weeks, maybe even longer.

He slowly unclasps your bra, his touch light but firm, as if he’s giving you space to decide, to feel comfortable in this moment. As it slides off, you feel exposed, but not in a way that makes you want to retreat. Instead, you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long while. Tyler’s gaze never wavers from yours as he guides your jeans down, his hands steady, but there’s a softness in them that matches the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something raw, something unspoken. His words hang in the air between you, and you find your breath catching in your throat. It’s not just the physicality of the moment that feels intimate, but the sincerity behind his words.

As he slides your jeans off, he pauses, his hands resting lightly on your bare skin. He lets out a soft sigh, not in impatience, but in awe of how everything feels so right.

When you’re left in nothing but your panties, Tyler takes a step back for a moment. He looks at you as though trying to commit every detail to memory, but there’s no judgment in his eyes, only admiration and something more—something tender that makes your heart flutter.

And when you look at him, really look at him, you see more than just the strong, muscular form in front of you. You see the man who’s been there for you, the one who makes you feel safe, cherished, and—maybe for the first time in a long while—truly desired.

Tyler’s fingers brush your cheek gently as he kneels in front of you. “You don’t have to rush this,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with understanding. “We take it one step at a time. Only if you’re ready.”

You take a breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. There’s no more hesitation, no more uncertainty—just a quiet, steady confidence that you feel in your bones. As you look into Tyler’s eyes, the connection between you feels stronger than ever, a bond forged through everything you’ve been through together.

“I want you, Tyler,” you say, your voice steady, even though your heart is pounding in your chest.

A smile spreads across his face, tender and genuine. His eyes soften, and for a split second, you see something vulnerable there—a rawness that only you’ve seen. Without a word, he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a kiss that says everything you need to hear. He pulls back just slightly, his hand cupping your cheek.

Tyler takes a step back to finish undressing the rest of the way. His movements are deliberate but unhurried, as though savoring the moment. You watch him, your heart racing, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts, but in this moment, all that matters is him—his closeness, the way his presence fills the space between you.

He stands before you, bare and vulnerable, just like you, and there’s no shame, no fear. There’s just you and him, together in this quiet intimacy, and it feels like everything has finally clicked into place.

Tyler moves back to you, his hands gentle as he reaches for you once more. He pulls you closer, his body flush against yours, and the world outside seems to disappear, leaving only the two of you in this moment.

"I don't have a condom, sweetheart."

"I'm clean. And as long as you are, I don't mind. I'm on birth control."

"I'm clean, sweetheart."

As Tyler slowly moves closer, you feel the intensity between you, the emotions that are thick in the air. Everything about this moment feels different, more profound than anything you’ve experienced before.

When he finally slides inside of you, it’s not just physical—it’s as if everything aligns. The way his eyes never leave yours, the way he holds you with such tenderness, like he’s memorizing every curve of your body, every breath you take.

It feels like he’s giving you a piece of him—his vulnerability, his trust, his love. The connection between you two isn’t just about the act, but about something deeper, something you both crave. This is more than just sex. It’s making love, it’s the two of you sharing something raw, unspoken, and powerful.

The slow, deliberate rhythm between you two feels like it’s meant to last forever. His hands are gentle but firm, guiding you closer to him, pulling you into him with such care that it takes your breath away. Every movement, every soft kiss, every whisper in your ear—it’s all full of love. It’s like he’s telling you, without words, that he’s here, he’s not going anywhere, and that he wants you in every way possible.

You meet his gaze, your eyes locked, and you see everything in them. Desire. Affection. A deep, undeniable connection that’s been building between you for so long. When he looks at you like this, you feel seen. You feel cherished, loved, and completely accepted for who you are.

His lips brush against your forehead, soft and tender, as if to reassure you, and you lean into him, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him closer. You let yourself surrender to him, to the love he’s offering. It’s the most vulnerable, intimate thing you’ve ever done, and you can’t help but feel completely safe in his arms.

