#does he know? does he realize what he's been made into? Or is it just everyone else who can see it

[poisonf0rest]

Between Flames and Shadows

♱⋅── sylus x reader x rafayel

♱⋅── about: Rafayel agreed to smuggle you into the N109 Zone, unwittingly thrusting you into danger and the arms of an even more dangerous man, Sylus— who you promised your soul to long ago. Just as you had promised Rafayel your heart. And now they both want what you have so cruelly denied them.

♱⋅── word count: 10.6k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, threesome, pwp, enemies to lovers, jealousy, bondage, exhibisionism, voyeurism, size kink (sylus is big), mating bites/bond, double penetration, minor breeding kink, another horribly nasty duo

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

It’s been six days, fourteen hours, and three minutes since you’ve last contacted Rafayel. 

Not that he’s been counting.

Again, he flips his phone around, scrolling through dozens of notifications, and not bothering to read a single one as he fails yet again to find your name among them. A scowl, and he tosses his phone across the couch. Insane doesn’t begin to describe the spiral Rafayel has descended into since you infiltrated the N109 Zone— since he reluctantly agreed to set you up as bait and watched you get taken away. 

Since he made a deal with the devil on your behalf. 

“The Nest, you actually got it? How?” 

“You doubted me, cutie?”

“Doubt?” You snort, rolling your eyes as you yank Rafayel closer by the collar, gaze flickering from his lips, eyes, and back again. Leaning in closer, you wait until Rafayel’s eyes nearly flutter shut before pulling back, snatching the invitation from his hands with a smirk. “Never, fishie.”

Rafayel now wishes you had. Wishes he finally kissed you, wishes he never let you go. At least, not alone. 

The memories and regrets tug at him so violently that he can’t stand it, every “what if” fear blending in with shattered memories of you dying before him in lives past, bloody and heart torn from your chest as he’s doomed to chase after you again and again and again. 

Rafayel stands abruptly, chair falling back with a bang. 

Fuck it, he’s going after you. 

The damned N109 Zone never changes. 

Different venues, different gang names, different “world-ending” weapons. But even after several millennia, the greed and stupidity of humankind remains forever stagnant and forever their greatest weakness. That, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and whiskey. 

It all makes Rafayel’s stomach roll, and he thumbs at his tie, slacking against his neck before he snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter. Unsurprisingly he does recognize a handful of faces, some from his own gallery exhibitions, others as past targets, or grandchildren of someone he used to know. Not that any of them mattered.

He walked down a hallway filled with Protocores leading up to the banquet hall, and yet strangely enough every last one was bought for an exorbitant amount, even the smallest fragment that barely emitted any kind of energy. What kind of idiot…

Rafayel’s frown deepens, and he shoots down yet another glass, moving from champagne to whiskey as he winces from the burn. 

Then, Rafayel spots you.

You’re alive. 

You’ve alive and you look absolutely fucking gorgeous, prowling across the auction in a cocktail dress, fabric dark enough that it only shimmers a deep red when you dance from spotlight to spotlight. 

Before he even realizes it, he’s running. Trying and failing for it to look as natural as possible, slamming into a waiter and mumbling out an apology as he rushes to your side, nearly dashing onto the dance floor when the shadows seem to lunge– growing and shifting and laughing in an ancient language Rafayel can barely understand as something else steps out from them. And wraps a clawed hand around your waist.

Another man, infuriatingly tall and reeking of the sky and ashes, his hair bleached the same pale color, leans down to whisper something into your ear as you laugh. Laugh. 

And gods new and old, Rafayel sees red. 

Rafayel’s breath catches, chest tightening with a fury so raw it feels like it might crack him open. The din of laughter and clinking glasses becomes a dull roar in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He barely registers the heat raging down his veins, a warning that his restraint is fraying faster than he can piece it together.

An uproar of murmuring steals your attention away from Sylus, and you finally allow your fake smile to drop.

Only for your jaw to fall entirely as you see Rafayel standing only a couple of meters away, violent white flames licking against his fingertips as other guests begin to gather. 

What the fuck is he doing here. 

“Rafayel.” Your voice cuts through him, hissing in warning. But the sound of it— alive, steady, and wholly unimpressed— does nothing to soothe him. If anything, it stokes the fire.

Sylus turns slowly, his lips curling into a lazy smile. When his eyes land on Rafayel, something flickers in the depths of his right pupil. “Oh?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement, “Looks like you picked up a stray, kitten.”

The nickname grates against your nerves, but it’s nothing compared to the way Rafayel reacts. His flames flare brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room as his fists clench. “Take your hand off her.” 

More patrons are beginning to notice. 

Sylus’s grip on your waist doesn’t waver. Instead, he tilts his head, “Her? Oh, you must mean my companion for tonight.” He shifts slightly, leaning down as if to make a point, his hands brushing against the small of your back, right where the silk meets bare skin. “I think you have it mistaken though, she’s the one who practically dragged me here. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through you. You force yourself to step between them, planting a hand firmly against Rafayel’s chest before he can close the distance. Thankfully, it makes the flames sputter down to a dull glow in his palms. 

“Stop,” you hiss. “What the hell are you doing here, Rafayel?”

His eyes lock onto yours, wild and burning with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “I came for you,” he snaps as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, congratulations,” you snort, “you found me.” Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the glint of recognition in the eyes of more than a few guests. “And so has everyone else I’ve been trying to avoid.”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch, his gaze darting briefly to Sylus before returning to you. “I don’t care about them,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I care about you. I never should have left you, let you go. Come back with me.”

Before you can even respond a deep chuckle cuts through, Sylus stepping forward as he tucks you into his side and reaches around to place a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder. Pinning you between them. “Touching. But you should know better than to interrupt our business, artist.”

Rafayel’s flames reignite instantly, searing white-hot as he shoves Sylus’s hand off his shoulder. “I already told you to get your hands off her,” he growls, stepping forward, entire body radiating heat as he’s mere inches from Sylus’s face.

“Or what?” Sylus taunts smoothly, something in his eye flashing with amusement. “You’ll set this whole place on fire? Very subtle. I can see why you’re such a popular target.”

Target? You linger on it longer than you should've, pieces about Rafayel’s surprising knowledge about the N109 Zone and Sylus’s insistence on resonating as your partner begins to swirl around again. That is, until you physically feel the heat from Rafayel’s flames begin to char into the wooden floorboards. 

“Stop it, both of you!”

Snapping, both of their heads whip down to you as you struggle to shove them apart. “You’re drawing attention. Do you want to blow this mission completely?”

“Mission?” Rafayel scoffs, his gaze snapping back to you. “If this was a mission, why would you agree to work with him?” He tilts his chin to Sylus, who simply shrugs, shadows flickering and rising at his back. Shit. 

“Her choice, really,” Sylus says, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Not that I blame her. All bark and no bite, aren’t you, puppy?”

Rafayel goes deathly still.

So Sylus allows himself to step closer, chest now pressing up against your bare back, the gesture irritatingly casual. Intimate. “It must be exhausting,” he continues, “Running around, chasing after scraps of attention. Does she even notice? Or is this just another case of unrequited devotion?”

“Say that again,” Rafayel growls, flames licking up his palm.

Sylus grins wider, clearly enjoying every second. Enjoying his reactions. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? You must be used to following orders by now, so tell me, does she ever let you off leash, or do you only bark when commanded?”

“Sylus,” you snap again, cutting off whatever retort Rafayel has ready. You glance around, realizing the murmuring crowd has turned into a full-fledged audience, their gazes sharp and curious. “You’re both acting like children. The target—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts you off.

You whip your head around, just in time to see a hooded figure perched atop an overturned table. A small, cylindrical case glints in their hand, and your blood turns cold as you feel the overwhelming pulse of an unleashed Aether Core. 

“Run!”

The word barely leaves your mouth before the world explodes.

A deafening boom shatters through the venue, blast wave throwing you backward. The force knocks the air from your lungs, glass and debris raining down like jagged confetti. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting through your side as the heat of the explosion sears your skin.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing in your ears, you catch fragmented images: chandeliers crashing to the floor, tables splintered, and guests scrambling for cover and weapons as gunshots ring out.

Sylus is a blur of movement, his shadows coiling and slashing through the chaos. Rafayel is kneeling beside you, flames erupting instinctively to shield both of you, looking down with wide eyes.

“Get—” you try to shout, but another powerful wave of the protocore squeezes your heart, and your vision blurs as you heave for breath.

The last thing you see is Sylus stepping over Rafayel’s crumpled form, hauling him over one shoulder before beginning to carry you, too.

Then, nothing.

It’s cold. 

The explosion. The Aether Core. Sylus. Rafayel.

A gasp tears from your lips as you jolt awake, your body reacting before your mind catches up. The world spins in protest as you try and sit up, chest heaving like it’s trying to claw back air that’s been ripped away. Spinning, the world is still spinning as control of your body returns to you—pain prickles along your limbs, your skin freezing against the stiff leather beneath you.

Blinking hard, you push up on trembling arms, the faint scent of dust and something metallic clogging your nose. The ache in your skull is relentless, pulse hammering against your temples. You’re not in the banquet hall anymore. There’s no fire, no rubble, no echoing gunshots. 

Instead, shadows claw at the corners of a room you don’t recognize. Empty walls of an office greet you, dark and seemingly abandoned with an unlit fireplace, heavy drapes smothering the windows, and a lavish seating area you’re in the midst of with a couch, coffee table, and—

Someone’s there.

Slumped in a leather chair near the fireplace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, is… “Rafayel.”

You call out to him in a gasp, a raw mix of relief and dread. His head hangs low, chin brushing his chest, his arms seemingly tied behind his back. For one desperate, fleeting moment, you think he’s asleep. But the light catches on something wrong, something warping along his body. 

Shadows.

They slither down his chest and around his legs, dark, writhing tendrils of unnatural energy that pulse and coil, anchoring him to the chair. They’re the only thing keeping his unconscious form upright, taut and unyielding, glowing faintly at the edges with an unmistakably familiar red glow. 

“Relax, he’s not dead.”

The voice is a smooth drawl, and your head whips around to find a heavy desk in the center of the office, and of course, the origin of the voice seated at the head of the desk, arms crossed as he watches you with an amused smirk.

“What did you do, Sylus?”

Your hands instinctively go for your guns but only brush against empty holsters instead. Weaponless, you stumble off the couch, placing yourself between Rafayel and the still-seated man as you glare down at him. 

Sylus doesn’t even flinch. If anything, your anger only seems to amuse him further. 

“We had a chat while you were sleeping.” With a sigh, he rises from his chair, every movement exuding practiced ease as he encircles the desk, making his way to you. A crow circling a corpse. “Turns out you’ve been keeping more from me than I thought. That, and your memory truly is terrible.”

Sylus stops just short of you, tilting his head back as his eyes roam your face, his grin growing sharper, fang peaking out. “Not one but two immortals? You certainly are greedy, aren’t you, kitten?”

Your stomach twists. 

Nothing he’s saying makes sense, but the words cut into your gut regardless. Like a broken promise, like an old wound. “Let him go, Sylus. Now.”

But Sylus doesn’t move. He stands there, tapping a hand to his chin, studying you with a look that makes your heart throb, his right eye beginning to glow a crimson red. Amusement flickers behind his eyes, but there’s something else, too. Something darker.

“Twice,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his gaze slipping briefly to Rafayel’s bound form. “Twice, you’ve cursed those who thought themselves unstoppable. Twice, you’ve bound your heart and soul.” His eyes snap back to yours, glinting with a sharp, cruel edge. “Not that you’d remember.”

Almost like he’s in pain. You stiffen, breath catching in your throat.

“Humans,” Sylus continues, the word dripping with scorn. “So quick to lay claim to what they desire, so insatiably greedy.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, heavy with mockery, hands ghosting down your side as you shiver despite yourself. “And you, sweetie, are no different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chuckle, “Of course you don’t.”

Sylus fights the urge to laugh. No wonder the god of the ocean itself followed you around like a lovesick puppy— Sylus was hardly taking it any better, but at least he just had the self-control to hide his obsession.

A strained groan echoes through the room, low and guttural. Your head snaps toward Rafayel, the sight of his head lifting weakly making your heart lurch. His hair is matted with sweat, and when he looks up, his sunset eyes are furious blue, darker than the ocean itself, narrowing to slits as the shadows twist tighter around his body. 

There’s a moment, just a heartbeat, where you see something raw in his gaze. Relief. Desperation. And then, it’s gone, replaced by a scowl that’s as sharp as any blade.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Sylus hums, and you nearly collapse in relief, turning to rush to Rafayel’s side when something stops you halfway. 

Two simple threads of shadow chain you down, dragging you back to Sylus as the other binds your hands behind you, unaffected by your sudden thrashing. In faux comfort, Sylus curls an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace as the other rests against your ribs, drawing comforting circles against your tattered dress—the once pristine silk only just gifted to you destroyed with gashes and holes from the explosion and chaos that followed.

Rafayel’s lip curls, his voice a growl despite the rasp of exhaustion. “Should’ve known a snake would take a deal and twist it. This is your plan? This is what you call a friendly competition?” 

Sylus tilts his head, his smirk turning predatory. “Careful, puppy. You’ll get your turn, I never specified who went first.”

Silence. 

You feel like you’re playing catch-up, each word only adding to the confusion as the tension grows thick enough to choke on.

And then Rafayel laughs. His entire body shakes with it, head thrown back against the chair he’s still bound to, laughing and laughing until he’s all but spitting flames. They erupt from his palms, climbing down the marble floors, vibrant pinks and reds curling into empty air as shadows dance to put them out. 

Sylus doesn’t release you, though his fingers twitch against your ribs as the flames light up the room. His smirk falters just slightly, replaced by something harder to read—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or respect.

Rafayel’s laughter fades, his head rolling forward again as if it took everything in him to laugh at all. When his eyes meet Sylus’s, they’re cold and dark, an abyss in the ocean.

“You really think this will win her back?” Rafayel spits, tremors of barely-contained fury ripping through him as he struggles against the tendrils that hold him. The shadows only tighten in response. His glare cuts to you, begging. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar, a snake. All those ugly cold-blooded beasts do is lie.”

Sylus snorts, hugging you closer as the low scoop back of your dress causes your skin to brush against his chest. “Lie? Are you always this dramatic?” He tilts his head, mocking. “Perhaps you should’ve asked about the rules before we began. Backing out already?”

Flames spark from Rafayel’s body again, this time uncontrolled, swirling in frantic spirals like an inferno around him. His body trembling against the leather. “Release me then! Let me go first, let me show you she doesn’t need you. She’ll remember me.”

“You’re awfully bold for someone tied to a chair.” 

Sylus leans down to graze your neck with his lips, tilting his head like he’s savoring the sight of Rafayel’s frustration as he whispers into your ear just loud enough for him to hear. “Your puppy never stops barking, does he.”

Rafayel takes the bait, fire searing through wood, flickering in and out. “She’s not yours to take,” he seethes, shadows and flames casting violent shadows across the room. “Not yours.”

This is beyond ridiculous. 

You try and jerk away from Sylus, forgetting about the shadowy tendrils also holding you in place. Instead, you settle for pushing Sylus back with your bound arms, glaring at the both of them bickering like feral cats once again. “Both of you, stop! Whatever grudge you have with each other, leave me out of it!”

Sylus chuckles, the sound low and unnerving. “Leave you out of it? Oh, kitten, you’ve always been at the very center. You just don't remember yet.” His hand slips from your ribs to lift your chin, tilting your face toward his as he gazes down at you with something almost… reverent. “But don’t worry, we’ll help you remember everything.”

His words send a pang through you, a strange and unbidden ache that threatens to consume you from the inside out. You’re left suspended between them, chest heaving, mind a whirlwind of confusion and doubt. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you can feel it—an echo of something ancient and unshakable, something you don’t understand. Something they both seem to know.

That alone seems to calm Rafayel, at least, for long enough that Sylus can bind his hands together, unable to conjure any more flames before gagging him with a veil of shadows too. Something that immediately sends the man into a frenzy as he curses and squirms against the restraints. 

“What are– Sylus, release him right now—”

“Relax.”

You’re also being hoisted higher up into the air, feet barely touching the floor as your arms strain above your head. “He’s simply upholding his part of the deal. Besides, he’s not the one who deserves to be punished tonight. That, sweetie, would be you.”

But before you can rebuke, a huff of hot breath caresses your neck, Sylus humming against your ear as you shiver involuntarily. “You can’t blame me. After all, you’re quite cruel to curse both of us and then go about forgetting entirely.” 

Sylus drags his hand down your ribs, thumb catching a rip in your dress as he tears it all the way down until his fingers reach the bare plush of your thigh. His grip tightens, and your sudden moan startles you nearly as much as it does the other two, shaking and needy at barely a touch, your body pulled upwards by Sylus’s shadows as you’re now balanced precariously between his hold and the brush of your toes against the floor. 

“Tell me, does it hurt? That part of you that used to belong to us?”

The sensation is so foreign, the warmth and gentleness of his touch such a contrast to the cruelty he's displayed, but your traitorous body welcomes the contrast, leaning into his palm. “What are you talking about?” Your voice is shaky, unconvincing even to yourself. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you don’t remember,” Sylus cuts in, mockery dripping from his words. “But your body does. That’s the funny thing about bonds, darling. They don’t care about your memories. They care about promises. The ones you made. The ones you broke.”

You can feel the heat of Rafayel's gaze on you, watching as Sylus slowly runs his hand up your leg, the heat of his touch deliciously contrasted by the cool iron of his rings, making you shudder as they circle the tender flesh of your inner thigh. You fall forward, pulling against the restraints, unable to resist the urge to push into his touch.

Behind you, Rafayel lets out a muffled roar, thrashing against his binds. His fury burns through the room, flames licking at the air around him, casting wild, flickering light that illuminates the shadows writhing against his skin. Even gagged, his expression a storm of conflict, boring into Sylus with a fire that refuses to be smothered.

“See how desperate he gets?” Sylus laughs, his breath hot against your ear. “Always so loud, so needy. So quick to burn himself, like that’ll make you notice him more.”

Rafayel’s muffled snarl grows louder, and the flames around him surge, threatening to overwhelm the shadows keeping him bound. He jerks forward, the chair groaning under his strength, his entire body trembling with the effort.

Sylus smirks, unbothered, even amused. “Careful, puppy. Else I might think you’re trying to cheat.”

You wrench yourself away from Sylus’s grip as much as the shadows will allow, suddenly aware of how exposed you are with your torn dress.

“Cheat at what?” Thrashing, you try to slip from the restraints, which only has Sylus’s Evol squeezing tighter, pulling your wrists from behind your back to up in the air.  “Let us go, now.”

