#found a new brush to use for line art while working on this and it’s GREAT

[coralquill]

LADs headcanon for witch mc who causes so much chaos with her little talking cat familiar. Just how they'd handle all the explosioives, floating books, etc. or maybe how they found out 🤔

Ahoy, thank you for requesting! ngl that was a fun piece I enjoyed writing. hope you enjoy!

pairings: xavier x reader || zayne x reader || rafayel x reader || sylus x reader || caleb x reader

contents: comedy, reader is a witch with a cat familiar || wc.602

— XAVIER

Xavier would initially welcome your cat into his apartment. But once he learnt it could talk, he tried to kick it out countless and countless of times, jealous it might take away your attention.

He'd wake up from naps to find the whole apartment in chaos and disarray after you had practiced your spells on his stuff.

And to top it off, he'd always find your cat perched on the headboard, surely staring at him all throughout his nap.

What a day...

— ZAYNE

Zayne would sigh for the fifth time that day, seeing as you commanded the documents and files of his work to fly around in his office. He needed them to finish up work and call it a day, but apparently, you had other plans.

At least your familiar cat was napping on his lap, allowing him to pet it. That was a first. Cats usually ran away from him.

"Behind my ear, please," the cat demanded.

Zayne stopped mid-action. An oh was all he could utter before he did as instructed.

The cat talked.

— RAFAYEL

Rafayel wasn't new with witchery or witches, as he used to work with one long ago. Though he would jump out of his skin upon knowing you have a cat familiar following you around, and his soul would leave his body the moment he'd hear it talk.

After getting used to your cat and your shenanigans, he'd ask you to try out a new way of painting with him. Flying paints and brushes would fill the high areas of the studio, swirling through the air as they created splashes of art on the canvases.

"That's a job well done, cutie! Thank you for helping me!" Rafayel would thank you for your efforts, standing up to admire the artworks from afar.

"I do agree." Your cat joined him.

Thump.

You turned towards the sound, only to find Rafayel passed out and sprawled on the floor, your cat tapping its paw against his cheeks to wake him up.

Oops. Guess Rafayel hadn't fully gotten used to your familiar.

— SYLUS

Sylus was used to chaos and disorder, his line of work never offered peace and especially with Luke, Keiran, and Mephisto, the chaos-inducing trio, working under him.

He'd ask you to borrow your powers to wreak havoc and threaten those who cross his path.

Your cat followed you everywhere, supplying you with spells materials and potions ingredients. It reminded him of his relationship with Mephisto—providing him with intel, footage, and sensitive case files.

He didn't pay the cat any mind—until it spoke.

"Your cat talks." Sylus noted, utterly unfazed, as if talking cats was a standard part of his afternoons.

"Oh, whoops, I forgot to tell you." You smiled sheepishly.

And your cat snickered.

Pursing his lips, Sylus nodded in acceptance.

He couldn't say it was the most unusual thing he had ever witnessed. He'd seen stranger.

— CALEB

Caleb wouldn't mind the chaos you'd create, as he'd use his gravity Evol to tidy up after. He'd let you have your fun, commanding brooms to have sword fights mid-air, and tea leaves creating whirlwinds in teacups. But no matter what, everything got returned to its rightful place at the end of the day.

That was until he passed the mirror hung at the hallway—

"What's cookin', good lookin'?"

Ah, you had enchanted the mirror to flirt with passersby. Classic.

"Got lost in your eyes? You've been staring at your reflection for a while."

And that was one of the few things he had zero clue on how to fix.

"Pip-squeak! The mirror is feeling flirty again!"

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— set sail for more tales, sailor: ⚲masterlist

— until next tide, thanks for docking by ｡𖦹°‧𓇼

© coralquill 2025 – do not copy, steal, or translate my work.

[zaynessbeloved]

Creative block

Synopsis: When a famous artist with a bratty streak offers to help you overcome your creative block, lessons in art quickly spiral into lessons in ruin...and neither of you is really ready to handle the masterpiece you make of each other.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, bratty dynamics, praise kink, dominance/submission themes, rough sex, sexual overstimulation, body worship, unprotected sex, filthy language, professor/teacher-student (not really) vibes, professor rafayel, desperate whiny begging, bratty professor energy, messy oral (receiving and giving), hair pulling, neck biting, rough handling (consensual), biting and marking.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

A/n: saw some very sinful art of professor rafayel...and it sent me spiraling immediately. one glance at that art and my last braincell packed its bags and left the chat. I blacked out and this fic happened because apparently I need him biblically. no thoughts behind my pretty eyes, really...

You never meant for it to turn into this aching sort of warfare between your heart and your hands. The dream had always been there, a seedling of hope pressed somewhere behind your ribs, whispering that you were meant to create. But lately, that dream had begun to rot. No matter how tightly you clutched a brush, no matter how long you sat before a canvas, nothing would come. 

Your skills were roguish at best, shaky lines and uneven shadows, a half-hearted mockery of the things you had once envisioned so vividly inside your mind. Inspiration evaded you like a cruel mirage, shimmering and mocking just beyond reach.

It was Tara who first mentioned him. "You need something brutal," she'd said, swirling her coffee like she was conjuring a spell. "Someone who’ll either tear you apart or drag that brilliance out of you, kicking and screaming."

And so you found yourself here, at the back of a lecture hall that didn't look anything like the cold, sterile classrooms you’d grown used to. No, Rafayel's domain was different. All soft lighting, worn wooden floors stained with the ghosts of old projects, and canvases perched haphazardly against the walls like abandoned love letters.

Rafayel himself refused to call it a class. "I’m not a professor," he'd scoffed on the first day, smirking in a way that made your stomach lurch. "I’m your last bad decision before you figure out what the hell you’re actually made of."

He was cocky. God, he was insufferable. But it wasn’t the empty arrogance you’d come to despise in others. No, he had every reason to be. His work was… divine. Every painting he unveiled felt less like pigment on canvas and more like some raw, staggering emotion ripped from his chest and made visible. A deity among mortals, Tara had joked once, and you hated how true it felt when you looked at him. And you did look. More often than you should. 

Most days, you spent half the lecture gnawing on the inside of your cheek, staring at your blank canvas while anxiety wrapped greedy fingers around your throat. A month had passed like that. Thirty days of sitting in the back, pretending you were invisible while he prowled the room, trailing sharp critiques and maddening bits of advice like a storm cloud.

You told yourself you were there for your art. You were already fighting your own losing war against a creative block. You didn’t need a new problem, much less one shaped like him. But Rafayel, it seemed, had a way of finding cracks in even the most fortified walls. And somehow… you had the sinking feeling he’d already started looking.

He hadn’t paid you special attention. Not in the way your nervous, treacherous heart feared. Rafayel moved through the room like he owned it, like he was barely even aware of the bodies orbiting him. He gave sharp, cutting critiques to the ones who needed it, lazy praise to the ones who didn’t, and never spared more than a passing glance in your direction.

But still, some part of you had noticed. On occasion, when your brush hovered an inch above the canvas and your eyes lost their focus, you could feel it. The weight of a glance. Not piercing, not curious but a little more… assessing. Like he could see the struggle gnawing at your insides even when you tried to bury it under casual indifference. Like he knew.

And maybe he did. Because after another two weeks of languishing in the back, another two weeks of clenched fists and tight throats and a canvas that looked more like a battlefield than a painting—he called you out. The words came casually, almost lazily, just as class was ending.

"Stay after," he said, barely glancing at you, like it was a throwaway comment. Like it didn't mean your pulse jumped violently against your ribs.

You blinked, stunned, uncertain you’d even heard him right. But there was no mistaking the way his gaze flicked to you—sharp and undeniable—before he turned away to start packing up his things.

You stayed. Anxiety twisted in your gut as the others trickled out, chattering and laughing as they disappeared into the afternoon sun. Soon, it was just you and him, and the silence that filled the space was almost too heavy to breathe through.

Rafayel leaned lazily against one of the scratched tables, arms crossed, regarding you with a look that wasn’t exactly kind, but wasn’t cruel either. Just… intrigued. Like you were some half-finished sculpture he couldn’t decide if he wanted to destroy or reshape.

"You always sit in the back," he said finally, voice low and infuriatingly amused. "Hiding, is it? Or just pretending you're invisible?"

You stiffened under the scrutiny, unsure whether to bristle or laugh. "I’m not hiding," you said, defensively, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

"Sure you're not," he mused, pushing off the table with an effortless sort of grace that made your stomach knot. He moved closer, just a step, enough to make the air between you feel charged. "You stare at a blank canvas for an hour straight and then glare at it like it personally wronged you. I'm starting to feel bad for the poor thing."

You opened your mouth, some biting retort struggling to surface, but he cut you off with a crooked smirk.

"You’re blocked," he said, simple and unflinching. Like it wasn’t the single most frustrating truth you’d been trying to outrun for months. "But that's not all of it, is it?"

His gaze sharpened then, not cruel, not mocking, but dangerously observant. Picking you apart without ever laying a hand on you. "You’re not just blocked. You’re scared."

The words hit harder than they should have, like a punch under the ribs. You hated—hated—how accurate it was. And Rafayel, infuriatingly, just smiled like he already knew he was right.

You did what you always did when someone scraped too close to the truth. You deflected. You shrugged, rolling your shoulders in a way you hoped looked casual instead of brittle.

 "Maybe I just like staring into the void," you said dryly, managing a half-smirk. "Very avant-garde, don't you think?"

But Rafayel didn’t laugh. He didn’t so much as blink. He just tilted his head slightly, like he was watching a moth try to wriggle free from a spider’s web, and for a terrifying second, you felt seen in a way that made your skin crawl.

"You’re scared," he said again, voice maddeningly soft. "Of fucking up. Of not being good enough."

You gritted your teeth, something hot and shameful prickling at the back of your throat. God, he was annoying. Arrogant, smirking, too goddamn perceptive for his own good.

"Fine," you bit out, crossing your arms. "I’m scared. Happy now?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, lazy and infuriating. Not cruel, just... amused. Like he’d been waiting for you to admit it and was already six moves ahead.

You hated how much it made you burn. Especially because Rafayel wasn’t some jaded old professor with years of tenure and dusty accolades. You were pretty sure he was close to your age. Maybe two, three years older at most. Yet he stood there, brilliance dripping from his fingertips like it cost him nothing, while you wrestled every day just to put a half-decent line on paper. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And the worst part was…he didn’t even pity you.

"You’re not broken," he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You’re just stuck. Happens to everyone. Some people quit when it does. Some people claw their way through it."

You stared at him, breathing harder than you should have been. Waiting for the inevitable—some smug dismissal, a patronizing pat on the head. But instead, Rafayel just shrugged, casual and almost—almost—kind.

"I can help you," he said. No grandeur, no arrogance. Just a fact. Like he was offering you a light in a room you didn't realize was pitch black.