You know, in this moment, that nothing else matters but the two of you. And for once, you feel like you belong—fully, entirely—right here, with him.

As you and Tyler lay there in the aftermath, the room feels still, the air thick with the emotions that linger between you. You both lay in the warmth of each other’s arms, your bodies entwined under the sheets. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, and you feel the rise and fall of his breath like a soothing rhythm, grounding you.

Tyler presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there as he wraps his arm around you more tightly. 

His voice is low, tender, almost like a whisper, as he speaks, “I love you.” 

The words feel like a promise, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken for so long, and now they’re finally free.

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze as you settle into the comfort of his embrace. His eyes are full of vulnerability, and you can feel the rawness of everything he’s just shared with you. 

He continues, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve been so caught up in helping Kate and trying to figure out this theory and experiment with her... but I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped wanting you.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his honesty settle in your chest. “I didn’t know where I stood with you.” You admit in a whisper. “The way you’ve been spending so much time with her... I just couldn’t help but feel like I was losing you.”

Tyler gently tilts your chin up with his finger, guiding your face toward his as he presses a tender kiss to your lips, slow and full of reassurance. “You haven’t lost me,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “I've always been yours. You’re the only one I want, the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

A rush of warmth floods through you at his words, and you close your eyes, letting the vulnerability between you both fill the space. You nestle into him, your head resting on his chest. His hand moves gently through your hair as he continues, “I know I messed up, and I’m sorry. I should have been more open with you. You mean everything to me. Do you think you could ever give me a chance?”

Tears well up in your eyes as you hear him speak so honestly. You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear those words, how much you needed him to understand how deeply you cared.

You bury your face in his chest, your hands clutching his arm as you whisper back, “Don't mess it up, Tyler. Because I love you, Tyler. I really do...and I don't think I'd survive if you broke my heart.”

He squeezes you tighter, his arms enveloping you with a warmth that makes everything else feel small. “I love you too,” he whispers back, his voice rough with emotion. "And believe me, I've got no intentions of breaking your heart...just maybe changing your last name."

As you begin to drift off, the quiet hum of the room and the steady beat of Tyler’s heart fill the space between you. But then, he breaks the silence, his voice soft and warm as he speaks. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. You look up, meeting his gaze, and he’s studying you with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. “Would you… would you let me take you on a date?”

You smile at the thought, the idea of spending time with him in a peaceful setting, away from the chaos of the past few days, feeling comforting. 

“Somewhere nice and quiet,” he adds, as though reading your mind, his voice hopeful.

You nod, your heart fluttering at the thought of a simple, intimate evening with him. “I’d like that,” you reply, your voice soft but sure.

Tyler smiles in return, but then, his eyes fall to your face, his gaze focusing on the cut on your head that’s barely visible against your hair. His thumb gently brushes over it, a soft, tender motion. 

“What about this?” he asks quietly. “Are you okay?”

You meet his eyes again, and though the pain is there, it’s not overwhelming. You nod, brushing off the worry. “I’m a little sore, but I’ll be okay,” you assure him, reaching up to touch the place where he’d just brushed.

But Tyler doesn’t look convinced. He gently presses his hand against your cheek, his thumb still gently tracing the curve of your jaw. His voice drops a little, and you can hear the raw vulnerability in it. 

“I was so scared,” he admits, his words softer now, almost a confession. “I was so scared I was going to lose you. I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

The weight of his words hits you like a wave, and your breath catches in your throat. You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he holds you like you’re something fragile, something he never wants to let go of.

“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if something happened to you,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly.

Your heart swells at his vulnerability, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb grazing his cheek. “I’m right here,” you whisper, your voice firm yet filled with tenderness. "I'm okay."

Tyler closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply, and you can feel the tension leave his body as he holds you a little tighter, like he’s trying to keep you as close as possible. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again,” he admits, his voice low, sincere. “I need you to know… you’re everything to me.”