“Feisty,” Sylus purrs, hand moving from your thigh to your jaw. Squeezing your cheeks between his forefinger and thumb, he wrenches your gaze off Rafayel, forcing your neck to crane up to look him in the eye as he presses up against your back.

“That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Always resisting, even when you don’t know why.” His lips quirk into a wicked smile. “In that case, say no.”

And then Sylus’s lips are on yours, warm and insistent.

Your eyes widen, a muffled sound of surprise rising in your throat as the warmth of his kiss spreads across your lips. It’s instinct, the way your body immediately leans into his embrace, desire and confusion tearing at your chest. 

The logical part of you wants to pull away, but oh, something deep inside you sings so sweetly at his touch, making your mind fuzzy and body hot as Sylus tilts your head to the side. The angle has your neck screaming in protest, trapped between Sylus’s possessive grip on your neck and his chest, yet you swear it’s the dichotomy between the pain of his grasp and the devotion of his lips that has you addicted.  

This close, his scent is entirely intoxicating, a heady mix of spices and smoke, breath hot against your mouth, his lips surprisingly soft, gentle against yours. He doesn’t rush, a low, contented noise humming in his chest as you deepen the kiss, already licking against his bottom lip as you crane your neck for more, grinding back against him as best you can with your arms now bound above you. 

You don’t even realize you’re doing it. 

The bond with Sylus purrs in realization, and he has to summon up every ounce of strength and control left to break away, groaning into your skin as his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth grazing every spot that makes you shiver, and yet refusing to sink in. Refusing to mark you as his own. Not yet. 

When Sylus finally pulls back, you're panting, flushed and breathless. An absolute mess. 

"You're fussy, kitten," he murmurs, panting, his large frame practically surrounding you, heaving as you stumble forward under the weight. "But if you want more, you need to answer me."

"I don’t understand.” You’re panting, and fuck, it’s hard to breathe. ”What does this have to do with…"

The hand not busy laying claim to your throat travels down to meet the rip in your dress, brushing across your bare ribs. You feel Sylus smile into the nape of your neck as you moan at the icy burn of his rings caressing the flushed skin of your chest, his hand large enough to cup the entirety of the poor, sensitive flesh. 

That is, until his touch retreats entirely, the searing heat of his presence replaced with an empty chill. 

“Yes or no?” Sylus’s voice is low, rough, and commanding, but there’s a crack in his tone that gives him away. “I need to hear it, kitten. I need to hear you say you want this.”

You groan, head lolling forward, feeling the last shreds of your resolve crumble. It’s almost too much to bear, shadows coiled around you like velvet chains, holding you upright even as your strength falters. 

Why were you even fighting in the first place? The thought slips from your grasp, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. You can barely recall why you’re mad at them, at Sylus, at Rafayel. The failed mission, the target slipping away…it all feels inconsequential now, eclipsed by the molten desire in your chest.

Did you not want them both? Did you not dream of this? Did you not die for this? 

The flicker of Sylus’s red eye pierces through the dark, pulling you out of your own thoughts and anchoring you back to this reality as you feel the rumble of his laugh vibrate through your chest even though he’s no longer touching you. You wish he were. 

“Then say it.” You hear him step closer, but still refusing to touch you. “Say you want this, or else it stops.”

And then it’s back.

A violent surge tears through your chest, flashes of color—of memories—fluttering by in a tempest, in an unintelligible inferno as the burning within your heart returns tenfold. Images flash too fast to comprehend, but the feelings linger: love so deep it swallowed you whole, betrayal like a knife twisting in your ribs, desire that turned your world to ash. 

They ripple through you, each thread of memory, each red string of fate tying itself tighter to your soul.

You’re gasping, trying to grip your chest as it feels like your heart is going to burst from your chest, desperate for relief. But Sylus’s Evol makes it impossible to move, snaking down your body instead as it anchors you against the pain attempting to seize your entire being. 

You want them. 

You need them. 

After all, they were always yours.

"Yes."

The word tumbles out, barely audible, a whispered confession that feels like release and surrender all at once.

Control returns to you in waves, your body trembling as if it’s been dragged from the brink of collapse. Your thighs quiver, and even the hold of Sylus’s Evol isn’t enough to stop the shuddering. Everything burns. Gods, everything burns. 

Behind you, Sylus makes a low sound that only makes the shaking worse. It’s raw, guttural—a noise you feel rather than hear. His control is unraveling, and for the first time, you realize he’s as close to breaking as you are.

He’s trembling.

Even with his iron control, even with his Evol wrapping around you like armor, he can’t stop the way his fingers hover just shy of your skin, tracing the curve of your neck, your spine, your waist, like he’s memorizing you. And he’s close—too close. 

His breath is hot against the nape of your neck, and you can feel the tension radiating from him, maintaining that invisible barrier as he replays your ‘yes’ in his mind again and again and again.

“What was that?” His voice is a rough whisper, but the challenge is clear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes!” You nearly yell it this time, humiliation burning across your cheeks, but it’s dwarfed by the heat of your desire. ”I said yes.”

Sylus lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and every reason he’s had to hold back shatters. His Evol ripples, shadows weaving around your body in a dark embrace. Hands fly to your hips, a palm squeezing your thigh as your left leg is lifted completely off the ground. 

Sylus inhales you in greedy mouthfuls, lips dancing down your neck, your shoulder blade, nipping into the skin, reverent and desperate in equal measure. This new position was beyond vulnerable, Sylus forcing your quivering thigh higher and higher until it presses into your chest, the crude slice in your dress providing absolutely no resistance or chance for modesty, allowing everything to be exposed to the chill of the office’s midnight air. 

And to the hungry gaze of the man seated before you. 

"So needy, kitten. Are you finally remembering?” Sylus coos against your ear, but his smirk is fixed on Rafayel, looking directly at him as his free hand trails down between the slits of fabric, toying with the lace band of your panties, long, rough fingers slipping under them in teasing circles. “Beg.”

“What?” You hate the way your voice quivers as Sylus teases your cunt through the thin, already-drenched fabric. “You’re out of your—ah, fucking—mind, Sylus.”

“Quite the opposite. After all, we have an audience to impress.” A sudden slap against your clothed pussy has you moaning, jolting against your restraints, futile, and yet the disturbance is just enough for the left strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your breast just shy of the nipple that was no doubt already hard enough to peek through the sheer silk all on its own. 

“Go on, beg for me.”

You don’t even get a chance to argue, not when Sylus delivers another harsh slap on your clit, soothing it with a cruel swirl, just enough to have you chasing the friction, grinding down against his palm with a choked sob. His middle two fingers tease against your slit, teasing but never breaching as the soaked fabric is stretched around his digits. He’s breaking you, and it’s working. 

"...Please." It comes out in a whine, and you bury your face in his chest as you feel yourself burn in embarrassment. 

A hum and Sylus’s hand leaves your cunt, making you whine at the loss. That is, until it's replaced on your neck, pushing your head up. A squeeze. "I said beg."

The pressure of his hold and the sweet demand of his voice only makes you wetter despite yourself. "Please," you repeat, shaking, each breath cut off just slightly by his thumb. "Please, Sylus, need it."

At first you think the bastard is doing this for himself, but as soon as you finish gasping out the words, his hand moves from your neck to your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to look across the room. 

Forcing you to look right at Rafayel.

Still bound and gagged, desperate doesn’t begin to describe him. Straining against his bounds, Rafayel’s entire body is shaking, trembling from either need or fury, gripping the leather until his knuckles turn white. Sunset eyes are glassy, blown out with unshed tears as they struggle to focus on everywhere Sylus touches you, the bruises against your neck, the quiver in your leg, the slick dripping down your thighs up to your clothed cunt.

Fuck, he’s hard. Rafayel’s cock strains painfully against his pants, an obvious dark spot tented up against his trousers, rocking against empty air with a muffled sob.

He looks more wrecked than you, and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

And that realization does horrible, terrible things to you. 

“Please. Need you, need it s’bad it hurts. Wanna cum so, so badly, please,” you whine, deliberately sweet, locking eyes with Rafayel as you drag out your moan. “Sylus.”

There’s a click of a belt buckle and you’re being lifted up into the air. Sylus holds you up by the backs of your knees, completely at his mercy as your hands flail against the restraints pulled taut above your head. Your legs are spread wide, hugged tight to his chest as you feel his length, hot and desperate, pressing into your ass. 

"Hold her down."

The shadows pull taut, wrapping around your knees as they allow Sylus’s hands to wander elsewhere, suspending you against him. At the same time, his fingers are hooked against your panties, snapping them against your weeping cunt and giving Rafayel the perfect view as the two men lock eyes.

Rafayel’s reaction is almost immediate, falling forward in the chair, moans stifled against the shadows as he watches Sylus push your panties to the side and then, without warning, thrust two fingers in knuckle-deep. 

"You're so sensitive, aren't you, sweetie? Or is it because he’s watching?" As you cry the man simply drags you flush against his chest, forcing your legs higher as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. And looks Rafayel dead in the eyes. “She’s taking me so well, isn’t she?”

Sylus follows Rafayel’s gaze, unfocused and starving as he watches the two of you, more specifically, where your cunt greedily sucks up Sylus’s fingers, meeting every grind and curl of him deep inside you as you writhe against his chest. 

Rafayel hates it, he hates it, and he hates how turned on he is at the sight.

You’re so easy, walls clenching around his digits, obscene suck following each and every movement as clear evidence even as your words fail you. With another curl of his fingers, Sylus twists his wrist, admiring the glint of your slick dripping down his palm and forearm. So wet, even as he purposefully avoids giving you what you’re seeking, planning to drive you insane before fucking you in any way that matters.

A particularly deep thrust of Sylus’s fingers has him grazing that sweet spot, and your entire body convulses, your cries echoing across the empty room in time to the lewd, wet squelches of Sylus’s ministrations. You're sobbing, struggling to find respite from the sensations as your legs tremble and familiar heat coils in your core embarrassingly fast. 

"Ah, ah," Sylus chides, and his touch disappears, leaving you empty and unsatisfied as your head lolls back against his shoulder. It takes all of your willpower not to beg him to keep going, but the look on his face makes it clear you're not allowed.

"I need—”

"You need," his grip is firm, "To learn patience. Aren’t you forgetting something? If you cum so quickly, do you really think you’ll be able to handle the both of us?"

Sylus says that, and yet he’s not exactly helping. Finally giving attention to your clit, his pace is merciless, the slick sounds of your pussy sucking his fingers in making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yes. Yes, Sylus, I want ah– wait," you gasp, unable to move, squirming in the air as you look directly at Rafayel, almost in a plea. But that only makes the poor man almost cum at the eye contact. His entire body flushes an erotic pink at the sight of you, pathetic whimpers and unintelligible praises muffled into the shadows.

Sylus smirks, feeling you clench around his fingers, and grinds forward, your protests dissolving into static as you feel his cock grind between your thighs. Fuck, you’re close.

But Sylus isn’t looking down at you, not anymore. He’s rather focused on the poor man looking nearly hypnotized at the show you’re so generously putting on. 

So why not take it further? Sylus directs his Evol down, ripping Rafayel’s shirt and squeezing his thighs as they tease and tighten against his trembling muscles, grinning at the man practically falling apart without so much as a touch. 

"You want a taste, puppy?” 

Sylus smirks, kissing down your neck, finally undoing his Evol gagging Rafayel’s mouth as a pathetic whine echoes across the room alongside every heaving breath. “Ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you. If she cums, she’s all yours."

Rafayel has never wanted to burn a building down so badly before. 

He's a god for fuck's sake—he, the bringer of tempests, the master of tidal waves, and the keeper of fire, unable to even fucking breathe at the sight of you. This is not desire; this is sacrilege. 

But then he hears it. His name. Shattered, trembling, falling from your lips like prayers ripped from a throat too broken to care—Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel—your thighs quivering in the air, your body offering to something you don’t fully understand, each syllable searing through him like molten iron, branding him, unmaking him.

Rafayel’s fingers twitch with the need to destroy—burn, drown, something. But when you scream his name once more, cumming around Sylus’s fingers, the god inside him shatters.

"Please," his throat is raw from cursing through the gag, each word tasting like ash and salt on his tongue. "Please, Sylus."

It’s not enough. Sylus tilts his head, amused. Rafayel sucks in a shuddering breath, nearly falling from the chair to his knees as the restraints loosen.

"You want a god to beg?" Rafayel laughs, fury crackling beneath his desperation. "I’ll beg. I’ll kneel. I’ll crawl to her. Please, just let me taste. Don’t make me wait anymore."

“Then crawl.”

You’re only just coming down from your orgasm, bits of Rafayel’s and Sylus’s nth argument flickering through your mind— before you’re suddenly gasping for breath. 

A silent scream rips from your mouth as the restraints above you flicker with every tremor that seizes your body, knees buckling as a searing sensation against your leg bites again.

You didn’t even see Rafayel get off the chair, let alone process when he got on his knees beneath you. 

“Rafayel!” Looking down through tear-lined lashes, you watch the man lick his lips, his only apology a wet, messy kiss to the violet bruise already blooming against your inner thigh. He’s whimpering apologies into your leg, tongue slipping out to meet your quivering skin, collecting your sweat and dripping slick, smearing it higher and higher along your inner thigh. You swear no human tongue is that long.

As if coordinated, the moment Sylus releases your leg from his hold, Rafayel drapes it over his shoulder, your body suspended between them. Your hands writhe helplessly above your head, desperate to lace themselves into the man's hair and pull— closer or further, you do not know. 

Rafayel’s yanking you forward, moaning into your cunt as his lips meet your own swollen ones—too hasty, too depraved to even think of pulling aside your sticky panties. He’s eating through the fabric like a man starved, teeth grazing your clit as his tongue slips under, burying himself between your folds, tongue fucking up into you as his moans and whines are muffled only by your own and the wet squelches of your cunt.

"I— R-Rafayel—Sylus!"

Your head rolls back, falling onto Sylus’s chest as you feel Rafayel moan, the vibrations sending a shockwave up your spine. Your cum is dripping down his chin and chest, and he’s lost in the heat and taste of you, head spinning as he makes out with your pussy, sucking the drenched fabric of your panties, his poor neglected cock straining against his pants, begging for attention. In truth, Rafayel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life.

Rafayel presses closer, nose brushing against your clit in sync with the curling and twisting of his tongue as it reaches that spongy abused spot deep inside you, the hot friction enough to send your eyes rocking into the back of your skull. 

Now you’re certain, the way it writhes inside you is most definitely far from human. 

Sylus is more than content to just watch over your shoulder, transfixed. Watch as the god kneels beneath you, head moving in a frenzy, desperate for more, a slave to his own hunger. When you try to writhe away from Rafayel, overstimulated, Sylus merely wraps his burly forearms around your waist and neck to pin you in place, the squeeze of Sylus’s biceps and Rafayel’s kissing to your cunt making you gloriously light-headed. 

Sylus watches your muscles begin to tremor, thighs locking around Rafayel’s head, and he brings his palm down to curl his fingers up into you alongside Rafayel’s tongue. 

“My, just look at you.” Sylus chuckles against your forehead as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, stifling your moans as you bite—hard—down into his sweat-slicked skin. “So needy for the both of us. Do you remember now? Do you realize the only thing your body craves is us, that we will be the only ones ever able to satisfy you?”

"Sylus, oh god, please," you moan, already delirious as you beg. 

Rafayel's head snaps up, panting between your legs, your wetness shining on his chin. He glares at the man above him, his eyes alight before pressing a rough kiss to your clit. 

"I’m your god. Do not speak to him while I'm touching you.” Rafayel’s mouth is back on your cunt, sucking, biting, and he reaches a hand up to rip the remaining fabric of your dress, squeezing your breast. "You're mine, You’re mine too. You were mine first, don’t forget that again." 

Rafayel feels the way you tense around his tongue and Sylus’s fingers and frowns, sucking harder, faster. You are a symphony in their ears, a drug in their veins, and gods, Rafayel has never felt so high.

 "Say it. Say my name,” he whines, drooling against your folds, "you're mine. All mine."

You can barely breathe.

"Say it."

"Yours, Rafayel," you cry out, your entire body shaking, "I'm yours."

"Again," he’s pleading, a growl, and you can feel it inside you, the vibration and the desperation. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, the dizziness in his vision to kiss your clit—missing, placing wet, opened-mouth kisses against your thighs and cunt a few times instead.  "Say it again."

"Yours, always, always," you can feel the tears running down your cheeks, a sob wrenching from your throat as the pressure grows, "yours, Rafayel, I'm yours—"

You’re babbling, so, so fucked out you don’t even recognize the familiar letters Rafayel presses into your clit with every swirl of his tongue—R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L—spelling his name as if in reminder. In possession. In worship.

The two of you are practically overstimulating yourselves, and Sylus can see the moment your eyes roll back, your lips parting with a moan, and moves his fingers to curl against your g-spot at the same time Rafayel goes back to licking up into your cunt. The god growls at the interruption and nips Sylus’s fingers almost on instinct, causing Sylus to hiss as you jerk in his hold. 

Immediately, Sylus is reaching down, yanking on Rafayel’s hair, forcing his head out from beneath you. “Ah-ah, no biting.”

But, gods, does Rafayel fight it. Whining, Rafayel reluctantly slips his tongue out from your cunt, dazed and addicted, eyes half-lidded as he attempts to find his way back to you, finally forced back onto his heels. 

"The fuck do you think you're doing? Sylus, I swear to the seas I’ll set everything on fire and let it all burn," Rafayel snarls, his body shaking with desire.

Sylus laughs. "Is that how a good boy asks?"

Neither of you misses the full shiver that races down Rafayel’s spine at the pet name. Sylus forces Rafayel’s head to the side with his grip on his hair and the god snaps out of it, smiling with the promise of blood as your cum drips from his canines. 

"I have killed for less."

"I’ll make it worth the effort, puppy. I promise."

Sylus's eyes burn into him, a silent dare. A challenge. Rafayel's gaze shifts back and forth between Sylus and you, his teeth grinding together as his cock strains against his pants. There are only two choices left, and he knows it.

“Will both of you stop fighting and please—” you scream at their stupidity, “Please just fuck me!”

Their hands are on you in an instant.

Sylus drags Rafayel up by the hair, pushing the man back as he stumbles backward onto the couch, you falling on top of him as Sylus bends you over the leather arm. Immediately, you feel the hot press of Sylus against your ass, his body caging you between them as his arms rest on the back of the couch and right beside Rafayel’s head. 

“Make him come, and I’ll fuck you,” Sylus whispers into your ear, guiding your back into a deeper arch until your breasts graze the cold leather. 

He doesn’t even finish talking before you’re pawing at Rafayel’s pants. 

You don’t need the extra motivation, not really, not when you’re already salivating at the sight of Rafayel’s pretty length, heavy and leaking as it snaps up to his abdomen as soon as you shove down his boxers.