You blinked, caught off guard by how simple it was. How easy he made it sound. You should have said no. You should have said fuck you, and walked away, and clung to whatever pride you still had left.

But instead, you found yourself nodding—small and almost imperceptible—before you could even stop yourself. And Rafayel, predictably, smirked again. But this time, it wasn’t mocking.

The next week, Rafayel said nothing about it. No special glances. No reminders. No smug comments dangling the promise of help. Just the same lazy, chaotic lectures, the same command of the room that made you feel like an afterthought orbiting a collapsing star.

You tried not to feel thrown. You tried to convince yourself it was for the best. That maybe he'd forgotten, or changed his mind, or maybe you had just imagined the whole thing in your pathetic, desperate need for guidance.

But then, one day, after another lecture filled with quicksilver words and half-formed critiques, he called you out again.

"Stay," he said simply, slinging his bag over his shoulder. His voice was low and casual, but there was no room for argument in it.

You lingered again, heart pacing a stupid, clumsy rhythm, as the last of the students disappeared. The familiar weight of being alone with him settled heavy on your chest. This time, Rafayel didn’t move toward you. Instead, he talked.

He spoke about everything and nothing—about color theory and light, about the way a scent could drag you back into a forgotten memory, about how the best art sometimes started with anger or sorrow or things you didn't even understand yourself.

It had nothing to do with painting. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Because his words—his voice, slow and effortless—started stirring something messy and uncomfortable inside you. Like he was reaching into your chest and stirring up dust.

You shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over your chest, but he didn’t even glance at you. He just pointed to the canvas.

"Sit," he said, not unkindly, but with a command threaded into the word.

Annoyance prickled under your skin. You weren’t a damn puppy to be ordered around, but you sat anyway, jaw tight with resentment you didn’t quite understand.

Rafayel stayed standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, still talking about subjects that spun in your mind like loose wires—music and the color of regret and the texture of dreams—and you tried to paint. Tried. Tried until your hand cramped around the brush and your mind screamed with frustration.

Nothing came out right. It was all wrong. The canvas stayed stubbornly dead beneath your fingers, and no matter how hard you tried to follow the vague, chaotic thread of his words, you couldn’t catch it.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. And then, without a sound, Rafayel moved. You didn’t even hear him cross the room, but suddenly he was there, right beside you, the heat of his body brushing too close without ever quite touching.

He said nothing. No mocking. No scolding. Just silent, oppressive presence, standing close enough that the scent of him—something dark, something clean and sharp like fresh ink and rain—curled into your lungs.

You froze, the brush trembling slightly in your grip. Your heart thundered so loudly you were half-certain he could hear it. Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched. And somehow, that was worse than any critique he could have thrown at you.

It made you want to scream. It made you want to do something reckless, just to break the silence pressing down on you like a storm.

You cleared your throat, desperate to anchor yourself in something—anything—other than the way his presence seemed to crawl under your skin. The brush felt wrong in your hand now, heavier, clumsy. Your mind, already brittle with frustration, teetered on the edge of something worse.

"Could you—" you started, the words sharper than intended, "—not hover like that?" It was supposed to sound annoyed. Dismissive. Strong. Instead, it came out breathless. Weak.

Rafayel didn’t answer with words.  Instead, he moved closer. You stiffened instinctively, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Without warning, his hand wrapped lightly around yours, long fingers curling over your knuckles, steadying the brush in your grip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your head jerked toward him on reflex, stunned, your heart flipping itself inside out. But he wasn’t looking at you. Not even a glance. His gaze stayed fixed on the canvas, lazy and unbothered, as if guiding your trembling hand was just another mundane task to him.

"Too tight," he murmured, voice low and careless. "You’re strangling it. Let it move."

You swallowed hard, but your throat was dry, useless. The heat of him pressed into your side, a steady thrum that made your skin prickle, and you hated—hated—how your body reacted. How your pulse beat faster. How your face burned hotter.

You should have pulled away. You should have snapped at him again, said something, anything, to reclaim even a shred of your dignity. But you didn’t. You just stared at his hand covering yours, steady and deliberate. At the way his fingers curved so easily, so confidently, around the brush and your skin. 

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been staring until the brush in your hand shifted, coaxed by the subtle strength of his fingers.

"Focus," Rafayel said, voice low, absent. Not sharp. Not amused. Just a simple command, spoken like he barely even noticed you were floundering.

You jerked your gaze back to the canvas, heat burning up your neck to your ears, embarrassed at how easily he'd caught you slipping. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t pull away, didn’t even look at you.

His attention stayed fixed on the painting, on the hesitant strokes you laid down under his guidance. Like you were just another project to him, an unfinished thing he could steer back on course with a few well-placed nudges.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his closeness sinking deeper under your skin. It was stupid, you told yourself. It was nothing. He didn’t even see you, not really. Not the way you feared.

Still, your hand trembled slightly beneath his, and you cursed yourself viciously, willing the feeling away. But Rafayel remained steady, unmoving. Carefully, mercilessly patient. It made you feel small. And worse, it made you want to try harder.

————

The next two weeks unfolded like some kind of slow, exquisite torture. After every class, you stayed. And every time, Rafayel stayed with you. No grand declarations, no special treatment, just the same steady presence, the same maddening patience as he tried to coax something out of you that you weren’t even sure existed anymore.

He never touched you unless absolutely necessary, just the occasional brush of fingers correcting your grip, or a nudge of the canvas when he wanted you to shift your perspective. But somehow... he kept getting closer.

Not obviously. Maybe not even intentionally. A step here. A lean there. A graze of his shoulder as he adjusted the lighting. The low rumble of his voice curling too close to your ear when he spoke.

And you noticed. God, you noticed everything. Every shift of fabric. Every breath against your skin. Every moment where he hovered just a little too long and your body lit up like a live wire, stupid and aching.

It was unbearable. And today, after two goddamn hours of trying to paint something, anything, that didn’t look like absolute shit, you were ready to explode.

The brush in your hand trembled violently. The canvas stared back at you, mocking, cruel. Your chest felt tight, hot with humiliation and fury and the raw, ugly frustration of knowing you weren’t good enough. Not for this. Not for him.

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, resisting the primal urge to snap the canvas clean in half.

"Hey," Rafayel said softly, a rare thread of concern weaving into his otherwise lazy tone. "Hey, breathe."

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one drowning in his own failure. You tried to pull away, tried to shut down the whole mess building in your chest. But then his hand came down lightly over yours, stilling your trembling grip.

You froze. And before you could react, he stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of him at your back, his chest brushing the space between your shoulder blades, his body a solid, steady weight anchoring you to the spot.

His hand remained firm over yours, grounding, the strength of his fingers a silent promise that you weren’t going to fall apart, not if he could help it.

You stopped breathing altogether. The world shrank down to the feeling of his hand, his body, the quiet, steady pulse of his presence pressing against every nerve ending you had.

"You're trying too hard," he murmured, voice low and steady right against your ear. "You're strangling it before it can even breathe."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing a whimper of frustration, or something worse, burning at the back of your throat. Because his should not have felt good. This shouldn’t have made your knees go weak or your heart hammer against your ribs like it wanted out. This wasn’t helpful. It was a goddamn problem. And you didn’t know if you wanted to punch him or drag him even closer.

You found your voice again, but it was brittle, shaking loose from somewhere deep in your chest.

"I’m fine," you rasped out, the lie clumsy on your tongue. "I can’t—" you swallowed, trying to loosen the tight coil in your throat, "I can’t do this."

For the first time, Rafayel stirred against you. Not pulling away. Not letting go. Instead, his grip over your hand tightened, just enough to keep you rooted. Just enough to make it clear you weren’t running from this.

"You can," he murmured, voice low and steady against your ear. "You just don’t believe it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words disintegrated when he moved your hand, slow, patient strokes across the canvas, each movement deliberate. And he kept talking. Soft, coaxing words spilling from his lips, guiding you through every line, every brushstroke, as if he could will you into finding your rhythm again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing ragged. Because it wasn’t just the painting anymore. It was him. It was the heat of his chest pressing against your back, the rumble of his voice sliding under your skin, the way every brush of his hand against yours lit your nerves up like wildfire.

Desire coiled low in your stomach, slow and molten, and no amount of desperate denial could smother it. What the fuck are you doing, you screamed at yourself internally. This is not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be focusing.

But your body betrayed you. You stiffened under his touch, tension slicing through you like a taut wire ready to snap. And Rafayel noticed. Without pausing his words, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, his other hand moved, sliding low, resting firm and steady against your waist.

You shuddered, only slightly, a tremor you might have been able to pass off as exhaustion. But his hand stayed. Warm, solid and certain. He said nothing about it. He didn’t tease and didn’t push. He just kept speaking, that low, even murmur against your ear anchoring you to the moment. Steadying you even as you came apart inside your own skin.

And still, you painted. Blindly. Breathlessly. Every brushstroke guided by the weight of his body against yours, by the hum of his voice threading through your fraying composure.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You wanted to stay exactly where you were and never move again. And Rafayel—calm, maddening, untouchable Rafayel—just kept going. As if he hadn’t already set your entire world on fire without lifting a finger.

You tried. God, you tried to keep still under his hands. Tried to ignore the pounding of your heart, the trembling in your legs, the heat pulsing low and furious in your body. You felt it again, that unbearable tension snapping through your body like a live wire. And this time, he noticed immediately.

"Relax," Rafayel said, low and soft, his mouth so close to your ear that you felt the warmth of his breath ghost across your skin. The command, gentle but unyielding, sent a sharp, electric jolt through you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heat pooling low in your belly so fast and fierce it made your head spin. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on the canvas in front of you, but it was impossible, because he didn’t pull away.

Instead, the hand on your waist shifted. The faintest movement. Fingers grazing under the hem of your shirt, calloused and feather-light against your bare skin, tracing idle patterns that set your nerves ablaze.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around yours, guiding the brush with deceptive patience, as if nothing about this was wrong, as if your body wasn’t betraying you at every turn.

"Rafayel," you choked out before you could stop yourself, his name falling from your lips in a desperate, fractured whisper.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then a low hum rumbled from his throat, vibrating against the air between you—acknowledgment without a single word. His breath brushed your neck again, and you swore your knees nearly gave out.

Your hand tightened around the brush, your knuckles whitening under his steady grip. Every nerve ending in your body was screaming, spiraling under the heat of him pressed so close, so solid, so there.

Still, Rafayel kept speaking. Calm and unrushed, as if he wasn’t breaking you apart inch by inch.

"The brush is an extension of you," he murmured, voice slipping down your spine like velvet and smoke. "Don’t force it. Let it move the way you feel."

He spoke like nothing had changed. Like his fingers weren’t dancing just under your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin of your waist. Like you weren’t trembling against him, heat radiating off you in waves.