You nod, your eyes welling up with emotion, and you lean up to press your lips to his, a soft kiss full of reassurance and affection. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his, your breath mingling. “I love you, Tyler,” you say again, just to remind him, just to make sure he knows.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice full of conviction. “I’ll keep reminding you every day for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.”

You smile at that, feeling the sincerity in his words wash over you. The world outside may still be chaotic, but in this moment, with him holding you close, everything feels right. And spending the rest of your life with Tyler Owens doesn't sound too bad.

[naburi]

MY TEAMMATE’S DAUGHTER

SANA X READER

TAGS: DADDY KINK

2.7K WORDS

“There she is! Look at my daughter!” Your teammate points in the stand. He found out that he had an illegitimate child, now a beautiful young woman. He pays her visits occasionally and brings her every game to make up for the time he missed, not knowing that his daughter is already receiving the attention that she needs. “F-fuck me harder daddy!” Sana’s plea echoes through your room.

“You’re such a slut.” You said while you slapped her ass. You are holding Sana by her thin arms as you pound her from behind. Her thin body shakes in every impact. “You want harder?” You said as you tighten your grip in her arms to pound her with more force. You take a pause after pulling it out just to ram your cock again in her now messy wet slit. The sound of her juicy slit getting pounded, the sound of flesh colliding as your hips bumps her meaty ass, Sana’s whales of pleasure. These noise made you fuck your slut even more.

Driving back home, a few notifications pop out on your phone screen. You just know they are from the fans that want to congratulate you after a win. You have no idea that one of those fans will change your life overnight. Finally arrived at your home. You went straight to bed to get some needed rest. Scrolling through the notifications bubble, you notice a familiar display photo, but you didn’t mind it as you thought that you probably saw them in the stadium. You are grateful to receive some encouraging messages from your fans, thus you take your time to read each and every message. After opening the first few bubbles, this notification bubble led you to an instagram story that mentioned you. It’s a picture of you and two of your teammates. “Hold on, is this her daughter?” You said as you went to check her account. You saw some of her posts where she is in the game. “That’s why she mentioned me, I’m with her father in the photo.” You concluded. Sana is laying in her room, waiting for you to notice her story. She smiles as it notifies her that you give it a like.

The next game is concluded in a loss, the locker room is silent. It’s an unspoken rule that nobody should go out or have fun at night after a loss. You went straight home. you quickly drove home to get this night. Fewer notifications pop in your phone. You 're not expecting any good messages with how you lost this game. You saw the name of the daughter of your teammate again in your notification bubbles. You click on it first which brings you to an instagram story again. This time it’s a video of you with a caption “great play!” Attached with your mentioned name. You appreciate her compliment and contemplate if you should send her a message. Thinking about it for a minute, you settle in giving it a like again. Scrolling through the other bubbles, a new notification pops up. Sana followed you on instagram and sent you a direct message. “Hi! You did your best! Let’s win the next one!” You left a chuckle while reading her message. You haven’t heard her voice before but you read it like someone is cheering you on. “Thank you! Father played well today as well!” You responded to her. After sending the message, I saw that she had already seen it. It means she’s waiting for your message all along. “He’s a good player just like you! I want to meet you in person!” She sent another message but you were too tired to look at it. You toss your phone to the side before falling asleep.

You drove to the stadium for an early game today. Walking at the facility, it’s strange that you have not met anybody from your team yet. You continue to look for anyone in your team as you hear a noise coming out of one of the rooms. The whole team and staff are here and they are circling around a woman? “Your daughter is so pretty!”,”this can’t be your kid, she doesn’t look like you!”,”she’s too gorgeous to be your daughter!” The whole team is making fun of her father. Sana is standing on the other side, just smiling with the jokes. Her brunette hair shines from the sunlight behind her. Her silky white skin glows brighter than the light itself. Your teammates take turns shaking the woman before going out to the dugout. As more people leave the room, Sana finally caught a glimpse of you. Her innocent smile widens just enough that it looks seductive. It’s your turn for a handshake. You reach out your hand for sana to hold. Her slim fingers touch the back of your hand, her soft hands graces on your skin so slowly that it gives you chills. Her small hands look small compared to yours. She holds your hand a little longer than the others. “Goodluck!” She said while tightening her grip before finally letting your hands go. This is the first time you heard her voice. It didn’t help that her seductive smile didn’t go away when she held you. You won this game, the coach invited the team to celebrate this win with liquor. Some of your teammates are joking that they should also invite Sana with them but her father and some of the other players say that it should be a team only celebration. It’s still early in the night but you and some of your teammates excuse yourselves to go home to take an early rest.