Overly eager, you thumb at his slit, collecting the copious amounts of sticky pre-cum dripping onto his stomach as you drag your hand up and down, watching anger fade from Rafayel’s expression entirely as he writhes against the couch. 

You’ve barely even touched him and he’s falling apart. The sheen of sweat makes his muscles stick to the leather as he bucks up into your touch, babbling pleas as he watches you lean down to kiss the tip. "Poor baby. You’re this hard from just watching?"

"Please," Rafayel begs, gasping as your hand squeezes against the base of his pretty cock. "Wanna fuck you. Wanna be inside you. Please."

You hesitate, almost looking over your shoulder at Sylus for permission when you’re lifted up into the air with a yelp. Sylus only needs one arm to hoist you over the arm of the couch, dropping you onto Rafayel’s lap as the both of you moan at the mere contact of skin on skin. 

It should be embarrassing, the fact that you’re so wet that at the first few attempts, Rafayel’s cock merely slides between your thighs, grinding into your clit before trying again, Sylus cooing sweet nothings to the both of you as he purposely slows you down.

One of his large hands begins grinding you onto Rafayel’s length, letting you take him inch by inch, the other moving to stop the man beneath you from squirming, pinning him down. 

"Mhm fuck, Raf, feels so good." Relishing the stretch you finally, finally, get. Greedily sinking faster as you chase the addictive feeling, down until your ass hits his pelvis with a lewd squelch.

"Ah," Rafayel tries to meet you halfway, tries to thrust up into you but can’t so much as move with Sylus’s hand and Evol holding him down yet again. “Sylus, please, let me. Need it, need it so bad.”

The sound of Rafayel moaning Sylus’s name really shouldn’t be that hot, and yet you feel your pussy flutter, Rafayel’s cock twitching violently in you as he groans from the sudden pressure, throbbing in time to your heartbeat. Rolling your hips, you chase the friction of his pelvis against your clit, grinding back and forth as your breathing reduces to small cries of their names. 

"You can do better than that," Sylus scoffs, hand squeezing your hip, pressing down onto your lower abdomen before dragging you all the way off Rafayel’s length and slamming you back down. Again. And again.

Both of you lose your minds a little at that. Your moan is muffled as you collapse down onto Rafayel’s chest, panting, drooling at the pace Sylus is setting for you, still moving your hips as you try to distract yourself by placing messy, opened-mouth kisses up Rafayel’s heaving chest. Biting his nipple just to watch him arch into your mouth with a sob. Wanting, needing more. 

Sylus rocks you forward just a bit more and you scream, the fat head of Rafayel’s cock now ramming into your g-spot, raw and sensitive.

"Please, fuck," Rafayel gasps out, shaking at the change in angle. His jaw hangs deliriously open as he looks down, greedy eyes locked on the way your cunt was swallowing him whole. “Don’t stop, m’close. Please, ah—shit, don’t squeeze me like that— don’t stop.”

Sylus’s low laugh makes your cunt throb, gushing around Rafayel’s cock as the sticky, creamy strands begin to pool where your thighs meet. Still guiding you up and down, Sylus moves to finger at your clit, smiling as the both of you tense up immediately, smacking up once, twice, onto your oversensitive nub. 

“Very well then, make him cum. Poor thing deserves it, right?” Sylus whispers into your ear, spreading two fingers across the glossy mess between your bodies, watching your combined slick drip down his wrist. You watch him withdraw his glistening fingers with a smug, feral grin, immediately leaning down to press the digits into Rafayel’s open mouth. 

Every sound is unrestrained now, Rafayel’s eyes rolling back at the taste of you coating Sylus’s fingers, sucking diligently as his pace speeds up into brutal, frantic thrusts. Rafayel’s hips freely jerk up as he plants his feet into the couch, new leverage letting him ram himself deeper, barely pulling out before rolling his hips back into yours. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuuuck."

"Cum, puppy, I know you're close."

You swallow your cries just long enough to lick across Rafayel’s blushing red ear and whisper, "Be a good boy and cum for us, Raf. Come inside me, please?”

It hits him so hard it hurts.

Rafayel cries as he cums, loud, sweet moans garbled against Sylus’s fingers, drooling around him nearly as much as his cock is drooling in you, the sheer heat of his release filling you to the brim as it squirts down your thighs and up his abs in thick rivulets. But he’s still grinding up into you as he cums, fucking his release deeper, arching his muscled back into a gorgeous curve on the soaked leather, and you feel your own orgasm quickly approaching.

"Rafayel, Sylus, wait please, too much, I’m gonna—"

"You can take it, kitten.” Sylus cuts you off, retracting his fingers from Rafayel’s mouth before tapping them against his cheek, smearing the wetness of his digits down his jaw.

Rafayel gets the message, still thrusting, hands squeezing your breasts, waist, down to your ass, spreading your thighs until they shake, all as Sylus keeps moving your hips. The two of them working together as your body shudders, orgasm hitting you without any other warning. 

Sylus hums sweet praises as your head floats in and out of reality, still deliciously stretched around Rafayel’s still-hard cock. The couch dips as Sylus settles in behind you, the heat of his bare skin caressing your back as his hands massage comforting little circles into yours and Rafayel’s hips. 

“Good job, baby.”

Both of you shudder at the praise. 

Sylus’s voice acts as little more than an aphrodisiac, all low and rough with a teasing chuckle, and the way you feel Rafayel twitch inside you makes you think he feels similarly. 

“Hey,” Rafayel’s already embarrassingly close to coming again, your every movement tightening and rocking against his length. He pushes himself up onto his elbows with a whine, nuzzling into your touch with each slow, deep thrust. “You’re taking too long. Hurry up, a deal is a deal, so hurry up already and fuck her.”  

You can’t see it, but the sight of you and Rafayel still subtly grinding against each other, panting and breathless, makes a dark flush spread across Sylus’s cheeks, his own body betraying him as he smiles. One thick arm anchors you to his chest as the other pulls Rafayel up. “So needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t know who he’s talking to— you don’t particularly care. 

Not so long as both of them were inside you within the next five seconds. 

“Shh,” Sylus kisses you quiet, silencing the whines you didn’t even realize you were letting out, "Don't worry, kitten. We're gonna take real good care of you, aren't we, Rafayel?"

Rafayel only nods, eyes half-lidded and teary as he looks down to where you and him are joined. He's still buried to the hilt, throbbing against your walls, and you both moan at the overstimulation from every movement, hissing at the cool air as Sylus slides his hands down to pull you apart, fingers pressing against his cock inside you.

"Just relax, alright? Deep breaths. This'll feel really good soon."

Slow. Torturously slow. Sylus retreats his fingers and replaces them with his weeping tip. And then he’s pushing in alongside Rafayel’s cock— careful, deep grinds of his hips that have you and Rafayel moaning, every heartbeat pulsing against your walls in violent thumps. 

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Breathe, Raf."

"I'll burn you alive."

Sylus laughs at Rafayel's pained whine, and he takes that moment to tighten his arm around your waist, forcing you steady before thrusting in one brutal push. The sheer size of them, the combined pressure, and the very fact that you can feel them both rocking and throbbing against each other is enough to have you losing your mind. 

Dropping his head to kiss your shoulders, Sylus almost looks apologetic as he turns your head to the side, messily licking into your lips as he says, “M’sorry, just a bit more. Just a bit- hah fuck- a bit deeper—” 

Oh fuck, he’s not even in all the way yet.

Rafayel is moaning nonstop now, his hands finding yours and squeezing, the two of you trembling. You're a drooling, overstimulated mess between them, but all you can do is nod, a garbled, “S’okay, keep- keep going.”

That's the last warning you get before Sylus pushes deeper, until you can feel him in your throat, pound after heavy pound that shakes the entire damn couch. Holy fuck, it might break. 

They’re caging you in on either side, rhythmless, bouncing you like little more than a toy, pressing closer as the pressure grows against your walls and around your hips, reminding you of just how small you are to them in every conceivable way and how far they’re willing to go for you. How willing of worship they are. How desperate they are to prove it. 

You can feel everything, so full you can barely breathe, can barely think. Shaky fingers claw down anything you can find, digging into hard planes of muscle, and Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth like it hurts. But he isn't holding back either, the grip on your thighs bruising as he fucks into you, every thrust a sharp shock of pleasure as he and Sylus rock against one another.

The room is filled with the lewd squelch of their cocks fucking into your wet cunt, taking turns in deep, uneven tempos, and the heavy, ragged sounds of your breathing.

Sylus suddenly moans, loud and unrestrained against your shoulder, and you look back to see Rafayel’s hand squeezing the pale column of his neck, the slow lick of flames leaving bright red marks against his skin in the shape of Rafayel’s palm.

But the pain only seems to set Sylus off further, a harsh thrust into your ass forcing you forward and deeper onto Rafayel as well, nearly delirious as you’re stuck between their silent competition yet again.

Rafayel’s mouth gasps open in a feverish puff of your name over and over when you already begin clenching, practically milking them back in, pace stuttering as his swollen tip takes turns colliding with Sylus’s own and your cervix. Half-delirious, his palm comes up, pressing right where he could feel both of their cocks making a mess of you inside. 

“Ah! W-what-”

“Mhm, you deserve a reward don’t you cutie?” He’s panting against your mouth while Sylus bites the filthiest of words into the crook of your neck. The lovebites they’ve swathed across your skin will take days, if not weeks to disappear, but you’re far too gone to pay them any mind. “Take it, take our cum then. Right here.”

Rafayel’s palm digs into your lower stomach, hard.

His thrusts are short and frantic now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as you tighten impossibly around him. The pressure builds until you can't breathe, your body shaking and toes curling as you scream out little ah’s of their names.

"Wanna-" Rafayel can barely finish his sentence, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock knocking against your cervix. "Wanna fill you up, make sure you never forget. Never forget us again.”

Sylus on the other hand almost looks pained at the idea, and the sudden rush of possessiveness makes his thrusts harsher, rougher, and the sound of his hips colliding with yours fills the room.

“Yes yes yes- hah- want you to cum inside.” Arching between them, grappling pathetically for more. More. “Both of you inside, want it.”

"Careful." Sylus growls, forcing himself to breathe. To think. 

Rafayel only grins, a wicked edge to his fucked-out smile. “It’d be our mark. All ours. Our love, all full of us, our cum. You'd look so good like that, our sweet darling.”

You cry, burying your face in Rafayel's neck, his hair, the smell of him, of Sylus. "Wanna- want—ahh—want it, Sylus, please- want to feel it, want to be both of yours.”

“Don’t.” Sylus can't help but hiss, his cock swell violently inside of you, the telltale heat pooling in his stomach of a dragon marking his territory. He’s so close it’s embarrassing. 

Instead, his mouth finds your throat, sucking more bruises into the side Rafayel hasn’t completely marred. "Do you really want this? Think about it, kitten."

Rafayel laughs, squeezing your face in his hand as a low trill sounds from the back of his throat. “You believe—mhm, fuck—she can think right now?”

Sylus chooses to ignore him. Gently taking your face from Rafayel, he covers your eyes, whispering into your ear, "One more time. Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

There's no response, but the sudden, painful press of Sylus's bite makes you gasp, the sharp sting a pleasant contrast to the sweet ache spreading throughout your body. A hand pulls against your waist, another flicking cruelly across your nipple, pain and pleasure bleeding into one as you nearly collapse, two sets of hands immediately steading you instead. Rafayel moves to the unoccupied side of your neck, matching Sylus’s marks, the vulgar sounds of their tongues and sucking of teeth between moans fills your ears, just above the slap of their rough thrusts. 

Twin marks, the jaws of a Lemurian and the canines of a dragon, glowing a dull blue and red, claiming your body and soul in a way that their bonds sing. 

Sylus immediately retracts, kissing away the few escaped droplets of blood in apology while Rafayel lets them run, licking up your collarbone as the blood smears across your heartbeat, frantic under his tongue. 

Rafayel's tongue soothes the pain as he kisses the mark, sighing a soft, “ours,” into your neck.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave through your body, and you can't help but shudder, walls spasming around them as the pleasure nearly blinds you, every sense heightened by Sylus’s palm still covering your eyes. 

Without sight, every touch, every shift of their bodies against yours, in yours, is overwhelming. And you’re crying out into the darkness as they tease and drag you up, forcing you closer and closer— 

Fuck, you’re squirting everywhere. Each thrust now punctuated by wet slaps as your hands claw and slip against the drenched muscles of Rafayel’s abs and Sylus’s chest, unable to anchor yourself as you continue to cum. Shaking with it. 

They barely notice, the sudden vice of your cunt sucking them inside as they fuck into you in shallow, desperate little grinds. Anything to get deeper and deeper still, one kissing you as you feel their tongue lick up into you and the other playing with your clit, all three of you quickly losing your minds.

It’s impossibly messy, desperate. Neither of them has any control left, both cumming inside you as you continue to convulse around them, Sylus's hips stuttering as you feel the full, hot press of his release. Rafayel isn't far behind, whining and twitching, filling you up as their combined release gushes around your thighs, staining the leather couch below with dripping pools of it.

The feeling of being so full is enough to prolong your orgasm to the point of pain, and you scream their names as best you can when you can’t feel your tongue anymore, body convulsing.

You're still dizzy when Rafayel finally pulls away, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the feeling.

“So good, so pretty for us cutie, our sweet darling, you did so well." Rafayel’s babbling to himself with a lopsided smile, guiding Sylus’s hand to your navel. "Look, look. She's so full."

Sylus pulls back, heaving, his eyes immediately falling to where Rafayel's hand rests. He can feel it, can feel both of their releases seeping out, but Rafayel is right, your lower stomach is swollen. Not quite enough to show, but definitely enough to make them both moan, and the sound draws your attention back down to earth.

“Again.”

It's the first demand you’ve given in a while, and it’s not what Sylus expected, not with the way you barely seem lucid, but there's a bright flush to your cheeks and an excited glint in your eyes, and it's so fucking hot he can barely breathe. 

What Sylus also didn’t expect was for you to immediately lift yourself off his dick, busy watching your combined spend trickle down your thighs before both you and Rafayel knock Sylus onto his back, looking equal parts feral and furious as the two of you work together to pin him down. 

“You really didn’t think I’d let you get away with everything you pulled in the beginning, did you?” 

You nod, biting into Sylus’s neck as you whisper in faux anger. “This is entirely your fault.”

Sylus could barely manage to hide his smile. 

Who knows if any of you will make it out of this alive. The only lasting truth you know now is that they’ve irreversibly claimed you. That you’ve claimed them. 

Your dragon and your god.

This is all for @jayhyunglover who sparked this obsession while I was stuck in NYC's airport-- what a way to start 2025. Regardless, a month later this was born, so thank you, darling for feeding my delusions. This one's for you~

[kashverse]

*inhales* PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GIVE US MORE TEACHER NANAMI AND TEACHER READER OLEASE I AM BEGGING ON MY KNEES I PROMISE TO GIVE YOU MY FIRST CHILD EVERYTHING YIU NEED PLEASE JUST GIVE US MORE TEACHER NANAMIII 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

everyone keep their children to themselves...!!!

the day nanami realized he was madly in love with you was not some dramatic, earth-shattering moment. no, it was when he walked into your classroom, expecting to borrow a simple whiteboard marker, and instead found you holding a live pigeon like some kind of disney princess. "why," he began slowly, blinking at the scene before him, "are you holding a pigeon?"

"oh, hey, nanami," you greeted him, as if nothing about this situation was abnormal. "meet genie."

"genie." he repeated, tone flat.

"yeah! the kids wanted to name him 'mr. pipi,' but, you know… obvious reasons."

nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. "right. obvious reasons."

the children were gathered around you, eyes wide with wonder, absolutely enchanted by the pigeon sitting comfortably in your hands. the bird, for whatever reason, looked completely at peace. in fact, it looked happy. "we were talking about birds today," you explained cheerfully. "and i thought, what better way to learn than with a real one?"

"and how did you acquire a real one?" nanami asked, already dreading the answer.

"i found him in the parking lot. he just let me pick him up."

"of course he did," nanami muttered, because if there was anyone who could just randomly befriend a pigeon, it was you. as you continued your enthusiastic (if wildly inaccurate) explanation of bird anatomy, nanami barely registered the nonsense leaving your mouth.

“this is his wing, and he uses it to flap around.”

("very informative," nanami murmured sarcastically.)

“this is his beak, it's like a built-in spoon!”

("i'm going to pretend i didn't hear that.")

“and his feathers help him fly, just like how airplanes have wings!”

("you are personally offending every biologist alive.")

but the kids were enamored. they nodded along, absolutely believing every word you said. meanwhile, nanami’s class—who had followed him like little ducklings—stood in the doorway crying about how they wanted a pigeon too.

"mr. nanami, it's not fair!"

"we wanna see genie too!"

"why does their class get a cool bird and we don’t?!"

nanami sighed. “we are not getting a pigeon.”

a week later, nanami's class had a hamster named pringles. “so,” you said, leaning against his desk as he watched pringles roll around in his little enclosure, “how does it feel, being out-parented?”

"we are not their parents," nanami deadpanned.

"aren't we?" you grinned. "i mean, we literally argued over pet custody. we had meetings to ensure genie and pringles had separate, safe spaces. you had a full-blown existential crisis when genie tried to eat pringles."

nanami massaged his temples. "genie should not have been near pringles in the first place."

"oh, so now you agree with me?" you teased. he sighed. "i always agreed with you. i just—" he cut himself off, lips pressing into a thin line. you tilted your head. "just what?"

he glanced at you, at the way you smiled at him so effortlessly, and he felt the realization hit him like a freight train. 

he was so incredibly, hopelessly in love with you.

"...nothing," he muttered. "i'm going to lunch."

"oh! combined lunch today?"

"no."

you laughed, and nanami hated how it made his heart race.

[kunareads]

who's the cute guy with the wide, blue eyes?

actor!satoru x popstar!reader

in which you, pop princess, and satoru gojo, hollywood's favorite menace, start to discover your bed chem.

next

series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2k

part one!!! bring back PDA interrupted by circumstance!!!!!!!!!!!! maybe part 2 by the weekend

content: tension, fluff, mutual pining, some smau, they make out, PDA, reader and satoru match each other's freak publicly

18+ please i block children <3

+++

the red carpet is chaos as usual. cameras flash in satoru's face, photographers shout for his attention, reporters talk over one another. he eats it up, flashing that easy, blinding grin, soaking up the energy like he was made for it. he's always been good at this, turning attention into a performance, a game he never loses.

but something's different tonight.

his attention catches onto a figure across the carpet, and for the first time all evening, the noise fades to static.

you.

draped in something sheer, delicate but dangerous, dripping in light like you were meant to be stared at. not just ethereal, but untouchable, in the way that makes people want to reach for you anyway. you're working the cameras, holding their attention easily. every turn of your head, every flicker of your gaze is intentional, calculated. you know what you're doing and you do it well.

satoru doesn't realize he's staring until suguru elbows him.