He never retracted. Never pulled away. Just stayed there, anchoring you, burning you alive from the inside out. You could feel everything, the solid press of his chest against your back, the slow slide of his fingertips at your waist, the way his breath caught lightly against the shell of your ear every time he spoke.

It was maddening. It was exquisite. It was ruinous. And still, somehow, you kept painting.

You couldn’t breathe. Or maybe you’d just forgotten how. Every drag of the brush across the canvas felt detached from you, like your hand didn’t belong to you anymore, because it didn’t. It was wrapped inside his. Firm. Calm. Guiding. Rafayel sat behind you, the steady rhythm of his chest brushing your back, your bodies separated only by the flimsiest thread of restraint.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear, voice so low it made your skin prickle. “You’re holding it too tight again.”

You swallowed hard, knuckles white where they clutched the brush. His hand adjusted yours gently, his fingers molding over your own with casual, devastating confidence.

“Let it flow,” he said. “Don’t control it. Just let it happen.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t coming apart from the inside out. The hand on your waist moved. It wasn’t a conscious thing, not obviously.  His breath curled against the curve of your neck as he leaned in closer, not even pretending to give you space anymore.

“Keep going,” he said, speaking into your skin like a secret. “Don’t stop now.”

You shuddered. The brush trembled in your hand, the paint smearing across the canvas without intention.

“This isn’t working,” you choked out. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently, his voice sinking into your bones. “You already are.”

His fingers pressed a little higher under your shirt, sliding up along your ribs, light and maddening. You gasped, quiet, involuntary, but it echoed in the stillness between you like thunder.

“You’re too in your head,” he continued, ignoring the way you stiffened under him. Or pretending to. “You think too much. Feel more.”

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him, those glasses perched low on his nose, the rolled sleeves, the cool composure that made you want to scream. He hadn’t looked at you once. Not since this started. His eyes stayed on the canvas like you weren’t falling apart against him.

“This is…” you swallowed, voice ragged. “This is inappropriate.”

His hand didn’t move. His body didn’t shift. But you felt the faintest pull of a smile in his voice when he spoke next.

“Is it?” a single question, soft and infuriatingly calm. It settled in your chest like a stone, heavy and inescapable.

You tried, truly tried to keep your eyes on the canvas. You forced yourself to focus on the movement of your hand, on the soft drag of bristles across the painted surface, on the gentle pressure of his fingers guiding yours. But it was useless.

Because his body shifted behind you, and the solid warmth of his chest pressed closer, hips brushing against the curve of your lower back, deliberate now. Grounding. Intimate.

You sucked in a breath, your spine tensing, back arching ever so slightly without meaning to. Just a reflex, just the smallest surrender to the burn low in your stomach. Behind you, Rafayel hummed, Low and pleased. Like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And then his mouth was on you. Soft. Hot. Slow. His lips pressed a kiss to the base of your neck, barely there, and you gasped—quiet, breathy, the sound catching in your throat before you could swallow it back.

“Keep painting,” he murmured against your skin, the words like silk and smoke as his hand over yours urged the brush forward.

You obeyed. Or tried to. But then his lips returned, this time not soft, not tentative. He kissed your neck again, lower now, mouth open, tongue tracing a slow, maddening path along your skin. He sucked, gently, just enough to pull another gasp from your lips as his breath washed over the sensitive spot he'd found.

Your hand stuttered on the canvas. Still, he didn’t stop. His mouth kept moving, trailing kisses up the slope of your neck, then down again, drawing soft, possessive marks that made your whole body tremble.

His hand moved. Sliding up your side, deliberate and slow, until his palm curved over your chest, fingers splaying gently beneath your shirt. He cupped your breast lightly at first, just the weight of his hand, the heat of him through thin fabric, and then he moved. A subtle roll of his thumb, a delicate squeeze, and your body arched without permission.

A sound slipped from you. Soft. Breathless. Wanting. You moaned quietly and shamelessly. And he felt it. All of it. The way you melted under him, the way your breath hitched and your thighs pressed together and your body gave in despite your mind’s frantic protests.

Behind you, he exhaled—slow and low, like he was just as wrecked as you. But his voice remained steady when it came again, ghosting hot against your ear.

"You want my help?" Rafayel’s voice was rough now, low against your neck, vibrating against your skin. You nodded, barely able to breathe, the brush trembling in your hand.

"Then keep painting," he said, a sharp thread of command weaving through the softness. "Or I stop."

The threat coiled around you tighter than any touch. You dragged the brush forward with a shaky hand, the canvas a blur, your focus shattered into a million useless pieces.

But it didn’t matter. Because he kept his promise. His fingers, still cupping your breast, moved with slow precision—circling, teasing, rolling your nipple between his fingertips until your body strained toward him without thinking.

A gasp shuddered out of you as his mouth returned to your neck—kissing, sucking harder now, dragging his teeth lightly against the delicate skin until your knees nearly buckled.

Your back arched instinctively, pressing you harder into him, desperate for more, and for a moment he allowed it, let you writhe against him, let you feel the evidence of his own unraveling.

Then, slowly, his hand over yours, the one guiding your brush, pulled away. You whimpered at the loss. But it wasn’t long. Not even a heartbeat. Because a moment later, that same hand slid down, tracing a path over your hip, slow and deliberate, and slipped under the hem of your skirt.

You almost dropped the brush. Almost gave in to the way your whole body shook with the need clawing at you. But just before you could falter, he paused. His hand, warm and heavy, rested just beneath your thigh, fingers brushing against bare skin, but stopping there. Not where you needed him.

And God, you were soaked and dripping. The simple proximity of him made your thighs clench, made your whole body scream for something more, something deeper. Still, he didn’t move and didn’t give you what you were aching for.

"You stop," he murmured darkly against your ear, "I stop."

Your fingers clenched tighter around the brush. You forced yourself to paint. Forced yourself to focus, to move, to give him what he asked, because the thought of him pulling away now, leaving you like this, was unbearable.

Satisfied, Rafayel moved again. Slowly, achingly slowly, his hand crept higher under your skirt, pushing the fabric upward, exposing more of your trembling thighs to the heavy, heated air. You could feel the reverence in every movement, the way he took his time, as if savoring every inch of you revealed to him. As if he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And you would let him. You would let him do anything. As long as he didn’t stop.

The brush moved in your hand, dragging lazy, aimless strokes across the canvas, but you weren’t even pretending to focus anymore. Every ounce of your attention was locked on him, on his mouth at your throat, on his hand under your shirt, on the slow, unbearable pressure building at the apex of your thighs.

You could feel the wet fabric of your underwear clinging desperately to your skin, slick and soaked through, the evidence of your need shameful and aching. Rafayel's hand toyed with the hem of your underwear now, his fingers grazing so close to where you needed him most, but never fully touching. Not yet. Never before you earned it.

“Fuck…” you gasped, the word slipping out as his thumb brushed the thin elastic at your hip, featherlight and maddening. He chuckled low in your ear, not cruel, but devastating in the calm certainty of his voice.

“So wet already,” he murmured, voice dark and rough with want. “You’re dripping for me, cutie.”

The words shattered something inside you. You moaned—soft, helpless—your head falling back against his shoulder as another shudder wracked your body. Still, he didn’t rush. Still, he moved like he had all the time in the world to break you down.

His mouth found your neck again, kissing along the sensitive skin with unhurried precision, nipping, sucking, leaving soft, blossoming marks you would wear like a brand. At the same time, his hand kept playing with your breast, fingers teasing and rolling your nipple between practiced fingertips until you were squirming against him, desperate for something more.

You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn’t hold it back.

"Please," you breathed out, the word trembling on your tongue. "I want you to touch me."

Rafayel’s breath hitched ever so slightly against your skin, the first real crack in his composure, and it sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you.

He didn’t speak right away. Just pressed his body harder against yours, dragging you back into him so that you could feel every inch of him. The thick, hard line of his cock was unmistakable, grinding against the bare curve of your ass where your skirt had been pushed up to your waist.

You whimpered at the feeling, at the thick weight of him pressed against you, the proof of how badly he wanted you just as much. Still, when he spoke, his voice was steady.

"I will," he promised, the words scraping low across your ear. "But you have to keep painting for me."

You whimpered again, weak and wrecked, but your hand kept moving, your body trembling as you dragged the brush across the canvas, blind to whatever you were creating.

Your eyes fluttered half-closed, every breath a broken, desperate thing as Rafayel's fingers finally slipped deeper beneath the hem of your underwear, slow and deliberate. He didn't touch you yet. Just brushed over the soaked fabric, feeling every quiver, every pulse of need inside you.

"You’re doing so good," he murmured, voice a wicked purr against your skin. "Almost there, cutie. Don’t stop now."

And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because the only thing worse than falling apart for him was the thought of him stopping.

Your hand moved, trembling and desperate, dragging the brush across the canvas in a haze of color and heat. You weren’t even aware of what you were creating anymore, only that you had to keep going. Because every second you obeyed, he rewarded you.

Rafayel’s fingers finally pushed your soaked underwear aside, dragging the thin fabric out of his way with a low, satisfied hum against your skin. And then finally, he touched you.

A slow, deliberate stroke between your folds, back and forth, gathering the slickness there, teasing the swollen ache of your clit with maddening patience.

You gasped, a soft, broken sound, and arched into him, helpless to the way your body betrayed you. Helpless to how badly you wanted more.

"That’s it, cutie," Rafayel murmured against your ear, his breath sending another shiver down your spine. His voice was molten, heavy, wrapping around you tighter than his arms ever could. "Feel it. Don't think…just feel."

His hand on your breast moved with the same slow, cruel precision, fingers toying with your nipple, rolling and tugging just hard enough to make your knees tremble.

"You think too much when you paint," he continued, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. "Art isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be messy. Wild. It’s supposed to make you lose control."

You whimpered as he circled your clit harder now, relentless and smooth, drawing tight, desperate spirals that made your stomach knot and your thighs clench. Still, your hand never stopped moving. You gripped the brush tighter, painting blindly, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded in a haze of pleasure and need.

"Good girl," he whispered, and the praise shattered something deep inside you, a raw cry building in your throat.

"Such a good girl for me," he breathed again, almost reverent this time. "Keeping those pretty hands working… even while I ruin you."

You moaned helplessly, feeling the coil inside you tighten, higher and higher. Without warning, he slid two fingers inside you. Deep. Curling them expertly against the spot that made your hips jolt, made your breath stutter into something wild and desperate.

You choked on a gasp, nearly dropping the brush—but somehow, you clung to it, painting in uneven, shivering strokes as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers, dragging you closer to the edge with every thrust, every filthy word in your ear.

"You feel that, cutie?" he murmured, voice thick, filled with something rougher now, something needy. "That’s you. That’s all you."

And you could only nod, could only breathe, could only feel as he pushed you further into madness, his mouth never leaving your neck, his body holding you steady while he unraveled you from the inside out.