Driving back home, your phone started to pop off with notifications again. You smile expecting a mentioned story or a message from Sana again. You sit on the sofa before you check your phone. You were baffled that no notification is from Sana. Checking your conversation, you saw that you haven’t responded to her message last night. “Should I message her?” You asked yourself. Sana has been putting you in a story in every game but today. You want to know the reason why you haven’t heard from her today thus finding yourself being the one to message her first. “It’s nice to meet you up close.” You said in your chat. Sana usually responds right away. It’s been 10 minutes now and she still has not read your message. You started to worry that you might have done something wrong that made the woman step away from you.

It’s past 10 pm, and a series of notifications wakes you up. You found yourself sleeping on your sofa, waiting for a response from Sana. You hurriedly sat up as you saw the new notification bubbles. “Hi! I grabbed drinks with a friend!” She said while also sending a picture. It’s a picture of her with her drink beside a drawing on the wall. You may get the hint but you act oblivious. “Have you made it home? Stay safe.” You responded. You are finally at ease knowing that she’s just busy. “Thank you, I’m walking with my friend on the way home. We are just a few houses apart from where she lived.” She quickly responded. “Let’s grab a drink some other time as well :)” she added with a smiling expression. The idea of going out with Sana excites you but the realization that her father might take it the wrong way holds you back. you don’t want to create any distraction with the team. “Your father might have found out,” you responded. “We can grab some drinks and spend some time in your house,” she suggested. You don’t like where this is heading, you know what will happen if the two of you are left alone in your home. “No one will find out” you said to yourself before agreeing with Sana. “Meet me after the game on Friday” you said to her.

In the locker room, the players are doing their pre-game routine and changing clothes. Sana is off your mind as you are focused on winning against your rival team. She didn’t leave your mind that long enough as you saw the woman standing outside of the locker room door. Sana is wearing less than what you are accustomed to. She usually is in jeans while paring it to your team's jersey. The locker room got quiet as they were too stunned with how attractive she is. The woman is wearing a small skirt that exposes her long lean legs paired with a tight folder jersey that shows her midriff. She walked inside the locker room to hand something to her father. She said it’s for good luck as she knows that this game means more as it is against your historically rival team. Sana gives you a long glance with a smirk on her face before she walks out. You both knew that she was not there for her father. She’s in there to give a glimpse of what you will see more tonight.

The game ended in a victory. Your coach invited the whole team to celebrate but you politely declined this one as you said you have a date. Your teammates are making fun of you that what you meant is really that you are going to hook up with someone tonight. It is not further from the truth as your mind gets clouded by how seductive Sana looks at you and how inviting her outfit is. You hurriedly walk your way out of the stadium. You tried to call your date for tonight but you were surprised that she is already in front of your car, waiting for you. “What if someone saw you?”,”I’ll just say I’m looking for my father.” She smirked at you. You look around to see if any player or staff saw the two of you but it seems like they are still inside. “How did you know which one is my car?” You asked in disbelief. Sana just gives you a wide smile. You guide her to the passenger seat and open the door for her. She thanked you as she sat inside.