"you've been looking at her for a full minute," suguru says, barely suppressing a grin. "are you making a move or just writing poetry in your head?"

satoru huffs a laugh, rolling his shoulders back as if to shake off whatever spell he's under. "please. you think i need to make a move?"

suguru gives him a look that says yes, actually.

satoru hums, considering. he rarely hesitates, especially when it comes to people. but he finds himself debating his approach.

does he bump into you? send suguru to get you? just stand here, watching, until you come to him?

then you glance his way.

he thinks it's an accident at first, a passing sweep of your gaze, but it lingers a second too long. a flicker of awareness, like you felt him looking. like you know exactly what you're doing when your eyes catch his and hold, when your lips part slightly like you have something to say.

for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo wonders if he's about to be outplayed.

+++

the moment you step onto the carpet, you own it.

you know how to work a camera, how to shift just enough for the light to hit perfectly, how to let the gown drape over your frame like it was made just for you (it was). the flashes go off like they can't get enough of you, and they can't. you smile just enough, turn a little, hold their attention before moving on. you've done this a thousand times, but tonight, something feels different.

it's a prickle at the back of your neck, a sensation you can't quite place until your gaze sweeps across the carpet and locks onto him.

satoru gojo.

white jacket, dark sunglasses, bright grin, standing there like he's been waiting for you to notice him. you meet his gaze head-on, unhurried, letting him know you see him.

you're used to attention. you know how to handle it. and you've admired him in passing, maybe entertained a fleeting what-if. but standing here now, with his eyes on you, the energy shifts. he's not just a name, a face, or a headline. he's here, watching, waiting. and for the first time tonight, you feel entertained.

he stops in front of you, hands in his pockets, like this was inevitable.

"if we keep staring at each other like this," he says, head tilting, voice all amusement, "someone's gonna write an article about it."

you don't miss a beat. "then maybe you should stop looking."

his grin widens, shameless. "you overestimate my self-control."

it's immediate, the way you fall into it. playful, effortless, a push and pull that neither of you really wants to stop. his presence is overwhelming but not unwelcome, and for the first time tonight, you feel entertained.

you hold his gaze for just a second longer than necessary before turning away, moving down the carpet like you have somewhere to be. but even as you walk, you can feel his eyes on you, can hear the barely-there chuckle he lets out, like he's already made a decision.

and you're sure that before the night is over, you'll make one too.

+++

the interviewers don't waste time. the moment they catch you separately, the questions start coming. you're used to answering on autopilot, smiling like you mean it, keeping things just interesting enough to be quotable. but tonight, you already know which soundbite is about to take off.

"you and satoru gojo seemed to hit it off on the carpet," a journalist says, mic tilted towards you, eyes glinting with interest. "anything we should know?"

you let out a soft laugh, measured but warm. "he's charming, i'll give him that."

the interviewer's eyebrows raise like she's just struck gold. you don't offer anything else, just a tiny, knowing smile before moving on.

across the venue, satoru's doing what he does best: playing into it. the moment someone asks about you, he's grinning, easy and unbothered.

"she might be my new favorite distraction," he says, his voice teasing, smooth. the reporter practically beams, watching the headlines write themselves.

and sure enough, the internet gets to work before the event is even over.

@/celebritea: "he's charming, i'll give him that" / "she's my new favorite distraction" PINERS WE ARE SO BACK

@/fathergojo: "my new favorite distraction" is INSANE work for someone you just met

@/ynglow: "charming" and "favorite distraction"… yeah i'm seated

edits appear in record time. slow-motion close-ups of lingering eye contact, captions dissecting every micro-expression, fan cams set to inappropriate music. by the time the event is over, the internet has already decided: this is a developing situation.

and you don't mind one bit.

+++

the afterparty is a different world.

gone are the blinding flashes and choreography of the red carpet. here, the lighting is low, the music is loud, and the air is thick with the kind of energy that turns fleeting moments into industry legends.

it's kento nanami's party—expensive and exclusive. invitations aren't sent, they're granted. and a lot of people are still waiting for theirs.

satoru walks in like he owns the place. and to be fair, he might as well. he's in a sheer black shirt, his sleeves casually rolled up, the collar undone just enough to hint at something. his usual ease is intact, but there's a sharpness to his presence, like he's playing a game no one else knows about.

you're already there when he spots you, haloed by light, draped in something different from before but just as devastating. the dress is shorter now, clings in ways that demand attention, and the way your jewelry catches the light makes it impossible to look away.

satoru doesn't bother pretending he's not watching. the space bends for him as he he makes his way over, weaving through industry elites and familiar faces, his focus locked in place.

you feel him before you see him, the shift in the air unmistakable. when you turn, he's already close.

"you know they think we already fucked, right?" he says, voice smooth and teasing.

your lips curve. "that sounds like a them problem."

his grin widens, flashing white in the dim light. "could be an us problem."

the song changes, but the beat stays the same.

the music pulses through the space, a slow, heady bass line that seems to move through your bones. there are people everywhere, but you can only focus on the weight of his gaze.

his fingers brush yours, questioning, before curling around your hand fully. without a word, he leads you past the crowd through the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, slipping into a quieter corner. low lighting, no people. out of sight, but not out of reach.

his hand settles at your waist, light at first, just the suggestion of touch.

you don't pull away. instead, you lean in, just enough to test the tension, to see how far it'll stretch before it snaps.

it doesn't take long.

one step, then another, until your back finds a wall and his body follows, heat and intent pressed against you. the breath you take is steady, but the way he looks at you isn't—teasing, sharp edges wrapped in amusement. his thigh slots between yours, firm and deliberate, and your fingers fist into the thin fabric of his shirt.

his lips brush your ear when he speaks, teasing and effortless. "you should stop me," he murmurs, but you can already hear the grin in his voice, like he's hoping you won't.

you don't.

and he doesn't.

his mouth finds yours, testing, like he's discovered something new. you match him easily, fingers sliding into his hair, teasing at the roots, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him hum against your lips. you commit the sound to memory, make a note to pull it from him again.

your hips roll against his leg, slow and deliberate, and he mirrors you, savoring the friction like it's a game you're both intent on playing. the tension builds, heady and unhurried, each movement a tease of more, but only if either of you decides to take it there. but right now? the fun is in the waiting.

the bass thrums through the floor, threading through the moment like a quiet underscore, a pulse that syncs with your own. there are no cameras, no audience. just the two of you, caught in the moment you've made for yourselves.

your fingers skim along the buttons of his shirt, undoing one, then another, knuckles brushing against the heat of his skin. his lips brush against your neck, featherlight, and you let out a sigh.

his hands are confident and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to figure you out. his mouth traces over your skin, a slow, deliberate path from your neck to your jaw and down, pausing at the hollow of your throat and then back up.

it's slow, but there's a hunger to it, an energy that makes itself known as his hand slides down the curve of your ass, squeezing enough to pull a soft noise from you.

you arch into the touch, a silent encouragement that makes him smile against your skin.

the moment lingers, stretching between breaths, until a voice cuts through, cool and unimpressed.

"try not to cause headlines under my roof," kento says, barely sparing you both a glance.

satoru huffs a laugh, stepping back just enough to be appropriate. but the look you give each other promises this isn't over.

not even close.

+++

you wake up to the relentless buzz of your phone, notifications stacked so high they bleed past the preview limit. the first thing you process is the sheer volume of them: texts, missed calls, headlines. the second thing is the realization that they're all about last night.

you blink against the morning light, head foggy with sleep, before rolling over and unlocking your phone. big mistake.

the group chat is already on fire.

and then you start scrolling through headlines.

are we witnessing the start of hollywood’s next power couple?

satoru gojo and y/n: met gala’s most talked-about pair takes it to the afterparty!

y/n and satoru gojo: just friends or something more?

and the tweets.

@/gojo4president: not to be dramatic but these afterparty photos feel like something i shouldn’t be seeing with my own two eyes

@/ynuniverse: satoru gojo has spent YEARS as hollywood’s most eligible menace and now he’s looking at y/n like she personally invented desire. we are witnessing a collapse

@/trendwatcher: insiders say satoru gojo and y/n were ‘inseparable’ at the met gala afterparty before parting ways for the night. no comments from either camp.

you scroll through the notifications, eyes skimming over the headlines, the tweets, the texts. you exhale, then lock your phone.

people are going to talk. they always do. you may as well go about your day.

you’ve already brushed your teeth and made your coffee when your phone buzzes again, and this time, you’re not surprised.

tags (ongoing): @moonchhu @httpstoyosi @lavnder311 @harryzcherry @perkypeony @katecupcakekate @hellicify @oh-my-god-donald @jupiterbinnie @i88b0nten

[d0rothydraws]

Piercing

(You have nipple piercings and Sylus finds out. I might do a part 2 is people want it i have ideas.)

You never thought that you would be the kind of person to do this yet here you were. You were out with some friends, as one does. Maybe you were slightly tipsy, maybe someone planted an idea earlier that night. You didn't really know. All you did know is you were laying on a padded chair, shirt off as a man was piercing your nipples.

Now you knew you wouldn't regret it. If anything, you could always take them out and the hole would close eventually. But as the piercings healed and you got used to it, you loved it. It wasn't as uncomfortable as you thought it would be and also it was like jewelry only you could see. Well, you and..

The night Sylus discovered your piercings was a night you would never remember. You had been what some would call dating for a month or so. While you tried to take it slow because you felt like that was the responsible thing to do, things just felt very natural with him. Though physically, you didn't take the leap yet. At least, fully.

There were plenty of nights where you were on his lap. His hand between your thighs, lips on yours. Yet for some reason you didn't feel ready to fully reveal yourself to him. Call it insecurity or maybe even the fear of it all ending up being for nothing, like usual. You didn't really know.

It was your weekend off work and you came over to his place to destress. You had made plans to watch some movies, play some board games and maybe even finally if you were brave enough, take that final step of intimacy. Coming straight from work Friday night you were still in your work clothes as you arrived. You already had everything you needed at his place. A whole dresser of clothes, your own shampoo and body wash. Any toiletries. If you ran out, he restocked. It was like a second home.

Sylus was still out finishing up god knows what which meant you were alone to your own devices. A fresh change of clothes was calling your name. Moving through the house you entered a room that you continued to deny was yours even though it had more of your items in it than your own room in your apartment. Opening the dresser you pulled out a tank top and some shorts.

Maybe you were still tired from work, maybe you couldn't hear over the song you were humming. Either way, you failed to notice that you no longer were alone. You turned your head to toss your work shirt in the clothes hamper to be washed and in turn was met with ruby eyes. They weren't looking at yours though like usual. They were looking lower.

It took you a moment to realize, you pulled your bra off with your shirt. Not the best for your bra's lifespan. But the best for convivence. So there you stood, in front of Sylus. Topless as your little secret was exposed. You felt heat pull in your gut. This isn't how you wanted the big reveal to happen, but the look on his face made you feel.. powerful. He looked hungry. You even seen his adams apple bob just a bit as he swallowed. With just a simple action you made this man look like he was going to devour you. But even still, he knew you had boundaries. No mater how badly he wanted to touch you.

"My my, kitten." He said, his voice low as he tore his eyes away from your chest to look at you. "Now that is a surprise I wasn't expecting." His voice was teasing but playful. He chuckled slightly, raising an eyebrow. "I wonder if you have any other secrets to uncover."

You didn't know if it was the adrenaline of being walked in on or the look in his eye but your body moved before your mind caught up to you. You stood in front of him as you took his hand and moved it to your breast. Your heart raced as his fingers began to play with the piercing. Taking a deep breath to try and steady your nerves and quickly growing heat that was beginning to boil inside you, you took a step closer so his hand was pushed even more against the soft tissue.

"Why don't you come find out?"

That's all it took before his lips were on yours. His free hand moving to cradle your head as his other hand continued to play with your nipple. You stepped back. He followed. Another step back, and again. Each one until the back of your legs pressed against the bed. Pulling back from the kiss you looked up at him. He looked back at you, his eyes intense but waiting. He was letting you have full control, for now at least.

"I always wanted to try something." You admitted, feeling your heart in your throat. You motioned for him to sit on the bed and as he did you straddled him, not able to stop yourself from pushing your hips against his just enough to make him groan. You had barely done anything to him. You weren't even fully naked. Yet you could feel how much you effected him.

You curled a hand into his hair as you guided his lips to your chest. He didn't need anymore instructions. His teeth toyed with the metal, pulling slightly as it made you gasp. His tongue brushing against your nipple before he pulled it into his mouth. Your head fell back as your eyes closed. A groan vibrated against your skin as he licked and bit at your sensitive skin. After a few minuets he pulled back with a growl before he moved in on the other one. His hips rutted up against you making you moan. His hands moving to your hips as you moved back against him. It felt like he was devouring you.

You heard a slight wet sound as he pulled away from your nipple to lick up your chest and neck. Shivering as the air hit your sensitive, wet skin. A hand moved up your side to cup one of your breasts, thumb and finger playing with your piercing. His voice was a low purr that made your skin tingle.

"I'm not going to be able to keep my hands of you, sweetie."

~

I havent written anything in so long im tired im sorry. i found this prompt in my drafts and ran with it

[colorlessjay]

I imagine that when s16 Dean pops back, s16 Cas will mention some super boring thing he and s6 Dean did together and be jealous. Hit tweet

Jealous Dean is a flavor of Dean I can never get enough of. Is it cliche? Yes. Can it be toxic? absolutely. Do I still seek it out in tags because it scratches the itch in my brain that goes 'hehehe'? almost daily

So here's my brain worms:

Dean's not an insecure man

okay because he is, but he's been working on it and Cas has definitely helped with his self-esteem over the years

And-

fuck it he's jealous. He's jealous and cranky about it and it's all his own fault

"Dean"

"What?" Dean snaps, jaw clenched as he sulks on his nice leather recliner. Yes, he's sulking. Shut up

"You're upset"

"Thanks, Captain Obvious"

"And Bitchy"

"Next you're gonna tell me I have a dick and balls"

Cas does a full-body eye-roll at Dean. Damn it it's cute but Dean's pissy and he's gonna stay pissy for as long as he can help it

"Years of marriage and being by your side, and your behavior still somehow alludes me." Cas places his book down on the coffee table before grunting. "All this crankiness over me baking your younger self a pie"

Dean can feel his heckles raise just at the thought. Because knowing Cas, it was that special honey apple pie he only bakes on Dean's birthday. That the little fucker (the asshole that is his younger self) didn't shower his husband in love and praise the second he got served a slice (not that Dean wanted his younger self to, only he got to do that). A slice made by the hands of a literal Fallen Angel of the Lord, blessed by God himself (Jack usually taste tested)

Dean sinks further into his recliner like the leather is eating him, all while Cas stands by his side, hands on his hips in a now familiar pose of annoyance, a single brow raised as he expects a reply

Jokes on Cas. That only turns Dean on

not the time

"Yeah well, the ungrateful shit didn't deserve it"

"The 'ungrateful shit' you speak of mowed our lawn, walked our dog and made me breakfast. All while trying to find a way back to his own timeline"

"Yeah well, I could've done all of that"

Cas gives him the 'Are you serious?' "You did, both 15 years ago and last week, at the same time. May I remade you, you are being jealous of yourself?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"It's ridiculous"

"It's not"

"it is" Cas insists, sounding exasperated, rolling his eyes again. Dean wants to kiss away the scrunch between his brows... Focus up, Winchester! "You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of"

"Oh so I got nothing to be jealous of when my hot angel husband was left alone with a sexually confused pent-up Hunter?" Dean scoffs and turns his head away "'slike the start of a shitty porno... Only I'm not playing the Hunter"

Dean grunts as a familiar weight lands on his lap, making him sink further into the recliner. Big hands gently grab his jaw and turn his head, locking eyes with those beautiful blue eyes that always hum with angelic grace

"Dean. You have nothing to be jealous of" Cas says slow and firm, like he's punctuating every word. His eyes dance with amusement as he stares Dean down "You wanna know why?"

Dean gulps, feeling his heart flutter already as he's hands find familiar purchase on Cas' hips "yeah..."

"Because" Cas leans close, breathing the words over Dean's lips "-

-------

-------

-------

So I realized there wasn't a part of this I could cut off so imma stop myself here and go to sleep

anyways, good night :D

[themoonlitquill]

Whispers Woven in Shadow. (2/?)

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; 𝖠𝗓𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖮𝖢 (𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅).

���𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; Okay, first of all, you guys are AMAZING. 🥹🩵 Thank you so much for all the love and comments on the first chapter! I honestly didn’t think anyone would like it because of all the incredible Azriel fics out there, but I’m grateful for how well-received it is! I hope you enjoy this just as much! And thank you again to @coffeebooksrain18 for the moodboard. She does an amazing job, so check her out pls!

𝖳𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ; 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲, 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿-𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗶𝗹.

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ; 3633.

The shadow spoke in a breathless whisper, trickling in with the cool breeze of the night, and a hand flew up to her mouth. She held in whatever sound was threatening to burst free and struggled for a minute to remain focused.

I can hear you in my head! Just like I do myself. Oh! Ariadne blinks in a rush, her vision becoming watery. You’re the first voice that I’ve ever heard in my life besides my own! This is incredible! Have I always been able to do this?

Since you were Made.

Does this mean I can talk to anyone now? Ariadne felt like she was going to explode, every one of her limbs trembling as she tried to process exactly what it was that was happening; she could hear - not in a traditional sense, but it was still something - and it was the most exciting thing that she had ever had.

Once you learn.

She supposed that made sense. It would be just like anything else; practice makes perfect and being immortal meant she had nothing but time, right?

Will you… help? Ariadne opens her palm as the shadow circles around before wrapping around her arm. Normally, I’d teach myself but this isn’t exactly the same as what I’ve done in the past. I don’t even know where to start. Does Azriel know you’re here? Did he send you? Does he know too? Does anyone else?

You will be led in the right direction. And no to your other questions.

How did you end up knowing? Especially when no one else did? That was what was bothering her the most. If the shadows were commanded, then why had this one in particular broke away from the rest to come to her?

The shadows gather information from all across Prythian and have come across Daemati before. They are rare, but they are out there. Feyre Cursebreaker is one. We could sense it in you.

Then why wouldn’t Azriel know? Aren’t you supposed to report everything to him?

Not always.

It sounded almost amused at that and Ariadne was beginning to realize that Azriel’s shadows had a mind of their own. Emotion too. That would definitely be something.

But for now, you need to sleep. There are bruises under your eyes.

She rests her other hand in her lap, trailing the tip of her finger along the embroidered filigree. I don’t sleep very well.

You have nightmares.

Her eyes widened a fraction. How did you know that?