Rafayel worked you slowly. Excruciatingly, beautifully slowly. His fingers curled inside you with devastating precision, over and over again, dragging against that aching, tender spot deep inside, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure until you were nothing but trembling nerves and ragged breath.

His mouth never left your skin. He kissed along the side of your neck, slow, open-mouthed, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, before drawing your earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

You moaned, a desperate, helpless sound, and the brush trembled violently in your hand, the strokes on the canvas becoming wild, senseless scratches of color. Still, you kept painting. You had to.

"You feel that, cutie?" Rafayel murmured against your ear, voice thick, rough, sinful. "The way your body’s responding? The way you can’t even think anymore?"

You gasped, hips jerking helplessly as he quickened the pace of his fingers, fucking you harder now, thrusting deep and curling on every stroke.

"That’s what art’s supposed to be," he continued, voice sinking into you like velvet and smoke. "Not perfect. Not careful. Just raw."

Your thighs quivered, your toes curling in your shoes, everything inside you winding tighter and tighter as the pleasure built maddeningly slow, every stroke of his fingers, every squeeze of your nipple, every filthy word dragging you closer to the edge.

"Let it happen," he whispered. "Don’t fight it, cutie."

You whimpered, your head falling back against his shoulder, baring your throat to him in surrender. Rafayel growled low against your skin, a sound you felt more than heard, and fastened his mouth to your neck, sucking another dark, aching mark into your skin as his fingers plunged harder, faster.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You sobbed a breath, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the brutal, beautiful climax he was dragging out of you inch by maddening inch. You came with a cry—soft, broken—your whole body convulsing against him, hand dropping the brush at last, forgotten, as waves of pleasure ripped through you.

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, wetness gushing, slicking his hand, soaking your thighs. You came all over him, helpless and undone. But Rafayel didn’t stop. He kept moving his fingers inside you, slower now, deeper, drawing out every last aftershock, every trembling gasp, every ragged, broken moan you couldn’t hold back.

"That’s it, cutie," he purred, nuzzling into your neck as you panted, as your head lolled back against him. "Messy. Raw. Fucking beautiful."

You whimpered as the overstimulation hit, his fingers relentless, his mouth still hot against your throat, his body pressed tight against your back, anchoring you to him.

"You’re so good for me," he breathed, almost reverent, curling his fingers deeper once more just to feel the way you twitched, the way your breath hitched and your body melted helplessly into him.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he kissed just below your ear, wicked and soft. "You feel how alive you are when you stop pretending."

You moaned again, shaky, broken, your whole body limp and trembling against him, utterly, breathtakingly wrecked. And still, Rafayel held you there. Still, he worked you through every aftershock, every breathless whimper, savoring every second of your collapse like it was his own personal masterpiece.

The moment you caught your breath, barely, you turned. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, urging his fingers to retreat from inside you, and he allowed it with a low, startled gasp, his breath hitching as you crashed your mouth onto his. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate, hungry, the kiss stealing what little composure either of you had left.

His lips crushed against yours, hot and demanding, as you tasted the salt of your skin on his tongue, the ache of everything he had just done to you burning between you like wildfire. He growled low against your mouth, pulling you backward with him, hands slipping up under your shirt without hesitation, dragging across your bare skin as if he couldn’t get enough.

You fumbled at his belt with trembling fingers, the metal clinking wildly between you as you fought it open, urgency crackling in every ragged breath you shared. Rafayel’s breath was trembling now, for the first time. Uneven, wrecked, but still, still, he found the strength to tease you.

"Cutie," he rasped against your lips, a shaky, wrecked smirk pulling at his mouth, "getting a little impatient, aren’t you?"

You just smiled, wicked and breathless. Your hand slipped down, tugging his pants loose, the fabric falling low on his hips as you pushed him backward into the chair he’d been using before, forcing him to sit.

He looked at you then, glasses slipping low on his nose, hair mussed, his chest rising and falling fast, and there was something almost dangerous in the way he watched you sink slowly to your knees in front of him.

Your palms slid up his thighs, deliberate and slow, feeling the hard, trembling strength beneath your touch. You could feel him, heavy and straining against the confines of his underwear, and it sent another flush of heat pooling deep inside you.

You glanced up at him, your mouth wicked with new confidence.

"You like playing teacher that much," you whispered, voice low and dripping with sin, "then you can teach me this."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the hard, clothed line of him. Rafayel’s whole body jolted, his breath tearing free from his chest in a raw, wrecked sound. His hands gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

"Fuck—" he choked, low and breathless, his cock twitching beneath the fabric as you kissed him again, slower this time, dragging your mouth along his length with infuriating patience.

Above you, Rafayel’s jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded behind his slipping glasses as he fought to hold onto what little composure he had left.

"Fuck,” he gritted out, voice cracking deliciously. "If you keep that up…I’m not gonna be able to be gentle with you."

And you smiled, sweet, deadly, because you wanted that. You wanted all of him. And for once, Rafayel looked like he was the one about to come undone.

You licked your lips slowly, tasting the electric charge lingering between you as you steadied yourself with your hands on his bare thighs, fingers digging lightly into his skin, feeling the solid heat of him trembling under your touch.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened instantly, the last shreds of his composure slipping as he watched you with a look so wrecked, so starved, it made your whole body thrum with satisfaction.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in closer, grinning wickedly as you caught the waistband of his underwear between your teeth. You dragged it down, inch by slow, agonizing inch, your breath ghosting over the hard, twitching length of him, and the sound he made, half curse, half broken moan, burned itself into your skin.

"Fuck, cutie…" he rasped, voice strained and shaking as the last barrier between you dropped away.

You sat back on your heels for a moment, taking him in. Long, hard, flushed with need, throbbing for you, because of you. You tilted your head, feigning a wide-eyed sweetness that didn’t match the fire in your movements.

"So," you said, your voice honeyed, taunting. "Are you gonna give me instructions for this too, professor?"

His hands clenched hard around the arms of the chair, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your palms. You could see the war in his eyes, the desperate need to tease, to stay in control, shattering under the weight of how much he wanted you.

"You—" He choked on a breath as you leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking out to deliver a slow, soft lick up the underside of his cock, light and playful, like a kitten sampling cream. "—you’re... doing just fine, cutie."

His voice cracked at the end, strained beyond reason. You smiled against him, wicked and triumphant, and licked him again, another slow, lazy stroke from base to tip.

His breath shuddered out of him, harsh and broken, his head falling back against the chair, glasses slipping low on his nose as his fingers spasmed in your hair, threading through the strands without even thinking. He clutched at you—at something—trying to ground himself against the steady, slow torture you were delivering.

"Maybe you..." he rasped out, struggling even to find words as you pressed a soft, teasing kiss just beneath the head of his cock, "maybe you do... need some help, cutie."

You hummed, deliberate, vibrating against him, and his hips jerked subtly, barely restrained. And still, you weren’t being innocent. There was nothing hesitant about the way you licked at him again, slow, open-mouthed, savoring him like he was something you owned.

And Rafayel—brilliant, cocky, untouchable Rafayel—was absolutely fucking wrecked for you. Grip too tight. Breath too ragged. Voice too desperate.

"You’re..." he hissed as you licked the tip, your tongue flicking in a playful circle, "...gonna drive me fucking insane, cutie."

Rafayel gasped, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair as you licked another slow, devastating stripe along the underside of his cock.

"Use..." he choked out, struggling to keep his voice steady, "your hand, cutie."

You almost laughed—low, breathless—because his desperation was so tangible now. So thick it tasted sweet on your tongue. But you complied, at least partly. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, fingers curling firmly, steadying him as you leaned in again.

"One stroke," Rafayel rasped out, his voice dipping dangerously low, rough with restraint. "All the way down."

You smiled against him, wicked and silent, and instead of stroking with your hand, you slid your mouth down—slow, sinful, swallowing him deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

The sound he made was wrecked, a hoarse, broken curse torn straight from his chest. His hips bucked up sharply, desperate, uncontrollable. You immediately pulled back, releasing him with a soft, obscene pop, and looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nuh-uh," you said sweetly, breathlessly. "You move again and I stop."

Rafayel’s eyes were wild now behind his glasses, pupils blown wide, hair falling over his forehead in messy strands. He nodded, jaw clenching, hands gripping the chair so hard the veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief.

"Good," you whispered, stroking him once with your hand, slow and deliberate, before leaning in again.

You licked up the length of him first, long, slow, teasing, then took him into your mouth again, hollowing your cheeks around him as you set a slow, maddening pace. Above you, Rafayel tried to stay still—he tried—but his thighs trembled under your touch, his breath a series of broken gasps and bitten-off curses. Still, he couldn’t help himself.

"Good girl," he gritted out through his teeth, voice tight and shaking. "Take it slow—"

You hummed in response, sending a shockwave through him that made his hips twitch despite himself.

"Stroke...with your hand at the same time," he gasped, trying so hard to stay in his role, to keep giving instructions even as you unmade him with every glide of your mouth.

You complied, slow, steady strokes of your hand twisting in time with the wet, sinful pull of your lips, and Rafayel nearly sobbed.

"Yeah, just like that," he panted. "God, cutie...just like that."

His voice, usually so composed, so lazy and amused, was wrecked now, a low, desperate thing tangled in need. You could feel him trembling under you. Feel him falling. And still, you didn’t stop.

You followed every broken command he gave you, playing the role he'd once held over you—obedient, teasing, devastating in your submission—while knowing full well you were the one in control now. And Rafayel, for all his brilliance, for all his cocky arrogance…was losing his mind for you.

You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks around him, fastening your pace until the wet, obscene sounds of it filled the room, until every part of Rafayel above you was trembling, wrecked.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, and the sight you found nearly made you moan. His glasses were fogged, slipping low on his nose. His purple hair was a beautiful, chaotic mess, strands falling over his forehead and brushing his flushed cheeks. And his eyes…God, his eyes…were dark, burning, almost black with hunger and desperate restraint.

He stared down at you like you were something he couldn’t survive without. Something he couldn’t control anymore. His fingers twitched against the arms of the chair, his body tense as a live wire, hips bucking slightly despite his best efforts.

You felt it. The way he hardened even more in your mouth, swelling, pulsing against your tongue as the inevitable approached. You hummed then, a low, deliberate vibration that shot straight through him. And Rafayel shuddered above you, a full-body tremor that he couldn’t hide, couldn’t fight.

“Fuck, cutie—” he gasped, voice cracking, helpless. “I’m—shit—”

He tried—tried—to give you another broken instruction, to cling to that last fraying thread of control. "Stroke—fuck—gentle, now—"

But you didn’t let him finish. You reached up with your free hand, bold and wicked, and cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your palm with a featherlight touch. The effect was immediate. Rafayel broke. He choked on a moan, a raw, desperate, shattered sound, and came hard, hips jerking up into your mouth as he spilled across your tongue.