You drove off to the nearest convenient store to grab drinks and some snacks. Sana is waiting in the car while you buy those items in the store. After returning to your seat. You felt her slim fingers wander on your pants. “What took you so long?” Sana’s voice changed. Her voice became higher pitched than usual, almost acting like a baby that’s waiting for her food. Her left hand is now moving up and downward on top of your forming bulge. You have not said anything as you don’t know how to react to her fast advancement. “I want to feel you now, Daddy,” her voice changed again. From a baby-like voice to a slow and alluring voice. Something clicked into you when she called you “Daddy.” It woke up your instinct for sex. Sana noticed this too as she felt how hard you got just by hearing that. Sana smiled and didn't leave her face as she knows that she will get what she came for. The two of you have now arrived at your home. You bring down the drinks and snacks to a small table in your living room. You sit on your sofa as you are about to open the drinks but Sana has other plans.

“I’ve waited long enough, daddy.” Sana unzips your pants down to your ankles. She smiles when she sees your cock begging to be let out on your underwear. She pulls your underwear slowly as she wants to see it spring back up in total hardness which she saw when she finally let your hard cock out. Sana gives your hard cock a few strokes before she measures it with her forearm. “It’s bigger than my forearm!” Her thin forearm has no match with the girth of your cock. You chuckled as even in this situation she can still look as cute and innocent as ever. Sana laughs with you before she holds your cock and pat her face with it. She let your cock rest on her face. Your hard cock is resting beside her sharp nose bridge, your shaft is on top of her left cheek while she closes one of her eyes as your cock is covering half of her face with your tip on her forehead. Sana smiles as she gets turned on by feeling your big cock on her soft face. She holds your cock again to now pat her tongue with it. She gives the tip a few licks before trying to swallow all of your cock in one go. You groan as your cock is not even lubricated enough for a deepthroat. You can feel her soft inside as she slowly swallows all of your cock. Her sharp nose touches your abdomen before she pulls her head back. Sana gasped some air as she left a chuckle. “You have a big dick, daddy.” She smiles again with her eyes widening from excitement.

You had enough of her gimmicks, you know what she came for and you will give her exact what she wants. You hold Sana’s brown hair in a makeshift pigtail to have something to hold on. Sana even opens her mouth wide as she waits for your movement. You bring down her face again, impaling her mouth with your hard cock. Gagging sounds come out every time you put all of your cock in her mouth but she didn’t care. Sana let you use her mouth for your pleasure. You stand up to give yourself a better angle. You know moving your hips to meet her face every time. Sana looks up at you with tears flowing down her eyes. You fasten your face until Sana’s face turns red due to lack of oxygen. You get worried for a bit as you pause to check on her. She coughs when you finally let go of her face. “Why didn’t you tap out?” You asked. “I want my daddy to use me just as he pleases” Sana gives you a wicked smile even in her messed up face.

You carry Sana to your room, she wraps her legs onto you while she kisses your neck before you carry her down to your bed. You unbutton her small skirt and tossed it on the other end of the room. Sana tried to fasten the process by pulling her underwear on her own but you caught her hand. “Someone is being inpatient.” You said while removing her hand on her underwear. “S-sorry, daddy” she said. You eventually remove her underwear. “Fuck me please, daddy.” “Fuck me now,” she continues to plead before you hold her cheeks to open her mouth. You put her underwear inside her mouth as a consequence of her impatience. You aligned your hard cock on her wet lips before slowly plunging it in. Sana's loud moans are muffled by the underwear inside her mouth. You can feel how her slit stretched out due to your girthy cock. You hold her by her thin legs and start your movement. Sana's muffled moans are still loud. She tried to remove her top while you're on top of her but you slap her hands away. “What did I tell you about being inpatient?” You shouted at her. Sana got turned on with how aggressive you're becoming. You pull up her folded jersey top and her bra in one go, exposing her perky boobs. You slapped her boobs with force until red marks appeared. You squeezed her boobs to hold onto it while you continue to fuck her. Sana can’t take it anymore. She removes her underwear in her mouth and starts to plead more. “Fuck me just like that, daddy!” She shouted as her body arched back in pleasure. “You like getting fucked like a slut?” You shouted back. “Yes! Yes! Fuck me! I’m your slut!” She said before she left out a loud moan. You pulled out your cock and instructed her to bend down. Sana quickly obliged and even spread her ass cheeks in front of you. You hold her thin arms as you continue to plunge your cock inside her again. “F-fuck me harder, daddy!”