When you made the entrance in the wall in your mind, you allowed access to what is inside and everything is chaotic in here. I did not snoop.

A tickling sensation bubbles up in her throat and Ariadne quickly swallows it back down; she didn’t know what her laugh sounded like, so she didn’t do it often. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed.

I don’t know why, but I believe you. I’ll… work on the chaos, the corner of her mouth curves upwards, not quite a smile but it was progress. And I’ll try to sleep too. I won’t make any promises though.

Good. Tomorrow, we will go to the library.

Ariadne’s gaze flicks to the closed door and she nibbles on the inside of her lip. Today was the first time she had left this room and now she was going to do it the very next day? Even if - she had to admit - it wasn’t so bad. Nothing horrible happened to her and she had managed to do what she wanted, almost, on her own.

Surely she could make it to the library and back with a similar result.

Alright, she nods. I can do that.

Of course you can. Sleep now.

The shadow’s whisper leaves her mind and she blinks, feeling around at the opalescent wall to see the opening was still there. How could she close it? Think of it molding back, Ariadne takes a breath. Piece by piece until it’s shut.

She grits her teeth with the effort it takes, a bit of sweat forming on her brow as the pressure builds beneath her skull; her breaths were heavier and there was a flash of bright light behind her eyes, yet she continued on until it began to come together.

It wasn’t happening as fast as she would’ve liked and it hurt, but by that damn Cauldron, she was doing it.

And she couldn’t help the glimmer of pride that shone in her when the opening closed completely, leaving only that moonlight glow behind.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

The nightmares came as they always did. In flashes of images that she desperately wanted to forget and in bursts of pain that reminded her she had screamed in the water after being thrown in, and there had been no one to hear her as liquid filled her lungs, cutting off her air supply and choking, burning. Too much. It felt like everything was on fire and she was being torched from the inside out.

And she never wanted to feel that ever again.

It also led to her only lightly napping for a couple hours, which did her no good at all, but she was in no position to complain either. Everything had happened so quickly, even if she was sleeping well, it would still take awhile to recover.

At least she tried.

Ariadne had managed to wash up in the bathroom, which actually went better than she thought, and was already dressed, though she didn’t eat. Her appetite could still use some work. None of it was appealing and made her want to vomit, in truth, so that was for another day.

The shadow hadn’t come back yet and it was approaching mid-morning. Did that mean she was expected to go alone? She’d never been there before and sure, the kitchen was easy enough to find, but what if this was harder?

And that means what? That you’re going to quit? You’ve dealt with worse and you can make it to the library on your own, Ariadne stands with a huff and strides over to the door, opening it and walking out to the left instead of the right. See, I can do it myself.

She keeps going with purpose in each step and passes by the doors that housed more bedrooms until she reaches the end of the hall. It curves to the left and she decides to follow it, figuring this was the best option right now.

I wonder if Nesta has at least been reading. I know she’s worried about Elain, but she needs to worry about herself too, Ariadne glances over her shoulder as if she would find the steely-eyed gaze of her sister and is relieved when she doesn’t. Maybe you could bring her some after you’re done.

It would give her a chance to feel some sort of connection back to their old life and what she loved to do.

They all needed that.

Ariadne’s fingers twitch and she takes a breath as she looks up to see a set of double doors, made of some sort of mahogany - she guessed - with iron handles. Hilarious, she rolls her eyes and pulls it open to see inside. Ah-ha! I’m good at this.

She’d found the library.

It smelled like ink and paper with a hint of lemons. And it was cozy too, with overstuffed armchairs and a loveseat arranged around the fireplace, decorative pillows, tables with potted lilies and vines, stacks of notes, plush rugs, and rows and rows of shelves filled with books.

You gotta be kidding me, Ariadne walks over to one of the shelves and runs her fingers over the spines. There has to be hundreds in here. This is insane, she bites her bottom lip. Where do I even start?

She squints at the titles and selects a few that she thought might be useful, along with one or two that just seemed like they would be fun to read. It couldn’t hurt to see what type of fiction was over here in Prythian.

After gathering them all in her arms, Ariadne makes her way over to one of the armchairs and sets the stack of books on the small table beside it. She moves to grab for plain paper and something to write with when a bound leather notebook and a cream colored quill with an inkpot appears right before her eyes.

Just like the orange juice, she sits down and pulls her legs up underneath herself. Amazing, really. I didn’t even have to ask you to do that, the first book she grabs is one about magic and powers of the Fae in Prythian; if any of them would have information about Daemati, this would - probably - be the one.

Ariadne flips it open and runs her finger along the page, finding herself wondering how old it was, how far the history went back. It was truly something to think about.

The seven Courts of Prythian each have a type of magic that is specific to that area and the High Lords are the most powerful, some of them even having additional abilities.

Winter Court Fae have ice manipulation, which also extends to frost and snow.

Autumn Court Fae have fire, able to create and wield flames.

Summer Court Fae control water, forming it into any shape, any size, and will it where they wish.

Spring Court Fae are connected to the earth and air, finding their power in nature and blending into their surroundings.

Dawn Court Fae brings the art of healing, producing some of the greatest Healers in Prythian, talented enough to mend any injury.

Day Court Fae have light and are able to break through darkness, showing the truth. High Lord Helion is known as the Spell-Cleaver.

Night Court Fae controls darkness, bending it to their will and stealing sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell.

Ariadne tilts her head and quickly grabs the notebook and quill, settling the inkpot on the arm of the chair and beginning to jot down notes. She wanted to know everything that she could; Feyre came back with multiple powers after being resurrected and who was to say the same hadn’t happened to her?

She deserved to know that about herself if that were the case.

To control the mind is deadly. If a Fae holds this power and wields it against another, death is certain to follow.

That didn’t seem like something she would be able to do, so maybe it was just the mind reading then? Or rather, Daemati? What was the difference?

Ariadne underlines a few times and turns through the pages in search of the word ‘Daemati’, knowing that there had to be something. Rare or not.

They are called Daemati. This is an exceedingly rare gift that the Mother only hands out to those She chooses. A Fae who has this ability can read, influence, and shatter one’s mind.

Many, especially those in positions of power, learn to train against a Daemati. The methods differ for each Fae and each Court.

So it did mean she would be able to do that. Supposedly. But how? Ariadne wasn’t a violent person and to crush someone’s mind and kill them? There was no way she could ever be capable of something like that.

Not in a million years.

All she wanted was to be able to talk with another person - even if it wasn’t the usual way, who cares? - and then it wouldn’t just be her anymore, which was huge. It was something she had wanted for a long time and she would be a fool not to at least venture into the mind reading portion of it.

And letting in another person like she had managed with the shadow last night.

Ariadne wanted to figure out how, but it seemed that whoever had written this one decided not to give out too much information on the subject. I could ask Rhysand? He’s one, isn’t he? But I have no idea how to ask him and even if I did… I don’t really want to, she frowns.

It can’t be too hard. If a Daemati controls the mind, then I’d need something to protect myself, wouldn’t I? That’s what that wall could’ve been. Think about it, she taps her finger on the page. You had to create an opening for the shadow to get in and be able talk to you, then when it left, you had to close it back.

Her finger moves faster and she sits up a little straighter, writing down a few more notes. That keeps people out, but also lets people in, she dips the end of the quill into the ink. And from what the shadow said, it could see I had nightmares and said it was chaotic, so maybe I have to organize everything and keep certain things locked away. Like in a safe.

The movement of the quill across the paper quickened, putting all Ariadne’s thoughts in black and white, her mind racing with how much she was discovering and absorbing already.

That’ll be hard, considering I’ve never had to worry about anyone being in my head before. Not impossible though, which is good. Where should I start? Raising and lowering the wall? That would be the obvious choice, she places the cap on the inkpot and sets it back on the table, not wanting it to spill. Okay, her eyes fall to a close. Imagine a doorway forming in the light, a big enough space for a person. Just like last time.

She takes a steadying breath with her hands clasped together in her lap, beginning to focus on an entryway and feeling her body shake with the effort; her nails dig into soft flesh and she withholds a wince, knowing that her concentration couldn’t be broken, not when the wall was coming apart little by little.

Come on, come on, Ariadne’s brow furrows and she bites down on the inside of her lip, her breathing slightly quicker and more labored than usual. Almost there. A little more and you got it.

With a final push, the opening appears in the same spot it had before and she very nearly cheers aloud, but quickly decides against it and instead, she gives herself a small pat on the back. Well done, Ari! Again.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

She wasn’t sure how long she spent in the library, a few hours at least, or how long she had been practicing opening and closing the door in her mind, but she was sure that she needed a break. It seemed she had gone too far and exhausted herself even more so than she already was.

Probably not the best idea.

And she realized how deep she had gone with the way her once artfully messy bun was now falling to the nape of her neck, strands of rich brown and caramel frazzled in complete disarray; what a sight she must be.

Ariadne sighs and closes all the books she had read through, stacking them on the table along with the notebook and standing up to stretch herself out. A couple of her joints pop and she makes a face. What time is it? It has to be past lunch, she wiggles her toes against the carpet, thinking for a moment.

You should probably try and eat something. When was the last time you even ate? Do you remember? She couldn’t. It must’ve been when she was still human, which definitely wasn’t a good thing.

With a final sigh, Ariadne leaves the library and makes her way back in the direction that she came, knowing that she would be able to find the kitchen again fairly easily. She didn’t really want any food, but it had been awhile and she had to have something eventually, if she didn’t want to waste away to nothing, that is.

She enters the kitchen and finds it empty, as usual, her hands splaying out across the countertop as she mulls over what she might be able to keep down.

Soup, maybe? I won’t have to chew and it sounds less intimidating than anything else, a small hum, followed by honey eyes lifting to gaze at the ceiling. Would you mind getting me some? Tomato, please. Nice and hot.

There’s a shift in the air and in a matter of seconds, a steaming bowl appears in front of her, along with a spoon and a porcelain cup filled with tea; Ariadne offers the smallest hint of a smile. Thank you.

She grabs one of the stools and pulls it over before perching herself on top of it, feet dangling a few feet off the floor as she leans over to take the first spoonful into her mouth. It was smooth and creamy, igniting her tastebuds with the flavor of tomato, basil, and a subtle heat - pepper flake? - that elicited a small groan from her throat.

It was one of the best things she had ever had and she wanted to scold herself for not eating sooner. Better late than never, I suppose. Right?

Ariadne continues to eat, taking a small break in-between bites to add milk and sugar to her tea; she stirs it slowly and taps the spoon lightly on the rim before taking a sip. Her eyelids flutter. Gods, that’s good, she licks her lips and goes back to the soup. I should check on Nesta and Elain after this, shouldn’t I? But what would I be able to do? I still don’t know how to talk to them yet. Maybe waiting would be the smarter decision. I’m sure the last thing Nesta wants to do is read or write anything down.

The youngest Archeron was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the little shadow that had flitted towards her until she felt a cool sensation around her ankle. She looks down and her eyes brighten, immediately working to open the doorway in the shimmering wall of her mind.

It happens fairly quickly, much easier than it had when she first started, and she feels the presence of it enter.

There you are! I thought you said ‘we’ were going to the library.

The shadow wraps tighter around Ariadne’s ankle, its voice still that same breathy whisper. You managed just fine without me. It’s time you realize and accept that you are capable of more than you think.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. How did it know her so well already? It was a bit unsettling, but not entirely unwelcome. Then why are you here now? If I can manage so well without you, as you say.

We were worried.

We?

Yes, Ariadne. We.

There was a part of her that wanted to ask more questions, but she also felt that if she were supposed to know, she would’ve been told. She had never been one to pry, always fearing that she would be overstepping somehow.

And even though the shadow wasn’t a real person talking to her, it was all she had right now and she wasn’t about to make it go away by not shutting up when she needed to.

Which is why she chooses to change the subject instead.

I know how to make the entry in the wall and how to close it. I practiced for a few hours. Not perfected, but that should mean I’ll be able to talk to someone else now, yeah? Ariadne feels goosebumps rise on her skin when it moves from her ankle to her calf, then disappearing entirely. Hey! Where did you g-!

The shadow reappears on her shoulder, the end of it looping through her hair and she felt a small vibration in the back of her mind; was it… purring?

No. Surely not. That was ridiculous.

Very good. I am proud of you. And yes, you should try it.

A warmth blossoms in Ariadne’s chest, spreading through her veins and giving her a sense of something akin to happiness. No one had ever been proud of her before. There was never a reason to be and now that there was, she found she liked the feeling.

What else had she missed out on?

Thank you! That’s sweet of you to say and it means a lot actually, her head turns, hand lifting to brush her fingers over the silken shadow. I’m nervous though, she swallows. I don’t know if how I talk in my head is okay for a normal conversation. What if…

She falls silent. What if she sounded… wrong?

What if how she ‘talked’ was silly and amateur? What if she didn’t make sense and confused them? Ariadne thought she sounded alright, but then again, no one could read minds as humans and tell her otherwise; she could come off utterly ridiculous for all she knew.

Do not think that way about yourself, the shadow’s whisper had changed, now holding a slight edge to its words and she couldn’t help but wonder why. You have a brilliant mind and what you are lacking does not take away from that in any way.

Ariadne blinks, caught off guard and momentarily rendered speechless. It was strange; it almost seemed… upset with her, which didn’t make sense. Why would it be when it barely knew her? Either she was predictable or more had been seen last night than what was admitted.

I just don’t want to be… foolish, her tone had lowered, now a whisper of her own, though it was meek and not at all like how she normally was. I’ve only ever talked to myself and how would I know what I’m going to sound like to another person?

No way to know unless you try.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ; @ashblooddragons , @rcarbo1 , @waytoomanyteenagefeels , @prettylittlewrites .

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | 12.5

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 3k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing, infidelity, suggestive/implied smut, indications of a toxic relationship, very broken relationship at this point actually, lots of back and forth, also pls remember i didn't put any hard dates to things that have happened so i couldn't tell u exactly what day, time and season iseul decided to be like this 🫤, crying, yelling, a sprinkle of violence (like a push, slamming hand against the wall, throwing objects), hints of manipulation and gaslighting

—on rotation: oceans & engines - niki | blame - bryson tiller

⇢ POSTDOC | EARLY YR 3

Love does not prevail.

Love does not conquer all.

San used to think it did, but as he's been sitting in his old room at his parents' home, he's realizing that wasn't the case for him. He tries, and he tries. He tries to make himself believe that it still can conquer all, and that it still can prevail. He tries to tell himself that it wasn't him, that he did no wrong. That this was just a fucking dream he's waiting to wake up from.

He tries to believe what he has is still love.

He tries to believe he is still worthy of receiving love and being loved; of not sitting in this heartache for long.

—FLASHBACK

San is exhausted, but he's excited to be coming home a whole day earlier than planned to surprise Iseul. He caught the next flight out as soon as his commitments during the conference had wrapped up, ready to come to his wife and be in her arms. He couldn't wait to hold her, kiss her, and shower her with love especially because they had been arguing lately. It's like that was the only form of communication they knew.

All he wanted was to stop— to make up and to give her everything, to have her back and to just be.. happy.

Why were they even fighting so much?

Iseul felt distant and he wasn't sure how to bring her back. But, he'd try his damn hardest. She was his wife and he loved her so. He would never give up no matter how hard it got.

It never used to be this way.

San picks up Iseul's favorite perfume from the Duty Free and stops by a quick flower stand to grab a small bouquet of roses. He calls an Uber that comes in less than 5 minutes— San gently setting his carry-on bag in the trunk before plopping into the backseat with the roses and perfume sitting on his lap. He texts Iseul as if he hasn't returned, trying to keep the surprise under wraps as much as possible. He's trying to see what she's up to and if she ate for dinner, but she hasn't responded.

Which, again, wasn't entirely uncommon behavior from Iseul.

But, since they had been fighting and arguing so much recently, the pauses and breaks in between texts seemed to be getting longer and longer— a tiny detail he refused to look at because it would unravel the rest of the problems he had been brushing under the rug;

Problems he stuck at the back end of a book.

He texted her close to three hours ago. 

San didn't really know why Iseul was so angry with him sometimes. She argued and she would say things that made him feel like something deep within her resented him more than loved him. He's aware he's not the best with his time management, he's aware that, sometimes, he makes her feel like she comes after everything else.

He's aware.

He'll acknowledge his mistakes and short-comings, but he'll always make up for it. He isn't perfect, but he'll always try. Always.

When the cab pulls up to the house, nothing feels unusual. He feels like he sees Yunho's car parked on the side street a house down, but that wouldn't be too unusual since he's always around. But, it does feel a little weird that he would be here when San wasn't home. The two had been really close as of lately, and it felt like Yunho had gotten closer to Iseul than he had been with San.

Yet, another tiny detail he refused to look into because of all the possibilities.

They could never.

San felt so naive, but they could never.

He gets inside the house and the living room TV is still on. Kinda loud, actually. There's two wine glasses sitting on the counter, both empty with remnants of red wine pooling at the bottom. San sets his work bag down before carrying his carry-on duffle upstairs with him, along with the flowers and perfume.

Funny that they aren't down here.

He climbs up the steps, wondering if Iseul was in the room and Yunho was busy doing something else? He can't come up with anything because there isn't really anything to do up here.

They're still nowhere to be found.

He feels his heart beating out of his chest.

Because he nears their door and Iseul is making those sounds she makes when San makes love to her. Except, she's a little louder this time. Throws in some giggles. At first, San thinks he's dreaming; that there's no way she could be doing this to him right now. 

There's no way. She was his wife.

She would never.

They would never.

Then, the door creaks open from the harsh breeze that comes in through the cracked window of the room. San gets a glimpse of the bed and the sheets are different. Things feel different.

And that's because they are. 

Everything is different, and everything will be different from here on out.

If only San knew that, if only he caught on earlier.

Would've saved his ass from the heartbreak that was about to be catered to him on a silver platter.

The sounds are indeed leaving Iseul's lips, and as soon as San pushes the door open, he almost wished it could have been anybody else if this were literally the circumstances that were meant to find him. If this was going to happen either way, he really wished it was somebody else. Because why is he watching Yunho grip Iseul's hips the way he normally would when she's on top? 

Why is he looking at her the way he is— like she's everything to him, like she holds all the answers he's been looking for, like he.. loves her.

San doesn't even know what to say at first, he doesn't even process this. He just drops his things to the ground, along with Iseul's perfume and the flowers. The thud is enough to make them turn their attention towards the door, immediately pulling on the sheets when Iseul hops off of him.

They look at him in shock.

What was he doing here?

Ironic, San has the same question.

"You two actually can't be serious." He says close to a whisper, a pathetic chuckle leaving his lips because what in the actual hell is going on? "You can't be serious." He repeats, but this time, his tone is laced with disbelief, confusion. Anger. "You can't be serious!" His tone rises.

"W-why are you here? I-I thought you weren't coming home for another day."