You took it all without flinching, swallowing him down, holding steady as he writhed above you, falling apart completely. You milked him through it with soft, slow strokes of your mouth, drawing every last trembling pulse from him, every broken gasp, every ragged curse that tore from his lips.

And when he was too sensitive, too spent, you pulled back slightly, giving him slow, kitten-soft licks along the underside of his cock, gentle, worshipful, sweet in a way that made him shudder all over again. Above you, Rafayel sagged into the chair, head thrown back, chest heaving, hair a wild halo around his face. He looked utterly ruined.

You rose slowly from your knees, legs shaky, breath unsteady. Before you could even fully straighten, Rafayel’s hand shot out, catching your wrist in his and tugging you toward him.

You stumbled forward, hovering over him, your hands braced against the arms of his chair. His eyes were molten, burning, wild, and yet somehow still controlled. Before either of you spoke, he pulled you into a kiss. Hot. Open. Desperate.

He tasted himself on your tongue and swore into your mouth, low and filthy, gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear another inch of space between you. You whimpered against his lips, body pressing flush to his half-dressed frame, feeling every frantic beat of his heart, every shaky exhale.

Without breaking the kiss, Rafayel shoved his pants down the rest of the way, freeing himself completely. Then his hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, impatient but precise, stripping away the final layers until he stood naked in front of you, bare and utterly devastating.

You barely had time to drink him in, the planes of his chest, the fine lines of muscle, the way his skin flushed under the low light, before he was moving again. He stood up, looming over you in a wave of heat and purpose, pushing you backward with careful, commanding hands. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just enough to make you move.

"Undress," he said, his voice a velvet whip crackling in the thick air.

Your stomach flipped, excitement and arousal crashing together inside you, setting your nerves alight. You smirked at him, a little breathless, a little defiant, but obeyed. Piece by piece, you stripped for him. Your shirt. Your skirt. Your soaked-through underwear. Until you stood there bare before him, your skin flushed, your chest heaving, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

"Perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

Before you could answer, he turned you, positioning you against a large blank canvas propped against the wall. The cool air brushed your overheated skin, and you shivered under the weight of his gaze.

"Don’t move," he said, voice softer now, but no less absolute. "I’m going to teach you…how to paint without restraint."

You swallowed, nodding, your body tense with need, your heart hammering in your chest. Rafayel dipped a brush into a nearby tray of paint, a deep, rich color you couldn't focus on, and then turned back to you.

The first touch was featherlight. The brush dragged over your collarbone, slow, deliberate, leaving a cool, wet trail that made you shiver. You gasped softly, your nipples hardening instantly under the chilly kiss of the paint, and the heated look in his eyes.

Rafayel hummed approvingly, his gaze locked on yours, never straying.

"Good girl," he murmured, dragging the brush lower. "Just like that. Don’t run from it. Feel everything."

You whimpered as he painted your breasts next, circling your sensitive peaks, flicking the tip of the brush across them until you were panting, aching. He watched every reaction—every tremble, every sharp intake of breath—with rapt attention, as if you were the canvas he’d been waiting his whole life to complete.

"You’re beautiful like this, cutie," he said, his voice low and rough. "Open. Bare. Honest."

The brush dipped lower. Over your belly, your trembling waist, your hips. Each stroke slow and devastating, dragging slick color across your burning skin, leaving you dripping and desperate. You moaned softly, your thighs clenching instinctively, but you didn't move. Too lost in him, too desperate for what he would do next.

Rafayel licked his lips slowly, dark eyes eating you alive, as he brought the brush lower still, hovering just above the place you needed him most, just above where you were soaking, aching, overstimulated and ready.

"You want me to paint you here too, cutie?" he murmured, voice dripping with wicked affection.

You could barely breathe. Barely think. And you would let him. You would let him paint you anywhere. Anywhere he wanted. Your body trembled against the canvas, every nerve ending raw and straining toward him. Still, you obeyed. Still, you answered him…your voice wrecked but sure.

"Teach me," you breathed. "Teach me hands-on. Teach me everything about painting…about letting loose... about feeling."

Rafayel’s mouth twisted into something dark and reverent, almost a smile. "As you wish, cutie."

The brush dipped lower then, with agonizing slowness. You gasped as the bristles dragged between your folds—soaked, swollen, aching—and when they flicked over your clit, a helpless moan tore from your lips.

The sensation was maddening. Too soft, too delicate, too deliberate. You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively toward him, desperate for more friction, more pressure. But Rafayel didn’t relent. He watched you, drank you in, dark eyes gleaming behind his glasses as he slid the fingers of his free hand up to your mouth.

Without hesitation, you opened for him. You sucked two of his fingers between your lips, moaning around them as he pressed deeper, tasting the paint still lingering faintly on his skin, tasting him. Above you, Rafayel cursed low and broken.

"Fuck, cutie…" he gasped, his hips jerking forward unconsciously, his cock leaking freely now, so heavy and hard it brushed against his stomach.

Still, he kept circling your clit with the brush, slow, merciless strokes that had your thighs trembling, your whole body spiraling toward that perfect, devastating edge again. You moaned against his fingers, your tongue swirling around them, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked harder, and another filthy curse ripped from his throat.

His control was shattering. Piece by piece. Still, he held the brush steady, working you, circling you, teasing you toward the inevitable. You were so close. So close you could barely stand. And then he pulled away.

You gasped, the sudden loss a brutal shock to your body. Before you could protest, Rafayel dropped the brush and grabbed your hips—firm but not harsh—turning you around to face the canvas. Your palms caught against the stretched fabric, smearing paint across it, your bare skin slick and hot.

"Stay," he said, his voice low and commanding at your ear.

And you obeyed. You stood there, trembling, chest heaving, heart hammering against your ribs as Rafayel pressed against you from behind. Chest to back. Breath to breath.

You could feel the solid wall of him, his bare skin searing into yours, the heavy, leaking tip of his cock sliding against the cleft of your ass, leaving slick, hot trails as he rutted slowly against you.

You moaned at the contact, your hips pressing back instinctively, seeking him, needing him. Rafayel’s hand slid around your waist, anchoring you to him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His mouth found your ear, his breath a ragged, hungry thing.

"Tell me, cutie," he rasped, voice cracking with the weight of how badly he wanted you. "Should I teach you... all the way?"

The thick head of his cock nudged between your thighs then, not entering you yet, just waiting, just asking, just demanding without forcing. Waiting for your answer. Waiting for your surrender. Waiting to make you his masterpiece.

You could feel every trembling breath of his against your back. The heat of him. The need of him. Rafayel's hand slid up your stomach with slow, deliberate intent, his palm finding your breast, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipple again until you whined, helpless and shivering under his touch. You rocked your hips back into him, pressing closer, inviting him, daring him.

"I want more," you whispered, voice wrecked but clear. "Fill the role properly, professor."

You could feel him shudder against you, the raw, broken sound he made punched into your ear, and he cursed low and filthy under his breath."Fuck, cutie...oh my God."

He grabbed your hips tighter, positioning himself at your entrance—hot, thick, throbbing—and the heavy head of his cock brushed against your soaked folds, teasing you with maddening precision. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back against his shoulder. His mouth found your throat, kissing, biting, marking as he slowly, inexorably sank into you.

You moaned loudly, shamelessly, as he filled you to the hilt, stretching you, owning you. You clenched around him deliberately—tight, greedy—and Rafayel gasped, nearly losing his footing against the canvas.

"Don't—" he choked out, his voice cracked and wrecked, "fuck, cutie—don't do that—feels too good—"

But you did it again. You squeezed him tighter, harder, laughing breathlessly as you ground your hips back against him. You wanted him to lose it. You wanted him to break. And he did. With a low, feral curse, Rafayel’s hand tightened in your hair, tugging your head further back, exposing your neck to him as his other hand came up, wrapping loosely but firmly around your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. Just holding.

He thrust into you then—slow, deep, devastating—filling you over and over again until you were gasping, until you were arching against him, until you couldn't think anymore. His mouth was hot against your ear, his voice ragged, frayed, breaking apart with every word.

"Take it," he growled, thrusting harder, slower, deeper. "Take it like a good girl."

You whimpered, helpless and ruined, and he squeezed your throat just enough to make your walls flutter around him.

"You want to feel, cutie?" he panted against your skin, voice a low, desperate thing. "You want to lose control? Then take me. All of me."

His hand at your breast pinched your nipple hard and sharp again, and the sharp sting mixed with the deep drag of his cock inside you until you were writhing, sobbing, pushing back against him for more.

You could feel it, the coil inside you winding tighter. The pleasure building into something sharp, devastating, inevitable. And Rafayel… Rafayel was barely holding on. Because you were his masterpiece now. And he was going to make you fall apart beautifully.

He shifted his grip, his hand still tangled in your hair as he tilted your head toward him, catching your mouth in a brutal, searing kiss. You gasped against him, barely able to breathe as he swallowed your cries, his tongue claiming you the same way his body was.

At the same time, his hips picked up pace, thrusting into you faster, harder, and for a moment you thought he'd finally give you what you needed.

But then he slowed again. A maddening, deliberate retreat. A teasing roll of his hips that made you sob into his mouth, your body shivering with how badly you needed more. You arched your back instinctively, desperate to change the angle, desperate to make him hit that place deep inside you where stars burst behind your eyes.

"Please," you whispered against his lips, almost without meaning to, your body betraying your pride.

You felt him smile against your mouth, slow, wicked, amused, but there was a dark hunger in it too.

"Desperate little girl," he murmured, voice low and ragged. "You want it that bad?"

You whimpered, nodding helplessly, your thighs trembling as you squeezed around him again. Rafayel cursed under his breath, barely holding on, his chest shuddering against your back.

Without warning, he drew back slightly, and then thrust hard, deep—exactly where you needed him most. You cried out, your voice breaking, your whole body jolting against the canvas as pleasure exploded through your core.

"Fuck—" you gasped, nails scraping at the canvas frame for purchase, "Rafayel—"

He moaned behind you, a raw, brutal sound ripped from his throat as you clenched around him again, tighter, hotter, wetter than before. "You’re gonna fucking kill me, cutie," he growled.

You squeezed again—defiant, needy—and his teeth sank into your shoulder in retaliation, a sharp sting that made you arch harder into him, gasping. And then he pounded into you. Hard, deep, relentless. The slow, teasing control was gone now, replaced by raw need, by brutal, beautiful ruin.

You whimpered and moaned, struggling to stay upright, feeling yourself spiral closer and closer to the edge. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the words clawing up your throat, trying to cling to some last shred of pride. But Rafayel wasn’t having it. His hand slid from your throat up  to your chin, gripping it firmly, forcing your head to turn back slightly toward him.

"Say it," he rasped into your ear, voice broken and commanding all at once. "Tell me how fucking good it feels."

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

"Tell me, cutie," he urged, another sharp, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs. "Tell me or I stop."

You couldn't take it. You needed him too much.