[catscraftsandcommentary]

Person A: *tells you something*

Person B, does not like Person A: *asks you about Person A*

You: *knows if Person B learns what Person A told you, Person A will Suffer Consequences*

You: LIE

If you're like me, social things are awkward. Learning to pick up social cues and think up a believable, not-dangerous lie on-the-spot is awkward and can be really hard. But that stuff IS A SKILL, and YOU CAN LEARN IT. It just takes practice (and sometimes, getting used to thinking through things ahead of time.)

And sometimes, it not even a case of "Person B hates Person A and there will be Consequences," sometimes it's just "this matter is NONE OF THEIR BUSINESS, there is no reason for them to know, don't spread your knowledge."

And yeah, it might feel awkward telling someone who is basically well-meaning "this is none of your business" or giving them a more polite non-answer...but have you met ridiculous gossips? Those people who tell everyone everything they know, without considering whether the info is theirs to share, or how the person whose info it IS will feel about it being spread everywhere? Especially when that person is somewhat private or the info is personal/private/embarassing/etc?

DO NOT BE THAT PERSON. I live with one, and no one in the family likes telling her things EXCEPT when those things are specifically news that we don't care about being spread across the entire city, four states, and two time zones.

Because we know that it will be.

And this is lomger than I meamt it to be, but...sometimes having things spelled out REALLY CLEARLY helps people like me, who ARE awkward with Social Shit and understand better, faster when things are explained really bluntly. And sometimes it's a case of "oh, I never thought of that consciously, but you're RIGHT, that makes total sense."

So this is me spelling out Unspoken Social Shit.

[girl-lostconnection]

A little additional thought to this while I write the main course

Important: Reader in this specific AU written as female and is plus size. The also (again) are not small. Shorter than Simon (show me who’s not) but definitely not smaller — with broad shoulders and strong limbs and similar stoic personality. So if you are for any reason uncomfortable with it — don’t read. That’s how the Reader will be described in this specific AU, it won’t change.

Soap who meets Reader for the first time and stumbles because she’s wearing Simon’s sweater (which shouldn’t look this good on her, Simon is big, why does it look good on this bird?) and Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of her head like it’s the most usual thing in the world.

And then she looks up at him and just…stares. Expression unreadable but she just tilts her head to the side, eyes sizing him up.

She’s not hostile to him but not friendly either, just offers to pour him some tea — eyes heavy with something he can’t quite make out. And then she stands up, stretching her hands above her head and Soap’s mind blanks out a little.

God, are you listening? He’s got a prayer.

Soap isn’t sure what to do and how to operate because she watches him like…well, like he’s a dog Simon brought home — eyes assessing him, as if she’s trying to calculate whether or not he will need flee spray, bath and a meal.

Reader mentions to Simon that the bed needs fixing since some springs uncurled and they will probably need a new bed frame. It snaps Soap back a little because…what does she mean by that?

He tries to catch his (they never discussed it but can he consider Simon his after he spent Christmas with Johnny’s family?) lieutenant’s eyes to inquire but Simon is completely relaxed and either oblivious or deliberately dropping some very heavy hints.

Because Simon nods and asks when this pretty bird is available to go look for bed frames and whether or not she thinks they should get a bigger one.

Soap’s eyes roam the small apartment counting the number of the rooms before they snap back to Ghost with silent “did you forget to mention something?”.

Because there’s only one bedroom.

And unless these two have a bloody bunk beds at their grown age, they are sleeping in the same bed.

Johnny’s eyes widen when he looks at Reader in Simon’s sweater again, which is just a little wider in shoulders for her, fabric spread taut over her bosom.

(Proceeds to spend the next half an hour thinking whether or not he’s the other woman and a home wrecker)

Part 1