"Oh, so that's how you'd be filling in your time while I'm away?" He scoffs angrily. "I should've known, I should've fucking known!" He's yelling now, and he hasn't yelled like this ever. "You couldn't even save me from all this fucking mess?!" He aggressively runs his hand down his face, hands placed on his hips as he paces around. Not even sure where the fuck to look while Yunho and Iseul are scrambling to get themselves together and out of the damn bed.

The damn bed he shares with his wife.

"San— I can—" 

"What the fuck can you explain?!" He grabs the closest thing to him, which happens to be the tiny vase full of fresh lavender that Iseul bought recently and throws it against the wall in pure rage, frustration. "Huh?! What the fuck can you possibly explain, Iseul! Do you think I'm stupid? Do you take me as a dumbass?" He pounds his hand against the wall near the doorway.

He scares himself. 

He has never been this angry.

He has never felt himself feel so different and worked up, almost borderline toxic, in a relationship. It feels so wrong, it feels so unhealthy. Unlike him.

"How long?" He mutters.

"It was just—"

"How long!" He yells again, and it startles Iseul and Yunho.

"A month or so." Maybe he shouldn't have asked. There's so much uncertainty in her tone, she can't even remember the exact time this all began.

It all blended.

It was a blur.

It could've been more. Feels like. Yunho gives her a look and it's obvious.

She's lying.

"I should've known. I should've known. I should've known." San keeps repeating to himself, tears are streaming down his cheeks even though he's more livid than anything.

"I'll just go—"

"No, you stay. I'll go." He almost growls lowly at Yunho.

"San—" Iseul calls for him. All of a sudden. 

"No, don't. Don't call for me because you weren't doing that before. This is it, Iseul. You don't get to call me, you don't get to ask me to do anything. You don't need me! Stick with him since that's what's been happening all along. Aren't I right? You two really deserve each other."

"San." Yunho sighs, slipping into his shirt as San is about to head out of the door. 

"We should really just talk about this—" 

"What the fuck is there to talk about?! What is wrong with the both of you, wasn't that enough of an explanation?" Yunho mistakenly places a hand on his shoulder to try and get him to turn back, but San pushes him with so much force that Yunho stumbles against the drawer and causes a frame to tumble and fall to the ground. "Don't touch me." He glares at Yunho, eyes glazed over as hot tears brim his lids. "Do not touch me ever again. I don't need any explanations, I don't need anything." He swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm done with the both of you." He slips the ring off of his finger and tosses it near the bed, letting it land on the floor as it slips down the sheets. "Have it, Iseul. Take it all. That's what you do best." He is barely able to get out. "I'll come back to grab things when you aren't around."

"San!" She cries for him, slipping on her robe to chase after him. Yunho grabs her by the wrist and tries to stop her, shaking his head as a way to tell her to let it go. She quickly eyes the roses and the perfume near the bed, causing her to snatch her wrist out of his grip. She heads down the stairs and continues to call for San even though he's already in his car and about to pull out of the garage.

She cries as she frustratingly runs her hands through her hair, unsure of how she could try to salvage her marriage.

How could she bring him back?

—END

He checks the time and realizes Iseul won't be around the house right now due to some lab dinner she's attending. He still sees her calendar linked to his and he's close to deleting it, but he needs to grab the rest of his things before he can do so. They haven't really talked about that night because she's good at playing her game. She's tried, and she's tried.

She keeps crying for him, calling for him.

She came back running right after the whole thing. Then, they fought. She ran back to Yunho. 

Came back. 

It makes him so confused and so, so tired to be dancing in circles. He might be dumb for falling for it every time, especially when things clearly haven't changed. Why does he have to fight for a spot with Yunho? 

He was her husband.

He shouldn't have to.

What else could she possibly want from him? 

He was done with this. He was tired, and he was done.

His parents aren't home either [thank god, he can't take another second of them nagging and prying], so he swipes his keys off the counter and leaves with haste. He's trying to avoid a run-in with Iseul because all he wants to do is grab his shit and leave in peace.

He doesn't even know what's gonna happen to the house, he's not even sure if he would want it should she give it up in the end. Every corner is gonna be painted with her face, even Yunho's, when it was meant to be a happy home for two people.

Them.

San sighs heavily as he makes the trek down to the house, which is kinda far but he doesn't mind the drive. It's peaceful, it's relaxing; it calms his nerves. He blasts his music through the speakers, zipping through the highway and the streets before pulling up to the garage. The house is dark and Iseul's car is nowhere to be found. He quickly slips out of the car and unlocks the door, stepping out of his shoes before climbing up the steps to the room. There are some unwashed dishes in the sink and the flowers sitting in the vase have wilted away.

The candle hasn't been replaced with a new one.

The throw blanket on the couch is falling off the edge.

When he gets upstairs, some of Iseul's drawers aren't completely shut. The closet door isn't closed. Her laundry is still unfolded and at the end of the bed they once shared. Sheets are different again, but this time, they're a dull pale baby blue. The extra sheets her mom gifted them when they had first moved in.

Since that night, Iseul hasn't placed flowers in the room. Their pictures are gone.

The shutters remain close. 

All signs of a broken and cold home.

He tries not to pay attention to the feeling settling in his stomach right now— after all, he's on a mission to grab some things and go. He throws a few things into his duffle bag, making sure to grab some extra socks and boxer briefs to last him until his next trip to the house. He's got enough clothes that he could mix and match with so he thinks he's good.

He thinks he's set, and he thinks he managed to slip by unnoticed again.

Except, he hears the front door shut when he heads down the steps. 

"San?" She asks for him softly. He slowly heads down the rest of the stairs and turns the corner to see her standing there. She doesn't look too happy, nor does she look like she's been able to sleep well recently. But, he doesn't think it's fair to put the blame on him for all of that. She did this to them. "Hey."

"I'm done grabbing clothes, I'll be out of your way—" She stops in front of him and he tries to take another step to the side, which was also unsuccessful.

"Wait, why don't you just stay? Aren't you tired of doing this?" He furrows his brows and subtly shakes his head.

"Aren't you, Iseul? I don't know what you want from me."

"San, I'm sorry." Iseul starts to cry to him, making him tear up in return. But, he can't. He's done. He doesn't wanna do this anymore. He deserves better. He's crying because he's exhausted, not because he wants her back or because he misses what he had with her. It's too much of painful memory to even reminisce about. He is just tired. "Please. I'm sorry, I just want you. I don't wanna do this anymore, I— we can fix this, can't we? We can go to counseling and fix this."

"Iseul, no." He pries her off of him, tears streaming down his cheeks. "No, we can't. There isn't anything to fix."

"Don't say that." She almost whines. "I'm sorry, San. Please just— please don't do this. I'm not gonna give this up."

"What makes you think you haven't already? No." He repeats. "You chose that night and you made your decision. You decided to start that whole thing with Yunho, and you decided to let him stay. You let me go, and I don't deserve all of this bullshit, Iseul." He places his hand out to keep his distance when she tries to grab for him once more. "Why can't you stop? Don't you see how fucked up this is?" He cries. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'm so fucking tired. So please, no. I don't want this, please stop putting me through this." He begs. The tears continue to stain his cheeks even as he licks his lips and swallows dryly. He watches as Iseul sobs into her hands and falls to her knees on the floor, but he has nothing else to say.

Nothing left of him to give.

"San."

"I'm gonna go." He whispers, gaining the courage to step aside her and slip into his shoes, walking out as the pain burns him deep in his chest hearing Iseul continuously sob into her hands. When he plops into the driver's seat, he tosses his duffle bag off to the side and lets out a shaky sigh. He continues to cry to himself, digging his own head into his hands before he gathers himself and turns on the car. He doesn't think he should drive right now, but he just wants to go home and be in his own peace. So, he speeds off; though, the world feels like it's caving in on him.

For a second, San thought he deserved all of this. He felt so fucking sorry for himself because he thought he deserved every bit of the hurt, the betrayal, that came his way. Every time he thinks about it, it slices his wounds open all over again, and he feels sick to his stomach.

The pain burns.

His chest feels tight.

He almost feels like he can't breathe.

Because in the end, he learned the hard way.

Love does not prevail.

Love does not conquer all.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thechaotictheoryy @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @mountiiny @naoristerling @onmymymyway @thecutiepieme @wyrated

[seiya-starsniper]

Sweet Hearts

Art by @designtheendless, who is currently taking Valentine's Day commissions for your OTP!

Read below, or over on AO3, and keep an eye out for an additional treat right at the end 💖🥰💖🥰💖

-----

“What—,” Silco asks, staring in horror at his daughter’s latest…acquisition, “in Janna’s name is that?”

“They’re called Sweet Hearts!” Powder answers with far too much excitement. “Aren’t they adorable?” she asks, holding the offending object even closer to Silco’s face. She either doesn’t notice or is choosing to ignore Silco’s disgust at such a—such a blatant waste of money.

The Sweet Heart, as she calls it, appears to be some sort of brightly colored candy…that just so happens to have her boyfriend’s face printed on it. In full color. They’re small, about the size of a copper coin if Silco had to guess. On closer inspection of the clear plastic bag in Powder’s other hand, there appears to be even more of the atrocities inside, including—

“Is that Vander’s face in that bag?” Silco practically screeches. Powder just laughs, tossing the Ekko heart back into the bag to join its unholy brethren, before she lifts it so that the Sweet Hearts are eye level.

“Yeah, Ekko and I sprung for the whole family!” Powder replies, and Silco desperately wants to know, but also not know how much she’s spent on…fancy candy. Why hadn’t Ekko stopped her? Silco was going to have a stern talk with the boy. “There’s a couple of Hearts with your face on them too, don’t worry!” she adds, shaking the bag for effect.

Silco in fact, had not been worrying about his lack of representation in the mixed bag of sugary confections. He’d rather the entire bag not exist at all, but it was already too late to hope for that.

“I—see,” Silco says, for a lack of a better response. “And where, exactly, did you acquire these?” He knows, even without her having to tell him. The bag itself was far too flashy for any of the businesses in Zaun, and only Piltover would find a way to create a single-use profiteering racket that preyed on the sentimentality of something as simple as a loved one’s portrait.

“At the HexChoc factory,” Power replies with a knowing look on her face, and ah damnit, she had him there. Powder knew that Silco only supported spending money on one business in Piltover, due to the fact that it was co-owned by a Zaunite whom Silco deeply respected. The fact that they made extravagant sweets was irrelevant.

“They were demonstrating how to print the images on the hearts on this new machine,” Powder continues, “and also giving out free samples.”

The mischievous grin on his daughter’s face tells Silco that Powder, by virtue of being Powder, had somehow swindled her way into an entire bag full of free heart-printed candies. Well, at least she hadn’t technically spent any money, but at the same time Silco finds himself mildly worried for Viktor’s profit margins. Jayce Talis’s business acumen certainly left plenty to be desired.

“What’s this?” Vander’s voice booms from behind Silco. Silco does not yell in surprise at his husband’s sudden appearance at his side, but it’s a near thing. 

“Sweet Hearts!” Powder answers cheerfully, before she opens the bag and starts digging around inside. Silco’s worried for a moment she’s going to pull one out with Benzo’s face on it, then realizes just a moment too late what she’s actually looking for.

“Look, it’s Silco!” Powder says before Silco can stop her holding out the bright pink heart to Vander, who takes it with a look of confusion. This was getting incredibly out of hand.

“Powder you know Vander doesn’t like sweets,” Silco sighs, before reaching out to take the heart out of his husband’s hand. But Vander snatches his hand back, surprising Silco.

Oh. Oh no.

“Where’d you say you got these, Pow?” Vander asks, voice wobbling as he cradles the candy heart like it’s made of gold.

Oh no, no, no, no, no—

“Jayce and Viktor!” Powder answers. “They said they’d be willing to make us more whenever we wanted too!”

Fuck.

Silco looks at his husband, wide-eyed and emotional over a piece of candy, and then back at his daughter, who has just bitten into a candy heart of Mylo’s face, and lets out a deep sigh. He was never seeing the last of these blasted candy hearts. And with Sweethearts Day around the corner, he was expecting to see a lot of them in the coming days.

“Hand me a Vander heart, Powder.”

Happy early Valentine's Day to the Zaundads/Vanco fandom! Y'all have been SO WONDERFUL to me as I dove headfirst into this ship, and ahead of Zaundads Week, I wanted to give a little token of my appreciation to every person that I've been able to share some joy with 🥰🥰. I love all of you dearly and am so happy to be trapped in this brainrot with you!

[dsudis]

Grey and Green

Written for @fluffbruary (for the 2/4 prompts: grey and green) although it wound up being depressed retired!Dream so whether it counts as fluff may depend on how you feel about depression and retrospective suicidal ideation and so forth.

Warnings for depression and retrospective suicidal ideation! And February!

February, Dream feels, is a strong argument in favor of the void. If he were dead right now, he would not have to cope with February. He could have been dead! And instead here he is. Alive. Human. In February. 

Hob had made some compelling and ultimately persuasive arguments in favor of December and early January. Dream had wound up enjoying those, and coped through the rest of January on that momentum. But now it is February. The days continue to lengthen and yet it is still cold, still grey, still utterly dreary. 

"Sun's actually shining, just this minute," Hob says. "If you're willing to climb out of bed and come look." 

"I am not," Dream says, as icily as possible while curling himself under the faux-fur heated blanket and also keeping his feet tucked under Hob's thigh. "Willing. And what good is the sun, anyway, if it is still so cold and dead everywhere." 

"Mm," Hob says, but it is in a sympathetic register, not amused at all for once, and he adds in a deliciously warm hand wrapped around Dream's ankle. "You've got me there, I s'pose. But hey, give it a few more weeks and it'll be March." 

"That is no argument at all," Dream informs him, feeling wretchedly close to actual tears and too exhausted to weep.  

It is so cold, and he is so tired of being cold, so tired of trying to believe that spring will come, that new life will come, that he will ever feel better than he does right now. He knows that in December he luxuriated in this bed, in all the things that made it cozy and comfortable, but by now it feels like a life raft, like the only place he can survive. He is resigned to this limited horizon; he tries not to think beyond it.  

He lets Hob change the sheets and tuck him in again when he insists, and goes back to sleep. A few weeks; then it will be March. It is no argument, but it is a promise. 

He clings to it, whenever he is forced by the vagaries of his body to be awake. 

One day—two days after that conversation? Three?—Hob waylays him between the toilet and the bed and says, "Come look, I need to show you something." 

His arm is already around Dream as he says it, guiding him to the bedroom door, and it would be more work to argue and resist than to go along. Dream goes where Hob takes him. 

The living room has been rearranged; the television is nowhere in sight and there are narrow tables in front of the windows and between them. The tables are covered in trays, and the trays are full of little cups—some paper drinking cups, some the individual hollows from egg cartons, some seemingly shaped of wet paper left to dry.  

Each one holds a few spoonfuls of dark soil. 

One of them—just one—holds a tiny sprig of green. The two leaves are each smaller than Dream's smallest fingernail, but round and perfect and straining toward the watery February sunlight. 

"What," Dream says, and only realizes as he speaks that he is bending over to peer at it, his nose nearly in the cup. He bends toward it as instinctively as the plant reaches for the light. He can smell the dirt, this close, the warm wet promise of it. Life, all fresh and new. 

"Cucumber, I think," Hob says, curling around him as he bends. "Or else some kind of melon. We'll sort it out by the time they're ready to plant in the ground—I've got an allotment this year, been ages since I could plant a proper garden. Figured I'd do it right, start the seeds early." 

Dream turns his head, narrowing his eyes to squint at Hob. "This early?" 

"Mm," Hob says, this time with a cheerful little twist to his lips. "Near enough. But anyway, it's working. They're growing. That's what the sun is good for, even in February." 

Dream looks down at the little cups again, so many of them still just dark dirt. "Are they... the others..." 

"Just taking a bit more time," Hob said, giving Dream a squeeze about the shoulders. "This one's a bit of a prodigy, so I thought I'd show you." 

Dream studies it again, finding himself once more spellbound at the fresh new greenness of it, and then, looking at the waiting dark dirt of the other cups, he spies the tiniest fleck of that same bright green, just beginning to show through the soil. "Hob! Look, look—" 

Hob peers down at it and exhales a warm, pleased breath. "There, you see? Soon enough it will be more of them, more and more every day." 

Dream nods and begins to examine each cup carefully; by the time he finds a third, Hob has gone off and returned, bringing a chair with him, and Dream's faux fur heated blanket. Dream accepts the chair, perching on it so that he can continue examining the cups, but he hardly needs the blanket. 

The sun is shining on him, as well as the seedlings. For now he is warm enough. 

[This fic is also on Ao3!]

[cyarsk52-20]

You know what. Since a lot of you people fail to realize the problem with Drake let’s break it down for you as someone who is in his age bracket and been around since the very beginning of his career.

He is a manipulator of our culture. Nor does he care about the well beings of the African American artists or fans that he has made money off of and are in need to be in his corner to payback on a deal that is way over his own head. Not to mention he uses his whiteness when it benefits him the most

He is a Canadian international star that has African American ties and gets to benefits off of them while making a mockery our history because of his privilege

When he first started out rappers said this would happened and we chalked it up to ageism and them not wanting new people on the scene but he was just the young money lead hook

New York, Texas, California, and Atlanta all had a heavy influence in his Black sound and yet he has shitted on them all.

To the point he has to backtrack see PND and make amends where he can

So before you say we don’t know why we are no longer fucking with Drake ask yourself can you truly understand the problem with Drake?

[ghostofreach]

IM NOT DEAD🔥🔥🔥

I’m not sick and dying anymore so I’m getting back on the grind🙏🙏🙏 have an old ref sheet of my diluc redesign (with some minor changes) that I just finished (finally lmfaoooo)

This is actually bad news for me because now I don’t have an excuse to draw him inconsistently 💔💔

Ignore the misspelling. NEOW……

Anyway I’m gonna talk about his design because i can 💯

Major points/changes

- he is no longer a twig. Very self explanatory this guy has a big awesome claymore I cannot convince myself that he doesn’t have the means to swing that thing around (one handed no less)

- I darkened his color palette, but I also made it a bit warmer in nature. The pure white right in the middle is a bit distracting and I don’t think it does much to communicate his personality. It just breaks up his design in a way I don’t like.

- scars, yes, but also stitches on his face. I imagine it’s new bruises, stitches, or scabs every week. I know it makes his face just a taaad busy, but idk. Ive been drawing that headcannon for forever atp so I try to accommodate that busyness with lots of flat color by the face to balance everything out

- Just a hint of embroidery here and there. It implies culture and adds just a bit of softness to the design (most of it is on the shawl underneath the fur)

Specific details I want to talk about!