"It feels so good," you moaned raggedly, the confession spilling from you in a desperate, trembling gasp. "Fuck, Rafayel—it feels so good—"

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

"Good girl," he growled, driving into you deeper, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the air, filthy and beautiful.

"That’s it," he breathed, mouth dragging across your throat. "That’s it, cutie. Let it all out."

You could feel it, that coil inside you tightening, burning, ready to snap. Rafayel could feel it too. You knew it from the way he changed, from the way his thrusts grew desperate, relentless, slamming into you with fast, punishing strokes that made you sob against the canvas.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. He was chasing it. Chasing you.And you could barely hold on.

The pressure built so fast it felt violent, sharp, all-consuming. You whimpered brokenly, feeling him grow rougher, his teeth sinking into the side of your neck, leaving marks he didn’t even try to soothe this time. His hands bruised your hips, your breasts, desperate to keep you in place as he drove into you with wild, brutal need.

One strong arm curled around your thigh, hiking it up, forcing you onto your tiptoes, opening you wider to him. You cried out, helpless, as he drove even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot over and over until your eyes rolled back, your mouth falling open in a soundless gasp.

"Fuck—" you sobbed, barely able to breathe. "Rafayel—"

You spasmed around him, body convulsing violently as your orgasm tore through you, sharp, devastating, ripping you apart at the seams. You moaned his name loudly, shamelessly, your nails clawing at the canvas as wave after brutal wave of pleasure crashed over you.

You were breathless, trembling, wrecked. But Rafayel didn’t stop. Not for a second. He thrusted harder, faster, grinding into you with ragged, desperate sounds torn straight from his chest, chasing his own release now, breaking against you.

You whimpered and whined, your whole body shaking uncontrollably, your overstimulated nerves screaming, but he couldn’t stop, not with the way you pulsed and fluttered around him, milking him, driving him insane.

"Fuck, cutie," he panted, voice wrecked, broken, desperate, "so good—you're so fucking good—can't—can't—"

It was all nonsense now, half praise, half pleading, as he pounded into you, holding you upright against the canvas like a man possessed. Your hand reached back blindly, tangling into his hair, gripping tight, grounding yourself as you sobbed into the frame.

"Please," you gasped between kisses against his arm, your voice trembling with everything you couldn't hold back, "please—please, Rafayel—"

You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or begging him to let go. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Your body was trembling so violently you could barely stay upright, barely keep breathing, barely keep from falling apart again. Painfully close to another orgasm, even though you were already so wrung out you could barely think.

And Rafayel was right there with you. His whole body shuddered against yours, his cock thick and throbbing inside you, every muscle in his body straining with the need to finish.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Even through the overstimulation, even through the trembling wreckage of your body against the canvas, you found your voice.

"You’re so good," you gasped, barely coherent. "So good—please—please, Rafayel—come for me."

Your praise, breathless and broken, wrecked him completely. You felt it in the way he faltered mid-thrust, just barely, but still didn’t stop, hips hammering into you relentlessly even as his own body spasmed against yours. You heard it in the way he cursed—low, desperate, unstrung.

"Fuck, cutie—" he gasped, breath hitching raggedly, "fuck—ah—you feel…so—perfect—"

It wasn’t begging. Not really. Because even with his voice wrecked, even with his body trembling, he still didn’t stop. He drove into you harder, deeper, chasing the brutal, inevitable high, chasing you. And you could feel it. Feel how close he was. Feel the way his cock throbbed violently inside you, feel the tight, reckless desperation coiling through both your bodies.

You could even feel the evidence of your own previous release sliding down your thighs, slick, hot, messy between you. And when Rafayel hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you again, you screamed. Overstimulation twisted into something sharp, breathtaking.

Your whole body seized, shuddered, your hands slipping on the canvas, your vision going white around the edges as another orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You sobbed his name, wrecked and helpless, your walls clenching brutally tight around him.

And that was what finally broke him. Rafayel gasped a hoarse, broken sound as he pulled out at the very last second, his hand wrapping around himself in a rush. Hot, thick release spilled across your lower back, your thighs, painting your skin in long, messy streaks as he cried out against your shoulder, his whole body shuddering uncontrollably.

You nearly collapsed, but he caught you instantly. Strong arms wrapped around you, holding you upright as you both panted against each other, trembling and breathless and utterly wrecked.

Without thinking, Rafayel kissed you.  Hard, desperate. All teeth and gasping mouths and whispered curses. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw. Messy. Real. He kissed you like he needed you to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his body still shivering with the aftermath. And then he chuckled, low and rough. Not cocky, just utterly, hopelessly undone.

"Shit, cutie," he rasped, still catching his breath. "See? I just painted a fucking masterpiece on your body."

You laughed, breathless, broken, beautiful. And it wasn’t just from what he said. It was from everything you had just created together. The masterpiece wasn’t just on your skin. It was in the way he held you. The way you trembled in his arms. The way you both felt.

You felt alive, messy, uncontrolled. Perfect. Exactly the way art and love was always meant to be.

————

You didn’t go back the next week. Not because you regretted it. Not even close. If anything, the memory of that night haunted you in the best possible way, etched into your mind in strokes of desperate kisses, whispered praises, and the overwhelming way Rafayel had made you feel like you were alive again.

No. You didn’t regret it at all. You just… didn’t know where you stood now. You didn’t know if you could walk back into that room, sit there pretending that nothing had shifted irrevocably between you, that he hadn’t touched you, wrecked you, made you into a living, breathing canvas of pleasure and release.

And strangest of all? Your creative block, he heavy, invisible wall that had held you frozen for months…had started to crumble. Your brush moved now with a fluidity you didn’t recognize, didn’t question. Every color felt sharper. Every line more daring. Every piece more yours.

It was infuriating. And thrilling. And absurdly, breathtakingly amusing. Because somehow, impossibly, that had been the missing piece. Not more studying. Not more lectures. Not more theory. Feeling. Letting go. Giving in. Living.

Sometimes, while you painted, your thoughts drifted inevitably back to him. The way his glasses had fogged. The way his voice had broken saying your name. The way he had praised you even as he lost himself inside you. It twisted something sweet and aching low in your stomach every time.

You hadn’t exchanged numbers that night.  Hadn’t even thought about it in the aftermath of the slow, desperate kisses, the wrecked laughter, the quiet way he had held you afterward like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And now you wondered if he thought you regretted it. If he thought he had gone too far. Even though everything about that night had been mutual, hungry, helpless, inevitable. You wondered if he was thinking about you, too. Sitting in that lecture room, wondering where you had gone. Cursing himself quietly beneath all that cocky arrogance because for once, he didn’t know how to fix it.

————

The café was warm and quiet, sunlight slanting through the wide windows, painting lazy patterns across the worn wood floors. You sat alone at a table near the window, your coffee cooling between your hands, your mind a thousand miles away. Lost in thought. Lost in art. Lost in him. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until a voice cut through your reverie.

“Well, well," Rafayel drawled, and you startled so hard you nearly choked on your coffee.

You coughed, wide-eyed, glaring up at him as he grinned down at you, smug and amused, a paper coffee cup in his hand.

"Easy, cutie," he teased, sliding into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation. "Wouldn’t want you to die of shock before you finish your masterpiece."

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the caffeine.

"Maybe warn a girl next time you sneak up like a damn cat," you muttered, recovering quickly, playing it cool.

He chuckled lowly, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving you. "You’ve always struck me as quick on your feet," he said, smirking. "Was I wrong?"

You snorted. "Maybe I just didn’t expect to be ambushed by my... extracurricular activities guide."

His mouth twitched at that, half a laugh, half something else. But he let it slide, leaning back casually, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face, the messy fall of his purple hair, the glint of something darker in his eyes.

You stared at him longer than you meant to. And he noticed. Of course he noticed.

"So," he drawled, tapping a lazy rhythm against his cup, "how’s the art coming along?"

You shrugged, feigning casual, but you couldn’t quite hide the small, secret smile tugging at your lips. "Better," you admitted. "A lot better, actually."

Rafayel’s smile softened, less smirk, more something real, and he tilted his head, studying you in that way that always made your skin feel too tight.

"Funny," he said. "You stop coming to my lecture... and your art starts thriving."

You lifted a brow. "Are you suggesting you were the problem?"

He laughed, quiet, warm, almost self-deprecating, and shook his head.

"Hardly," he said. Then, after a pause, added, "Just wondering if you figured out you didn’t need me anymore."

There was something serious under the teasing now. Something that made your heart twist a little in your chest. You met his gaze, steady, unflinching, and for a moment, the world outside the café faded away.

"I figured out I needed less thinking," you said softly. "And more... feeling."

His eyes darkened slightly, the playful edge sharpening into something hotter, heavier.

"Good," he murmured, voice low. "That’s where the real art lives."

You smiled, small but real, the warmth of it spreading through your chest.

"And maybe," you added lightly, teasing again to ease the weight between you, "I just needed a different kind of instructor."

He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his smirk curving slow and wicked.

"Saying that…" he said. "you’re gonna make me think you want private lessons."

Your cheeks burned, but you held his gaze, refusing to back down.

"Maybe I do," you said, matching his tone perfectly. "Think you’re up for it?"

Rafayel’s smile was slow and dangerous, and the way he looked at you, like you were already halfway undressed in his mind… it made your stomach flip.

"Oh," he said, voice dropping. "I’m very hands-on."

You choked a little, actually choked, grabbing your coffee quickly to cover it. You sipped, clearing your throat, pretending to be very interested in the latte art swirling lazily in your cup.

Because you knew. You knew exactly how hands-on Rafayel could be. You knew it in the way your body still ached sometimes with the memory. Knew it in the way heat flushed up your neck, traitorous and impossible to hide.

You tried. God, you tried not to blush. But one glance at him and you knew he was right there with you. It was in the flicker of his smile. The darker shade of violet seeping into his gaze. The heavy silence that stretched for just a moment too long. You both remembered. You both felt it.

You forced a small, casual cough, setting your coffee down a little too forcefully. "Anyway."

Rafayel’s lips twitched, but he let you have the out, settling back into his chair as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a few words.

"So," he said, dragging the word out playfully, "your art."

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. "Yeah," you admitted, tracing the rim of your cup with your finger. "The block’s... finally starting to lift."

When you glanced up, you weren’t prepared for the look on his face. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just…genuine. A real, warm smile that softened every sharp edge of him, lit him up from the inside out.

"Good," he said simply, like he meant it. Like it mattered.

It caught you off guard, punched a little too hard into your chest, and you found yourself smiling back before you could stop it. Of course, Rafayel, being Rafayel, couldn’t let the moment sit too long.

"Guess I was a pretty damn good teacher after all," he said, cocking a brow, smirking lazily.

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you drained the last of your coffee. "Yeah, sure. The world’s most obnoxious teacher."

He placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Wounded."

You laughed, shaking your head as you gathered your things, ready to slip away before this could spiral into something you weren’t sure you were ready for yet.

But Rafayel was faster. Before you could even blink, he snatched your unlocked phone from the table, lightning-quick and shameless, and started tapping away.

"Hey—!" you protested, half laughing, half indignant.

He just grinned at you, smug and unbothered, before his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

"There," he said, handing your phone back with a satisfied little flourish. "Now you can't ghost me, cutie."

You stared at your screen, seeing his name already logged in, already called, already saved. You laughed, huffed out a breath, amused and a little charmed against your will.

"You’re unbelievable," you said, shaking your head.

He shrugged, standing up with an easy, devastating grace. "Artists have to be bold."

You bit your lip to hide your smile as you followed him out, both of you drifting toward the door together, sunlight catching in his hair and turning it into a wild, brilliant halo.

"See you around, cutie," he said, that wicked little grin curving at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you with your coffee cup, your racing heart, and a phone buzzing quietly with possibilities.

————

The past few weeks had been…something else. Your phone vibrated constantly now, each buzz a new text from Rafayel. A new drama, a new complaint, a new ridiculous musing about life, art, or the crisis of creativity he swore was going to kill him any minute now.

Rafayel: cutie i’m literally going to burn my entire studio down and start a blueberry farm in the mountains

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

Rafayel: why is art so hard. why are feelings so complicated. why is my coffee cold.

Some messages were whiny. Some were outrageously flirty, to which you pretended to be scandalized by, even as you secretly blushed. Some were just obnoxious, spiraling into dramatic cursing fits that always somehow ended in self-deprecating jokes.

You could never predict what you were going to open.You could only guarantee you’d be smiling by the end of it.

He was different like this. Softer. Freer. More… real. Not the composed, untouchable "professor" from the lectures. This Rafayel was messy, chaotic, hilarious. And yet, there was still a sharp brilliance to everything he said, woven into every line, every joke, every flirty jab.

You found yourself giggling quietly in public more times than you cared to admit. Rolling your eyes so much it was practically a workout. Feeling so damn warm whenever you saw his name pop up on your screen.

And maybe, sometimes late at night when the world was still, you thought about that night. About his mouth on your skin. About the way he whispered praise against your throat like he needed you to breathe. You thought about it way too much. But you never said it.

————

You were just pulling your jacket on, about to head out for errands, when your phone buzzed again. And again. And again. You snorted, pulling it up, seeing a rapid-fire stream of texts from Rafayel.

Rafayel: cutieee, I swear to God I’m gonna stab this canvas.

Rafayel: i need a muse. a better one. my dog is judging me and he’s imaginary.

Rafayel: come to the studio or I’ll cry and it’ll be your fault.

You barked a breathless laugh, nearly dropping your keys. You hadn’t even gotten a word in yet before another one popped up.

Rafayel: please. i’m desperate. i’m pathetic. help.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding a little harder than necessary. He was inviting you. Begging, really. Or, well—whining for you to come save him.

His studio. A thousand unholy images crashed through your brain all at once. Memories of that night. His body against yours. The way he said your name when he came hard, painting your sweaty back.

You swallowed hard, shoving the thoughts down with a sharp breath. This wasn’t like that. Probably. Maybe. God, you were doomed. You tapped out a quick, teasing reply before you could think too hard:

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

Rafayel: i have coffee. i have wine. i have paint. i have emotional crises. pick your poison.

You laughed, locking your door behind you, your pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man waiting for you on the other side of the city.

Maybe you were walking into another disaster. Maybe you were walking into another masterpiece. Either way, you couldn’t stay away.

When you finally arrived at the address Rafayel had sent you, you half-expected to find chaos. You just hadn't expected to be dragged straight into it. The heavy door swung open before you even knocked properly, and there he was. A gorgeous, absolute mess.

His purple hair was wild, sticking out at odd angles like he'd been yanking at it for hours. His glasses slid low on the bridge of his nose, precariously hanging on like they, too, were struggling to survive. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing paint-smeared forearms and sharp, taut lines of muscle you tried—tried so hard—not to stare at.

And then there was the paint…everywhere. Smeared across his hands, splattered up his neck, even dusting his cheekbone in a careless stroke of deep cobalt blue. He looked like a living, breathing work of art. Messy. Chaotic. Devastatingly beautiful. And so, so unaware of the effect he had on you.

"You're late," he announced dramatically, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside before you could even respond. "I’ve already died twice. Maybe three times. Hard to tell. Time’s a flat circle."

You choked on a laugh, stumbling after him into the studio. The space was massive, airy. Skylights casting soft golden light across sprawling canvases, tangled supplies, and what looked suspiciously like an abandoned, half-eaten sandwich on the corner of a desk. And Rafayel was still rambling, still tugging you along as if you were a lifeline he desperately needed.

"Everything is shit," he declared grandly, throwing an arm wide. "My art is shit. My ideas are shit. My coffee is probably shit too but that’s all I’ve got left so—"

He spun around, making you stop short just inches from him.

"What do you want?" he demanded, eyes wide, frazzled, frantic. "Name it. Coffee? Wine? My soul?"

You smirked, barely biting back laughter. "Coffee," you said, slow and deliberate, pretending to consider. "Wine sounds... dangerous."

He narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously. "You sure? Wine comes with bonus emotional breakdowns."

"Tempting," you teased. "But I’ll stick with caffeine."

He huffed, a dramatic, put-upon sound, and turned toward the tiny kitchenette in the corner, muttering darkly under his breath as he rummaged through the mess for clean mugs.

You stayed frozen for a moment, heart pounding way too fast for a casual afternoon visit. Because watching him move, watching the way his messy hair caught the light, the way his paint-smeared hands gripped everything like it might fall apart if he let go…was dangerous.

He didn’t even notice you staring. Too busy cursing under his breath about the state of the coffee, the state of the world, the state of his artistic soul. He poured you a cup, shoved it into your hands without ceremony.

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

You took it with a soft laugh, the ceramic warm against your palms. "Thanks, sunshine," you teased.

He shot you a look over the rim of his own cup, glasses sliding even lower, mouth twitching at the corner. And God, he looked…wrecked. Beautiful. Utterly wrecking you without even trying.

You sipped your coffee carefully, hiding your face behind the cup, trying not to let it show. But it was already too late. Because being near him again, like this…was going to destroy you in all the best ways.

Rafayel flopped dramatically onto the old leather couch tucked against the side wall of his studio, still grumbling, still caught in his own chaotic orbit. You followed, coffee in hand, settling into the opposite side of the couch. Not too close, not too obvious. Casual. Safe.

You kept your staring to a minimum…mostly. It was hard not to, with the way he sprawled there, loose-limbed and golden in the light, a beautiful, exasperated mess of paint and chaos.

He raked a hand through his hair, making it somehow even worse, and huffed dramatically.

"I didn’t whine like this when you were struggling," he complained, sounding genuinely wounded. "I was cool. Mysterious. Wise. A paragon of artistic wisdom."

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

"Yeah," you snorted. "Sure. You were practically a walking Greek statue of emotional stability."

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

You shook your head, grinning as you set your coffee cup down on the low table nearby.

"You’re forgetting something important, professor," you teased, leaning back lazily against the worn leather. "You were the teacher. I was the student. Different methods."

Rafayel pouted, actually pouted, and slumped lower into the couch, looking absurdly betrayed.

"But I want your method," he whined, almost petulant, and you laughed again, throwing a teasing look his way.

"You mean relentless bullying?" you said sweetly. "Sarcasm? Unhelpful commentary?"

"Yes," he said instantly, nodding. "All of it. Bring it on."

You smirked, preparing another jab…but then you caught it. The sudden, heavy weight of his stare. His playful pout faded, mouth still quirked in the ghost of a grin. But his eyes, God, his eyes, they were all over you. Slow. Intent. Devouring.

You felt it like a physical touch. The way his gaze dragged lazily up the length of your body, over your bare thighs, peeking out from the hem of your mini skirt. Over the line of your knee-high socks and the scuffed edges of your high boots. Over the cozy slouch of your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Over the wild tendrils of hair that had escaped your bun, dancing messily around your flushed cheeks.

His coffee cup dangled loosely from his fingers now, forgotten, his whole body stilling as he took you in. And for a moment, neither of you said another word. The playful air tightened into something heavier. Something sharper. Something that crackled silently in the space between you.

You shifted slightly, pretending not to notice the way his gaze caught at the curve of your exposed skin, the way it burned hotter the longer it lingered. But inside? You were already on fire. Already unraveling. Already wondering what would happen if you closed that casual little distance between you. If you stopped pretending. If you gave in.

Just as fast as the air had shifted, just as fast as that hungry, breathtaking look had burned into you…Rafayel flopped his head back against the couch with a groan, dragging a hand through his hair like he was personally offended by the existence of gravity.

"I need a break," he announced dramatically to the ceiling. "A real break. Sabbatical. Reinvention arc. Maybe I’ll become a pirate."

You burst out laughing, unable to help it. The whiplash between the Rafayel who had just devoured you with his eyes and the Rafayel who was now pouting at the ceiling like an overworked drama student was absurd. And somehow, incredibly dangerous.

"You’re such a brat," you said, still grinning as you shook your head. "What happened to the cocky, harsh artist-professor who acted like he knew all the secrets of the universe?"

He lifted his head just enough to glare at you, half-hearted, pouty.

"Retired," he said dramatically. "Burnt out. Overthrown by the younger, hotter, whinier model."

You laughed harder, covering your mouth with your hand. His mouth twisted, half grin, half genuine pout. And he looked at you, a glint of something softer, something sharper still lingering at the edges of his expression.

"So," he said, voice slipping into that half-whiny, half-teasing tone again, "which version of me do you like better?"

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your coffee like you could hide behind it.

"Please," you scoffed. "Don’t make me answer that."

But Rafayel, relentless as ever, leaned forward. Smooth. Lazy. Dangerously close. He plucked your coffee right out of your hand, setting it down beside his on the table with a soft clink.

The air shifted again. You barely had time to react before he closed the small distance between you, leaning in until you could feel the heat radiating off his paint-smeared skin, until his scent wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating.

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

"Come on, cutie," he said, voice low, teasing but edged with something real now. "I need specifics. For my artistic growth."

His eyes dragged over your face, your mouth, your eyes, your cheeks flushed and heated, and he didn’t even try to hide it now.

"Do you like me better," he mused, voice dipping low, "cocky and cruel?"

He leaned closer, his knuckles brushing casually against your thigh, leaving a trail of heat behind. "Or whiny and dramatic?"

His mouth was so close to your ear now you could feel his breath against your skin. You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs, your mind spiraling into dangerous, uncharted territory. Because you didn’t know anymore where the teasing ended and the want began. And judging by the look in his eyes, neither did he.

You huffed a soft laugh, leaning just a little closer to him without brushing his hand away from your thigh.

"Honestly," you teased, voice light but breathless around the edges, "I like both versions."