The white fur shawl/scarf/neck warmer/make up a word idk💔

- this serves multiple purposes both thematically and visually

- it creates a ‘barrier’ around his face, not unlike the protective walls that border Mondstadt. It serves to imply his personality without dialogue, a bit closed off and skeptical at first. Almost as if he is trying to shield his peripherals from oncoming foes.

But it is still a soft barrier, and can be easily peeled away to reveal a very kind person at heart.

- it emphasizes the square shape. Not much to say there. Makes his shape language a bit more interesting as well by introducing a softer shape near the top.

- looks a bit like snow, no? Almost like snezhnaya still weighs heavy on his shoulders.

- underneath the fur is a faded red shawl from his mother. The only parts visible from the outside are those golden tassels. I like this bit a lot because it implies that (in reference to the point above) he doesn’t really know a whole lot about his mother or father- it’s buried under mounds of snow. The only thing he has truly been left is their wealth. He’s gonna have to dig if he wants to know their true nature.

-it contrasts very well with the Fatui. Where the harbingers have their signature white coats with black fur, Diluc wears a black coat with white fur

The coat

- it’s wind resistant for sure but also a bit… warm. It’s very thick and long and you can’t actually see a lot of what’s underneath. He’s only showing the viewer a sliver of what’s underneath. Under the rest of the coat? It could be anything. Knives, his vision, maybe even a gun? (Correct assumptions)

-it leaves the average onlooker with a lot of questions but is also very convenient in a fight. Can’t block a surprise knife to the liver if you never even knew he had one on his person.

Miscellaneous

- layers are super prevalent in his design. Especially on his face. From the makeup to the contact, he’s trying really, really hard to convince everyone he is fine (WRONG‼️) the people closest to can tell something is off, but… who are they to say anything?

- the nail polish was initially added because I thought it was funny but I also think it could be effective as a last resort in a fight. Imagine you’re in a fight with a guy and he ignites his fingernails. Scary af.

…I realize that’s probably not possible but it’s really cool so I’m just gonna suspend my belief.

Here’s some hair stuff. I wanna write about mondstadt hair lore in my au/rewrite bc it rots my brain but I have so many wips I gotta do those first

[torturedtypewritersdept]

blue eyes + bruises - blurb - she has your eyes

✯ pairing:

doctor!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

a tragic car accident looks like it'll be the end for you, but dr. cameron is here to make sure that doesn't happen.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, and fear, car accident, death of a spouse (not rafe or y/n), major surgery, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) the next chapter i spent literally so much time on and i can't wait to share it!!!!

You stood at the reception area of the emergency department, an olive green smock-style dress draped over your form as you held the underside of your nine-month-old belly in an attempt to ease the pain of the fifth contraction you’d had in the past hour. You squeezed your eyes shut again as another wave of pain passed over you. 

“Can you page Dr. Rafe Cameron, please?” 

You asked the nurse through clenched teeth who you weren’t familiar with; ‘she must be a new grad’ you thought to yourself. Where’s Jenni when you really need her?

“I sure can, may I ask what he needs to be paged for?” 

You couldn’t blame this newly hired nurse for her question, you were sure that she was wondering why a woman who looked to be in active labor was wanting her to page an orthopedic surgeon. You knew it was procedure unless you were family for them to ask what the doctor was needed for and if you were in your right mind, you would’ve recognized that. But, you weren’t in your right mind – the not sleeping because of the pain in your pelvis was getting to you and with Rafe working days so he could be at home with you at night, there was no way you could wake him up and ask him to do the massage that the physical therapist had taught you. You let out an exasperated sigh and just as you did, Jenni, your most favorite person in the entire world, turned the corner. You were anxious for many reasons; your body about to push out a baby was first on the list, needing to find your husband was second, and the third, and most looming dreadfully, was the fact that apart from lunches and picking your husband up and doctor’s appointments, you hadn’t been in the hospital in a long time – you hadn’t been a patient in a long time and the anxiety of it all was threatening to overtake you completely.

“Ma’am, what does he need to be paged for?” 

The new grad nurse, who you now realized was named Lizzie, asked you again at the same time that Jenni made her way behind the desk. As you read her name tag – you hyper fixated on whether or not it was short for Elizabeth or something else. You and Rafe had thrown around the name Elizabeth for a middle name – a tribute to the eldest Cameron girl, but had decided against it. You wanted your sweet baby to be unique and to grow into her own name, not be in the shadow of someone else’s. 

“Hey, sweet girl, are you looking for Dr. Handsome?” 

She joked, knowing who you had been asking for before even hearing the contents of the conversation in front of her. 

“Yeah.” 

You spoke meekly and Jenni watched you carefully as you squeezed your eyes shut, this time doubling over and yelling out as the contraction attempted to bring you to your knees. She quickly made her way over to you, grabbing your hand in hers and taking your hospital bag from your shoulders, doing her best to bring you back to an upright position. 

“I think we’re having this sweet baby, today, mama.” 

You gingerly nodded with fear stricken eyes. Being back here – in a place where you spent so much of your time – where you met your husband, but also where you struggled to walk again, where you almost died; it all has quickly become too much to handle and you needed Rafe to remind you of the strength it gave you, the beautiful little girl you were about to bring into this world, and the wonderful life it had helped you create. You just needed him and you just needed him now. 

“I can’t do it without him, Jenni. I need you to find him.” 

Your pleading eyes told her all she needed to know – you were scared – and she hadn’t seen you look this way in a long time. 

“Lizzie, call the OR and let Dr. Cameron know that his wife is in labor.” 

She instructed, tone forceful but kind before she looked back at you. 

“Look at me, mama. He’s gonna be with you soon, I promise. But, right now, I’m gonna take you up to Dr. Lebel’s office, okay?” 

It only made sense to move your OB-GYN’s office to the hospital; Rafe worked here and it made attending appointments much easier. Not to mention, he no longer likes the idea of you in a car by yourself, even five years after your accident. You nodded your head at Jenni’s words and let her lead you to the elevator and up to the fourth floor, where Dr. Lebel’s office was located. 

-

You were in the waiting room for ten minutes when Rafe came barreling through the door. You couldn’t help but giggle at how disheveled he was – still draped in the same scrubs he had left the house in that morning; but hair messy and all over the place, and that fucking mustache; even nine months pregnant and in extreme pain, it was heating up your core. You made grabby hands at him like a baby and he obliged with the Rafe Cameron smile, pulling you in for a hug and rubbing your back with both of his hands. 

“Hi, mama. What’s going on, sweetheart?” 

He asked, sweetly, happy to see you, of course, but concerned by the tone of voice Lizzie used when she called the operating room. He quickly got another doctor to step in and finish the surgery he was performing so he could be with you just in case your little bean decided to make her debut into the world, today of all days. 

“I didn’t sleep at all last night.” 

You said, moving to sit back down into the chair as another contraction made its way into your atmosphere, yet again. You doubled over, the pain was growing sharper each time and they were becoming closer together. You knew you were going to meet your baby girl very soon. Rafe moved quickly, grabbing your hands so you didn’t fall forward and scooting you back into the chair that sat in a sea of ones just like it in the somewhat empty waiting room. You opened your eyes as the wave of pain passed and you panted for breath, the fullness of your belly moved up and down with the correlation of your breasts as your lungs expanded to try and get more air. Rafe waited with kind eyes and a patient tongue, letting you finish explaining what was going on before opening his mouth to speak. 

“I tossed and turned all night – the pain in my pelvis – it was just too much.” 

You let out an exasperated sigh, growing quiet as you waited for him to respond. His strong hands moved to your head as he began to rub soothing circles into your hair. The two of you were no strangers to the effects that the accident had on your pregnancy and pelvic pain from the previously crushed bones that Rafe reorchestrated and seemingly put back together was one of them. He was proactive; getting you quickly into prenatal physical therapy by the end of your first trimester and going to every appointment with you, listening to the physical therapist and massaging your hips in the way you liked so much every time he could. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up, baby? I would’ve done that massage you like.” 

He spoke and you almost melted, knowing that had you just woke him, the thing you wanted was what he would’ve done anyways; how very – Rafe Cameron of him.  

“I didn’t want to wake you, sweet boy. I knew you had to work.” 

You replied, cupping his cheek. 

“Yeah, but you’re more important than anything here. You know that, mama. You and my sweet girl in your little tummy are so much more important.” 

Rafe was selfless and if Molly’s death taught him anything, it was not to take the ones you love for granted. That was something he never intended to do again and it was a lesson that had stuck with him, even seven years later. You put your forehead to his and he kissed your nose before you continued with the events of the morning. 

“Anyways, the pain spread from my hips to my tummy this morning and when I had five contractions in an hour, I came in. I think we’re about to have a baby.” 

He almost squealed in excitement. 

“I can’t wait, mama. My girl is giving me a baby girl.” 

He spoke in content as the door flung open and the nurse called your name for you to come back and see the doctor. Rafe stood and grabbed your hand, helping you move to your feet ever so slowly, the nine-month-old bump you sported made you teeter and the last thing he wanted was for you to fall. His protective hands guided you through the threshold of the door. 

-

You made your way to the room after the nurse noted that your blood pressure was a little bit elevated. You shook that off quickly, the anxiety of giving birth and the pain that had been coursing through your body all night made it make sense. Rafe helped you onto the table and the nurse gently draped the cloth over your lower half, lifting your dress to just below your breasts as Dr. Lebel came in. 

“I heard you’re not feeling the greatest, mama.” 

Rafe gingerly nodded as he met her eyes. He had placed himself on a stool at your head, rubbing soothing circles into your hair once more, the hand of yours that was closest to him was squeezing his – the anxiety coursing heavily through your veins. One thing had never changed about you and that was your need for his touch in a crisis. He loved that about you. While he couldn’t physically help because babies weren’t his specialty, he could soothe you with his touch and that’s what he intended to do. 

“Her contractions are getting closer and closer.” 

Rafe spoke into the air and the doctor nodded. 

“Well, let’s take a look at our girl, shall we?” 

You looked at Rafe who gave you a smile before eagerly nodding at your doctor. One special thing that Rafe developed during your pregnancy was the way he smiled ear-to-ear every time he saw his little girl on the ultrasound screen. He was giddy – like that of a giggling little girl; he never could get over the fact that because of you, because of Molly’s orchestration of him finding you, he was married to the love of his life and he was about to get to be the daddy to the world’s most perfect little girl. 

“Jelly’s gonna be a little cold.” 

She brought the bottle over your belly, squirting it and watching as it gently fell on to your tan skin. You squirmed under the chill of the gel and Rafe giggled. After nine months of ultrasounds, your reaction was still the same – even though you had felt the icy-like drop of the gel as it descended down to your belly more times than he could count on his hands, you always, always, expected it not to be cold. He marked it up to you expecting the good in everything; even this tiny detail about cold gel made him love you more than he did the second previously. His eyes went from the doctor to the screen as she dutifully began to spread the gel around your abdomen and your baby girl appeared on the screen. Her heartbeat was the symphony and yours was the orchestra; one couldn’t co-exist without the other. You were thankful that through all the fear of the morning, her heartbeat was still there. It meant she was good, it meant she was safe. Tears lined your eyes as you turned your head to look at Rafe, the sheet of paper draped over the pillow crinkling as you met his eyes. He smiled and leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead. 

“She’s okay, baby. Look at her moving around, she’s perfect.” 

He said pointing at the screen. Dr. Lebel was quiet for a moment before locking eyes with Rafe and speaking only with her eyes, something only doctors seemed to know how to do. Rafe knew what it meant – it meant something wasn’t right. 

“What is it, doc?” 

He asked, nonchalantly but his tone was laced with concern. Your eyes went wide. 

“I-is something wrong?” 

You stuttered. Which Rafe knew meant your anxiety was reaching a peak of no return, rapidly. 

“Slow down, nothing is wrong. We don’t want to scare you, mama. Baby girl is measuring at nine pounds – like we discussed previously, with the previous crush injury to your pelvis, a nine pound baby is going to be extremely rough on your body; it may even re-break your pelvis. The pelvis loosens quite a bit in a normal person, but because of the pins and screws in yours, I don’t want to risk reinjury.” 

Rafe’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the thought of your tiny bones breaking for the second time in order to bring your daughter into the world. The worst part was, he knew you’d be fine with that, he knew you’d go to that length to ensure that a c-section wasn’t necessary because if he knew anything about you it was that you didn’t want anyone besides him operating on you – you didn’t trust anyone besides him to. It made sense, he had been the one to repeatedly bring you through surgery over and over, it was him who laid with you and held you close so you’d know you weren’t alone all those late nights in the hospital. You were scared, you were experiencing post-traumatic stress and there was little to nothing he could do about it. But, he knew for damn sure that he was not going to let your first chance at motherhood be spent the way your days in the hospital were – you were going to enjoy this if he had anything to do with it and you deserved that much. 

“So, what do you suggest, doc? What are our options here? I know she’s pretty dead set on a vaginal birth, is that still possible?”

Rafe questioned her with intent – he needed to know what the odds were that your pelvis wasn’t going to break into pieces right in front of him. 

“It’s possible, but the outcomes are extremely grim. Rafe, you know what happens when a pelvis splinters, she’s risking internal bleeding. Not to mention, the significant amount of pain she will already be in as a new mom. We don’t need to add emergency surgery to fix broken bones to that. I would suggest a c-section. I know that’s not in your plan, but it is the safer option.” 

You looked to Rafe with pleading eyes, begging him not to make you do this. 

“I’m going to step out and let you guys talk about it for a few minutes.” 

Dr. Lebel said, giving the both of you a reassuring smile before stepping out and closing the door behind her. 

“Rafferty, please don’t make me do this.” 

You whispered, your voice cracking as the emotion of it all overcame you. Nothing hurt Rafe more than that sound, but he knew he had to give you some tough love in this situation to protect you. 

“Come on, mama. You had to use my government name and the conversation has barely started?” 

It was a half-joke, he needed you to smile so you’d know – so he’d know that this would all be okay and at the end of the day you would have a healthy baby. But, a smile is not what he got. Instead, he watched as your lip trembled and he lurched forward, pulling you into his arms, your belly creating distance between you. It was almost as if the sweet girl inside you was giving her input into the situation. 

“Rafe, c-can’t you just – c-can’t you fix it if it breaks?” 

He was taken aback by your question, though he shouldn’t have been. He knew you like the back of his hand and he knew this was the eerie and winding path your brain would go down. He wished so badly that your brain would give you a break and that for once it would follow the yellow brick road – the normal path of thinking. But, anxiety is anxiety and he knew it well, no matter what the doctor had said, you were going to be anxious because this was a monumental life event for the both of you and him wishing things were different wouldn’t change that. 

“No, mama. I can’t. It could splinter and make you bleed internally. It could kill you baby and as much as I love you and want to make you comfortable, I have my boundaries too, baby – watching you die is not on my to-do list for today. Not to mention, I can’t – I won’t – let you enter motherhood unable to walk and in intense pain; that’s not fair to you or little bean. She needs her mama and she needs her mama whole and healthy, okay?” 

You could only whimper as you nodded in response. 

- 

Only an hour later, you were laying on your back on an operating table, arms spread wide, tied to the table in the shape of a crucifix. Rafe sat on a rolling stool at your head, his regular blue surgical garb adorned his body and his hands sat on top of your head. You looked up at him with fear stricken eyes as the doctors and nurses worked around you, moving the contents of your stomach out of it in an attempt to get to your baby girl. 

“Rafe, I’m scared.” 

You whispered and he stood, peering his eyes down and over the mask that sat on his face until they met yours. 

“I know, baby. But, it’s okay. Not much longer, now.” 

Those blue orbs were the only thing that grounded you as you heard the faintest cry, that managed to get louder and louder by the second. He brought his forehead to yours and you breathed out a breath of relief. 

“Our girl has arrived, mama.” 

He muttered and you smiled softly at the thought. 

“Rafe, go with her.” 

You demanded and he nodded his head as they took her to the incubator in the corner of the room, working quickly to rid her of the contents of your blood and fluid. As quickly as he had left, he returned to your side with tears in his eyes as he brought your daughter to your chest and allowed you to place kisses to her tiny pink button nose. She was the perfect mixture of you and Rafe; his nose, your cheeks, his hair, your lips, and just as you were committing her features to memory she blinked her eyes open. They were the same cerulean blue of her father’s and you thanked your lucky star’s the one prayer you had sent up had become reality. 

“Rafe, she has your eyes.” 

He mewled at the small fact as he took her from your arms, holding her head in his palm and placing his other hand on her tiny bottom. He bounced her for only a moment, letting tears cascade down his face as the harsh reality hit him that even though he had lost Molly, he had gained all the things he ever prayed for in the end. He placed his forehead against hers, taking in her scent, scared that he’d never smell it again. 

“Millie June Cameron. Hi, baby. I’m your daddy.” 

He cooed. 

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

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[judesmoonbeauty]

A Day With Jude Jazza: Chapter Three "16:00 Negotiations at Twilight"

Please expect grammatical errors and translation inaccuracies. This is a full translation. Creative liberties are taken for characterization and smoother translation process. Cybird owns everything. Re-blogs are appreciated, but please do not post my translation elsewhere. Thank you for your support! ☾.

[Ellis POV]

Jeweler Man: And so, this is…..

After the three of us had eaten lunch, Kate was escorted back to the company, and I joined Jude for a business meeting.

(I’m just standing at the back but….)

From the view behind Jude, who’s sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed while smoking a cigarette, 

Those who know him, can see that he finds the situation annoying—.

Jude: My company recognizes the superior quality of the gemstones your company handles, 

Jude: Therefore, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to look over the products, if I may?

His fluent Queen’s English is a far cry from the usual Jude.

Jeweler Man: Certainly, here are the newest pieces that have just been completed.

When the man calls out, a person appears with a tray in hand, and places the products on the table. 

All of the various accessories that were superbly designed were decorated with colorful jewels.

Suddenly, Jude reached for a single necklace.

Jeweler Man: This one is made with a moonstone, and due to it being a delicate stone, we left it simple without much polishing.

(Somehow, it resembles Kate.)

The milky-white moonstone emits a soft light, giving a gentle impression. 

I didn’t miss the moment Jude’s profile softened as he gazed at it.

(Oh, he’s thinking about Kate now.)

Since they started dating, Jude looks kind from time to time.

I realized that he was thinking of Kate, because he has the same expression as he does when he looks at her from behind. 

Jeweler Man: Please take it, if it pleases you.

Jude: Hm? 

Jeweler Man: As a token of appreciation for the opportunity to do business with Raven.

As Jude hesitates, I discreetly whisper from behind.

Ellis: I think it suits Kate.

He glared so hard at me that I could’ve heard it, so I kept my mouth shut…..

Jude: ….I’d like to take this one, but I’ll pay for it.

Jude: To build a better relationship from here on.

That’s what he says, but I get it.

(It seems like he doesn’t want to give Kate something without doing anything for it.)

He has a strong sense of duty, that’s just how it is. 

(But I’m sure it’ll suit her and she’ll be happy.)

After watching the man rise from his seat to package the necklace, Jude then turns around.

Jude: What’re ya grinnin’ ‘bout, it’s creepy.

(Jude probably doesn’t realize it.)

Whenever he thinks of Kate, his expression softens.

Ellis: No, it’s nothing.

Jude: …..Tch.

(So, until the time Kate notices.)

Until then, I’ll keep playing dumb.

[Event Master list] [Next - ⏱♡ 18:00 - Night Raid: Jude POV]

Dividers: @.adornedwithlight

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[starcurtain]

More Phaidei Fics I Want to Read

1. Obligatory "fish out of water" fic (mostly AU because the timeline would probably not match canon, but we do what we want here!), taking place after Mydei and the Kremnoans first make it to Okhema. Okhema is already harsh on outsiders, let alone on a conquering "barbarian" tribe infamous for bringing strife to so many other city states. Mydei doesn't know the local customs at all, and while he doesn't care the slightest about how these pathetic Okhemans see him, the trouble he keeps getting into is affecting the reputations of innocent Kremnoans too. He's got to find a way to blend in, at least enough to stop costing his fellows any chance of finding paid work... Too bad the only person who is willing (and has time) to help is Phainon (who isn't native to Okhema either but done a much better job of learning to get along with the locals). The guy thinks he's the Titans' gift to Amphoreus just because he beat Mydei in a duel once. It was only once! And why does it matter whether we eat standing up or lying down? What are you laughing at, Savior Complex?! Or, tl;dr: The culture clash comedy one where Phainon and Mydei teach each other entirely opposing sets of manners, and come to learn a lot more about one another in the process.

2. Also obligatory omegaverse where Mydei is an omega born with a unique constitution: he's built like an alpha, snarls like an alpha, and dominates his opponents like an alpha. He even smells like an alpha, especially when he's in heat, so the only people who ever figured out his secondary gender were his doctor and his parents, all of whom are dead now. The whole world thinks Mydei is an alpha, and his reputation as an indomitable warrior prince pretty much hinges on people continuing to believe that. The problem is, Mydei wouldn't actually mind getting to live an omega's life, at least the part about finding a mate and starting a family. Only, who in the world would want him for a mate? Any alpha hunting for an actual omega would never think to look in Mydei's direction, betas would just be confused, and even those few alphas who are attracted to other alphas would only end up disappointed after discovering Mydei isn't one. He's nobody's ideal partner, and he'd mostly made peace with that--until Phainon. Until that upstart alpha from the middle of nowhere knocked Mydei down in a brutal spar and then pulled him up with the gentlest hand, and suddenly it mattered that no one would ever want Mydei. It mattered a lot. (Of course, the long and short of it is that Mydei is the man of Phainon's dreams, and after a series of setbacks and miscommunications and lots of silly angst, they'll find their way to a happy ending.)

3. After discovering Mydei's weakness for sweets and cute things like pink pomegranate juice, Phainon decides to engage in a bit of light-hearted teasing: He starts sending Mydei exceedingly adorable gifts and fancy candies under the guise of a "secret admirer." The joke is on Phainon, however, when it turns out Mydei finds the gifts quite charming and is determined to discover the identity of the mysterious gift giver. A reasonable person would quickly give up on the joke to avoid getting caught, but Phainon has always been weak to chasing thrills--and maybe this whole thing about being Mydei's "secret admirer" isn't too far off after all... (The real joke is that Mydei, realizing immediately who the gifts were from, invented an entire "hunting my admirer down" story just for the fun of watching Phainon squirm--and, well, because keeping the whole thing going, being showered with attention by his rival, doesn't feel too bad at all.)

4. The opposite fic: The one where Mydei's completely mismatched online personality accidentally catfishes Phainon and causes some very silly drama. Mydei's (anonymous) teletweet account is full of cutesy chimera kitten memes, aesthetic pictures of food, heart emojis, and overly punctuated (with exclamation points) recaps of shopping trips in Okhema's market... Can anyone blame Phainon for thinking this is the account of a cute girl who is refreshingly earnest about her love for chubby seals and pink milk tea? But as Phainon becomes closer and closer to "Fig Stew" online, things get more and more complicated--because he's also been getting closer and closer to his real world companion Mydeimos lately. Both Fig and Mydei are wonderful, and Phainon can barely bear the thought of losing either of them in his life. Trying to get closer to them both would be way too dishonest, but choosing one over the other... What should he do? Meanwhile, Mydei is in trouble. He wasn't planning to set up some secret identity or anything; it's not his fault Phainon mistook him for a girl online! There's nothing weird about dudes posting sparkling kitten gifs, godsdammit!! But now the charade's gone on way too long to come clean, especially since Phainon seems so invested, and... well, can you blame Mydei for not wanting to give up on the closest thing to a relationship he's ever managed to start? tl;dr: Online mistaken identity hijinks fic.

5. The required-in-every-fandom time travel fic (with bonus fake dating)! Through an outpouring of Oronyx's power, Mydei and Phainon end up in the bodies of their future selves, who, it turns out, have not only managed to end Amphoreus' war and revive Castrum Kremnos, but... appear to have also... gotten married?!! Now Mydei and Phainon have to not only find out exactly how their future selves managed to save the world (so they can accomplish the same task) then look for a way back to their own time--they've got to do all of that while also pretending to be a happily wedded pair of rulers to avoid raising everyone's suspicions. This would be a whole lot easier if either of them knew the first thing about being actual kings... or about relationships. The slightest slip up could create ripple effects that change the entire timeline permanently, but--no matter how nerve-wracking it might be to admit, after seeing the future in store for them together--there's nothing Phainon (and Mydei) won't do to make sure things go exactly as they should.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; “the one where Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“It usually involves taking care of the sub for a little while–like if they need to recover or if the Dom needs something to calm themselves down doing, for example–but there’s other ways and reasons to do it,” Tim says, stroking his hair just a little bit more carefully as Kon once again tries and fails to figure out what the fuck he’s feeling right now. “That’s just what most people think of first when it comes up. Supposed to just make it easier for everyone to come up and level out, basically.” 

Tim’s been petting him all this time, Kon realizes, biting the inside of his lip again. 

And then he realizes–Tim’s also been the only one talking to him about this. Like, the “polite intel-collecting/light interrogation” kind of talking, but definitely only Tim doing it. So, like–Tim thinks this is something to be careful about talking about, and apparently so does Bernard. 

. . . weird, Kon thinks, ducking his head just enough to hide his mouth against his folded forearms as he bites his lip outright, and doesn’t know how he feels about that either. 

He thinks maybe they’re doing that–“gentle” thing again, though, even though they’re not even actually fucking around right now. Like . . . like just being in bed together at all is reason enough to do it, or something. Like it’s just–like it matters enough to keep doing it either way. 

Kon knows exactly how he feels about that, but that’d be a lot more than just “mortifying” to admit. 

“Um . . . sorry,” he says, half-worrying about what Tim means by needing to calm himself down. The times he’s tried to Dom made him all anxious and nervy and filled his head up with even more useless circling thoughts than usual, so like . . . does that happen to Tim too? It hadn’t seemed like it was, but . . . “Should I be–doing something for you, you mean? Because I can–” 

A flash of stress flickers across Tim’s face, and Kon cuts himself off and feels a little–stupid, maybe, like he’s said something wrong or just messed up something obvious or . . . 

He bites his lip harder and a weird little–reflex, almost, has him glancing towards Bernard for . . . he’s not even sure why, just . . . Bernard would know what Tim needs right now, wouldn’t he? Like–he’d have to, right? 

Bernard’s still just standing by the nightstand and the breakfast tray, but the moment Kon looks at him he gives an easy shrug, scoops up the middle plate, and manages to neatly deposit it in Tim’s lap even as he lays down on his other side, stretched out on his own stomach and propped up on his elbows. Kon feels–something, kind of, and thinks about how that puts them both kinda . . . parallel to each other, kinda. Just . . . mirrored, a little, both lying on either side of Tim where he’s sitting against the headboard. 

That’s . . . kinda something he feels something about, yeah, but it’s another one of those “something”s he can’t seem to really pin down, because everything he thinks it’s making him feel is, like . . . not actually something that makes sense for him to be feeling. 

Kryptonite, he remembers abruptly. Right. So like . . . that. That’s probably . . . why he thinks he’s feeling . . . that kind of thing. Like–how Kara was saying, and all. 

Right? 

“Yes, you should be lying right there and letting Tim fuss over you for a while,” Bernard informs him matter-of-factly, crossing his ankles behind himself and resting his chin in one hand. “He likes doing the fussing. Though personally post-subbing is literally the only time I don’t wanna cuddle, I just wanna eat the fridge and pass the fuck out on the couch, so it’s really always been an unfortunate waste of the opportunity for me and also, like, not Tim’s favorite way to spend a scene’s afterglow either.” 

“Oh,” Kon says, mildly bemused by the idea of passing out on the couch after subbing instead of cuddling up with someone in bed. Like–wanting to pass out on the couch, at least. Like, that is just very much not how he feels after subbing, is all. But, well . . . if that’s all Tim needs from him . . . like, it’s not exactly an imposition or anything. “Seriously? Just . . . the fussing?” 

“Seriously,” Bernard confirms with a nod without bothering to lift his chin from his hand. “He literally always wants to do the fussing. Like he is definitely the ‘needs to calm down’ guy, and also the ‘subtly make sure he didn’t accidentally hurt or upset you when you were too high on endorphins to communicate it’ guy.” 

“Yeah, sounds like Tim,” Kon says, lifting his own head a little more again just to spare Tim a wry look. “‘Shit, that went way too well, lemme get all Bat-paranoia up in here and overanalyze the whole thing’.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” Tim says, looking a little wry himself, and Kon–like, yeah, he’s teasing the guy about it, because when would he not take the opportunity to give Tim shit, but he still definitely feels some shit about the fact that Tim would bother worrying about him like that. Like–the “gentle” thing again, he guesses. It’s just . . . not something he needs, and obviously Tim knows that, because a) invulnerable and b) they’re literally just fucking around for the weekend, it’s not like they’re doing anything serious or whatever, but the fact that Tim’s bothering to do it anyway is just . . . yeah. 

He just–doesn’t have to, is all. He doesn’t have to, but he still is. Still is, and still told his boyfriend to be. 

“You are a total Bat, but fuck if I'm gonna complain about scorin’ some free attention,” Kon tells him with a teasing smirk. Even if “getting attention” wasn’t half the foundation of his core personality, getting Tim’s attention would still be a goddamn treat, any time. Like–it always is, seriously. So yeah, Kon is in no way above indulging in a little extra of it. As far as doing something for Tim, it’s basically the easiest thing the guy could possibly ask for. Normally Kon’d say it was the best thing the guy could possibly ask for, even, but given the radioactive gay space rock currently influencing his tastes and his preferred flavor of his favorite pastime, any current contenders for the “best” thing Tim could possibly ask for would definitely need the other’s dick to get involved again. 

Like. To the fucking hilt levels of involved, specifically. 

Definitely to the fucking hilt. 

“Jesus, that noise is fucking adorable,” Bernard mutters under his breath, which is the only reason Kon notices himself purring again, which–oh. That wasn’t, like . . . on purpose or anything. Generally he tries to avoid any of the “don’t sound entirely human” vocal tics, though admittedly he probably does purr the most. Just, like . . . usually he decides to let himself do it, is all. 

“Vegas party favors don’t do ‘adorable’, man,” he hums around another purr, because . . . well, Bernard seems like he’s kinda into the purring, so it’s not like he’s gotta, like–stop, or whatever. And Tim’s heard him do it before and not gotten weirded-out, so . . . so it’s whatever, yeah. No big deal or anything. 

Anyway, it feels nice to, sometimes. Especially when he feels like this does it feel nice to. 

And, like, extra-especially when Tim’s still petting his hair for it. 

“I think I can literally feel the bed vibrating a little,” Bernard says, looking low-key delighted about it. “Definitely tell me how I earn this level of purring while TTK-cuddling, because that is very much my new goal for this long weekend.” 

“Mmm, s’secret lore, man,” Kon hums, letting his eyes close as he settles in a little heavier against the bed with a pleased little buzzing feeling in his gut and along his skin. “You gotta grind enough hours to level up and earn it.” 

“I will grind on you for all the hours that standard-build human stamina can handle and Konami code your ass if I gotta,” Bernard swears, and Kon laughs into his arms. Why is this dude so funny, Jesus. 

“That sounds kinda fun, what’d that involve?” he muses speculatively. 

“Some very specific and very decisive button-pressing, pretty much,” Bernard says, and Kon laughs again. “Maybe some converter cables and a rumble controller.” 

Kon sniggers. Goddammit, the bastard really is so funny, what the fuck. 

“I think the gay space rock’s done plenty of converting, but if you really wanna plug something in . . .” he hums, making a point of stretching out a bit more against the mattress, and accidentally purrs a little deeper without meaning to. 

“Desperately, yes,” Bernard says, sounding very feeling about it. So like, that’s another nice little bit of flattery. “Hey babe, how long do I have to wait to plug and play with your bestie? Like, ballpark it for us.” 

“Maybe eat breakfast first?” Tim suggests wryly. “I hear the chef makes pretty good waffles.” 

“Honestly they’re pretty mid compared to the cake that’s currently taking up a truly impressive amount of real estate in this bed,” Bernard replies frankly, making a point of reaching across Tim’s legs to grab Kon’s ass and give it a pointedly appreciative jiggle as he says “cake”, and Kon laughs helplessly into his arms. But, like–also tilts his ass up into said hand, obviously. Like, just a little. Bernard’s nice enough to give it an appreciative squeeze in response to that, so Kon figures that’s a win. “On that note, Tim, your bed is just not worthy of this long weekend, you really should upgrade. Like, no rush or anything, just maybe by Valentine’s Day. Your birthday at the latest.” 

At this rate, Kon isn’t gonna manage to stop laughing long enough to eat a single damn waffle.

[nameless-jamie]

I Want You...Professionally

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing

A/N: A tiny little fluff scenario. Just for the vibes.

It was vacation time for Jamie's favorite assistant. Well, his only assistant. She had organized everything, a temporary assistant for Jamie, a good book she could read while relaxing on her couch, but she obviously didn't calculate Jamie's brattiness.

Y/N had barely been out for a week when the first text came in.

Jamie: Who the fuck is this Jerry lad?

She frowned at the message before another one followed.

Jamie: He’s in my kitchen, Y/N. My sanctuary. What’s next? My fucking shower?

Jamie: If he touches my shampoo, I’m calling the police.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. She had warned Jamie that a temp assistant would be sent to work for him while she was on leave. He probably didn't listen. It was supposed to be a good thing—someone to help manage his schedule, make sure he made it to training on time, and prevent situations exactly like this, all while Y/N could chill for like a week. Just one week, please!

Instead, it seemed like Jamie had decided to make it his personal mission to be as difficult as humanly possible.

Y/N: He’s literally just there to help. Be nice.

Jamie: Define “nice.”

Y/N: Don’t scare him off in under a week.

Jamie: Cannot promise that babe.

It did not take a week.

It took two days.

By that time Y/N got an angry phone call from Rebecca. Jamie had apparently run through the poor temp guy so fast that Rebecca had personally told her, “You need to deal with your idiot. Right now!”

And if the exasperation in her voice hadn’t already told Y/N everything she needed to know, the look on the temp’s face when she arrived at the club to talk to him, spoke louder than words could.

The man looked exhausted. Defeated. Like he had seen things no personal assistant should ever have to see.

"Jerry, hey how are things?" Y/N approached the man carefully and spoke in a soft voice. Damn, he looked like he was about to break.

“I can’t do it, Y/N” he had said, shaking his head. “He’s impossible.”

“Yeah,” she had sighed. “He does that sometimes.”

"He sleeps bottomless. BOTTOMLESS! He told me that I have the energy of a wet paper towel. And he only ever eats protein bars."

Jerry started crying out of frustration and hugged Y/N's shoulder, a little too tight. Nice, her favorite blouse is now tear-stained. Fuckin' Tartt.

Y/N patted Jerry's back awkwardly. "Shit, okay. I'll deal with it."

So when Jamie showed up at her flat unannounced that evening—because of course he did—she was more than ready to deal with him.

“Jamie,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms. “What the fuck.”

Jamie blinked at her. “What?”

“You terrorized him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You made him cry, Jamie.” Y/N deadpanned.

Jamie scoffed. “I barely said anythin'. He cried over one little comment.”

“You told him he had ‘the energy of a wet paper towel.’”

Jamie shrugged. “He did.”

“Jamie.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping onto her couch like he had just run a marathon. “Nah, you don't get it, t'was a whole nightmare. He was just there all the time. Following me around, tellin’ me what to do, actin’ like he knew me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You mean like how I do my job?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not like you.”

“Oh, really?” She crossed the room, standing in front of him. “Because you’ve never had a problem with me following you around before and telling you what to do. But suddenly, this guy shows up, and you turn into a little shit?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “I am a little shit. Always been one.”

She huffed. “Jamie.”

“What?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before looking up at her.

"Why is it different with me, tell me." She put her hand on his arm lovingly, trying to coax the answer out of him.

Jamie was frustrated. "I don't know. Maybe because you get me and... And maybe I don’t want someone else bossing me around, yeah? Maybe I just want you.”

The words hit her like a fucking freight train.

Jamie must’ve realized what he had said because his mouth snapped shut, his jaw tensing.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“In, like, a professional way?” Jamie said as more of a question than a statement.

“Jamie,” she said, with a warning voice.

He exhaled, shaking his head like he wanted to take it all back. “Forget it. I'll go apologize to the guy.”

“No Jamie, wait.” She stepped closer. "I mean you should definitely eventually apologize, you made the guy cry for god sake! But wait..."

Jamie met her gaze, something uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

She licked her lips, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was. “You want me?”

Jamie’s throat bobbed. “Yeah.”

Her heart stupidly skipped a beat. “In, like, a professional way.”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smirk. “Sure. That.”

Her breath caught.

And then, because Jamie Tartt was a menace—because he could never just say something and leave it at that—he tilted his head, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

“You okay, love?”

She could’ve said yes.

She should’ve said yes.

Instead, she let out a sharp breath and muttered, “Fuck you.”

Jamie grinned and turned toward the door. “Knew it. I'll be off then, apologizing to Berry.”

"His name is Jerry!"

"I knew that!"

The silence that followed after Jamie left wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was full of things left unsaid. Y/N thought about his words and their meaning a lot. Maybe I just want you.

Maybe they weren’t ready for the next step yet, and maybe they were, but for now, they both knew one thing—neither of them was going anywhere.