His mouth twitched into a slow, lazy smirk, but his eyes…God, his eyes were serious. Sharp. Searching. Silent questions flickering there, asking if this was okay, if you wanted this. And you didn’t pull away. You didn’t even blink.

"So far," you added, almost coy, "I didn’t have enough time to make a proper judgment."

His smirk deepened, teetering on the edge of cocky and something a little more dangerous as his hand started to move. Slow, deliberate, trailing higher along your thigh, fingertips brushing just under the hem of your skirt like he wasn’t even fully aware of what he was doing. But he was. You both knew he was.

And even now, even as his hand stayed there, his eyes kept flicking to your face, scanning for any sign you didn’t want this. He found none.

You tilted your head, pretending to think, pretending not to feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"So," you said casually, biting down a smirk, "how exactly am I supposed to help you through your little... artistic mid-life crisis?"

He whined again, ridiculous and dramatic, dropping his head onto the back of the couch with a pathetic sigh.

"I dunno," he mumbled, still in that bratty, exaggerated voice. "Be inspirational. Say something profound. Bake cookies. Fix my entire existence."

As he spoke, his hand kept moving, slow strokes up and down your thigh, dragging lightly over your skin, each pass a little bolder, a little more possessive. You bit your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the small movement didn’t escape him.

You saw the way his eyes darkened just a little, but he pretended not to notice. Pretended to stay casual. And so you played along too. You uncrossed your legs slowly, deliberately, your bare thigh brushing against his pants, just barely. A little more seductive than you intended. A little more permission than you maybe should have given.

You caught the flicker in his gaze, the slight catch in his breath as he registered it. As he realized.  And yet he didn’t move higher. His hand stayed resting against your thigh, heavy, burning. His body still loose against the couch, pretending to be casual, pretending to be in control.

But you could feel it. The way his fingers flexed slightly against your skin. The way his breathing grew slower, deeper. The way the air between you tightened until it buzzed like a live wire.

You took the mug from the table and sipped your coffee carefully, hiding behind the motion, pretending you weren’t on the verge of combusting just from the barely there touch of his hand.

Because Rafayel might have been whiny. He might have been dramatic. He might have been pretending this was still just casual teasing. But you could feel it. The hunger simmering under his skin. The way he was waiting. Waiting for you to break first. Or for himself to lose the last frayed thread of his self-control.

You decided to play dumb. Or maybe you just wanted to see how long you could last before you shattered into pieces.

"So, tell me," you said, voice light and lazy as you leaned back against the couch, casual as sin. "How does the great, perfect artist Rafayel let out steam?"

He huffed dramatically, still staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Lots of ways," he said, pouting. "Brooding. Swearing. Threatening to set my own paintings on fire. Classic healthy coping mechanisms."

You laughed, warm and easy, but the sound caught in your throat almost immediately. Because his hand, paint-smeared and deceptively lazy on your thigh trailed higher. Slipping under the hem of your skirt with featherlight touches, so faint you could almost pretend you imagined it. Almost.

You bit your lip hard, fighting the gasp that nearly escaped when his fingers brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, barely touching, barely pressing. And Rafayel, the menace, pretended not to notice.

He stayed slouched back against the couch, his face the picture of casual misery, pouting and sighing up at the ceiling like he wasn’t slowly, methodically setting your entire body on fire. His fingers moved again, small, slow strokes, almost maddening in how little pressure he applied.

You shifted slightly, parting your legs just enough to invite him, to show him you weren’t going anywhere. He hummed at that, a low, almost distracted sound, deep in his chest.

You didn’t know if it was approval or just another one of his endless, exaggerated sighs. But it didn’t matter. Because his fingers didn’t stop. They stayed there, teasing, ghosting, barely touching where you needed him most.

You cleared your throat, trying desperately to keep your voice even, your pulse hammering wildly in your ears.

"And," you managed, teasing, playing your part, "how does the world’s most tortured artist regain inspiration?"

Rafayel finally turned his head toward you, slowly, lazily. But his eyes burned into yours with a heat that made you clench the coffee cup tighter in your hands.

"Mmm," he whined, dragging the sound out pitifully, his fingers still trailing slow, excruciating patterns over your underwear.

"I don’t know, cutie," he said, voice thick and breathy. "Maybe by suffering. Maybe by collapsing dramatically onto the floor."

You laughed, breathless, almost hysterical from the tension coiled so tight inside you. He shifted closer, hand still idly stroking under your skirt, eyes locked onto yours now, no more ceiling to save you.

"I’m so miserable right now," he pouted, exaggerated, teasing, but there was a low rumble under it now. Something dark and needy.

You opened your mouth to fire back another sarcastic jab, but then his fingers slipped lower, firmer now, brushing against the soaked center of your underwear. You gasped, your body jolting instinctively against his hand.

And Rafayel, that beautiful, chaotic menace just smirked. Still lazy. Still cocky. Still pretending this was casual. But you could see it now. In his eyes. In the way his pupils were blown wide behind those crooked glasses. In the way his breathing hitched ever so slightly as he felt how wet you were for him.

You barely had time to process it when Rafayel casually, so casually, reached over and plucked the coffee cup from your hands again, setting it down with a soft clink. And then without a word, he slid off the couch, settling onto the floor at your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His head dropped lazily onto your thigh, his whole body sprawling dramatically as he sighed loudly, the exaggerated sound vibrating against your skin. His hand, though, the one still under your skirt, never stopped moving. Still teasing. Still stroking. Still burning you alive with slow, featherlight touches.

You gasped softly, your hand instinctively shooting out to steady yourself against the couch.

"What—" you started, voice shaky, trying to gather your wits. "What the hell are you doing?"

He looked up at you, his glasses sliding even lower down his nose, violet eyes shining with wicked amusement.

"Collapsing dramatically onto the floor," he said, dead serious, before breaking into a lazy, boyish grin that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You barked a laugh despite yourself, your head tipping back for a second.

"This," you said, breathless, "this is your version of collapsing?"

He hummed, snuggling his head more securely against your thigh, shifting slightly until his breath was fanning hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Meanwhile his fingers danced slow, lazy circles over the damp fabric of your underwear, completely unbothered, completely devastating.

He kept rambling, whining, teasing, but now his words were shifting. Lower, rougher, more dangerous.

"Maybe," he mused, half pouting, half flirting, his fingers brushing just a little firmer now, making your thighs tremble against him. "Maybe I just need a little help letting off steam."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"And what," you said, somehow managing to tease even as your breath hitched, "exactly does that involve, Rafayel?"

He smirked, lazy, wicked, and kissed the inside of your thigh. Slow. Hot. Possessive.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, voice dropping into something so low and rough it made your head spin. "You know exactly what it involves, cutie."

You bit your lip, fighting a moan as he kissed higher, so close, so dangerously close now, his hand pushing your skirt up further as he settled between your legs like he belonged there. Like he had no intention of leaving until he wrecked you.

He looked up at you again, head tilted against your thigh, glasses crooked, hair wild, mouth sinful.

"So," he whispered, fingers curling lightly against your soaked underwear, "are you gonna help me or not?"

You barely managed to find your voice through the haze clouding your brain.

"Well," you said, your tone dripping false innocence, "I couldn't possibly let you down in your time of need."

Your words barely left your lips before Rafayel moved. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it. Without a single ounce of hesitation, he dipped his head lower, catching the edge of your underwear between his teeth.

You gasped as he dragged the damp fabric down your thighs, slow and deliberate, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over your skin, his breath hot and devastating against your bare flesh.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Not even when your underwear slipped down to your knees, forgotten. Not even when Rafayel, still grinning like the brat he was, settled between your thighs, his violet eyes never leaving yours.

He kept the roleplay alive, whining lightly, dramatically as he licked a slow, sinful stripe right up your soaked folds. Not shy, not gentle. But so damn teasing.

"Mmm," he sighed, almost like he was complaining about it, his tongue flicking over you again. "So much work," he drawled lazily, voice thick against you. "So exhausting, helping poor, desperate little artists in crisis."

You moaned, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your thighs, firm but gentle, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

"Stay," he murmured, voice dipping into something darker, something that made your breath catch in your throat. The shift in tone almost gave you whiplash, from dramatic, teasing brat to low, commanding ruin in a heartbeat.

You cursed under your breath, your hands gripping the edge of the couch for dear life as he dipped his head again, tongue dragging slow, devastating strokes over your swollen, aching folds.

But even as he wrecked you, even as he worshiped you with his mouth like he was starving, he didn’t let go of the teasing

"Poor me," he whined between licks, voice muffled and sinful. "Doing all the hard work."

You whimpered, your thighs trembling against the hold of his arms. He pressed a soft, almost mocking kiss to your clit, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes, like he wasn’t currently wrecking your entire existence with his mouth.

"Hope you're grateful, cutie," he said, voice dripping with fake woundedness.

And then without warning, he flattened his tongue against you and dragged a slow, filthy stripe right over your clit, making your entire body jolt. You gasped, your hips trying to buck again, but his grip on you tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His tongue flicked again, faster now, wetter, rougher, working you with slow, maddening precision even as he kept whining dramatically between strokes, deliberately dragging you right to the edge.

You didn't know if you wanted to laugh or sob or beg for mercy. Maybe all three. But one thing was certain. You weren’t leaving that couch until Rafayel had completely, gloriously ruined you.

He didn’t stop. Even as your thighs trembled violently against his grip, even as your body jolted and spasmed with every devastating, wet stroke of his tongue. Rafayel kept going. And he kept up the act too. That chaotic, dramatic performance that was somehow both completely bratty and shatteringly hot.

"Mmph," he whined against you, voice muffled by your soaked folds as his tongue licked another slow, sinful stripe up your slit. "So exhausting," he complained, breathless, desperate, half-laughing against your skin. "All this hard work and not even a thank you—"

You tried. God, you tried to respond, to sass him back, to say something witty. But all you could manage was a broken moan, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, your breath hitching, eyes wide and wrecked as you looked down at him.

His hands, rough, calloused, covered in faint smears of paint, tightened around your thighs, keeping you spread open for him even as your body instinctively tried to close up, to hide from how overwhelming he was.

And Rafayel was so pleased by it. You could see it. In the smug, wicked curve of his lips. In the way he kept his violet eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, devouring.

"You taste so fucking good, cutie," he whispered, half praise, half broken confession, the words brushing against your wet, swollen skin.

Then he shifted slightly, tongue darting lower, pushing into you, slow and thick and devastating. His nose pressed against your clit, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure rocketing through your body. You choked on a sob, your head tipping back against the couch, hands flying to the leather as you arched off the seat.

"R-Rafayel—" you gasped, the name torn from your throat like a prayer.

That was all he needed. His hands flexed tighter, his tongue moving faster, rougher, relentless as he fucked you with his mouth, sucking and licking and groaning low in his throat like he was starving for you.

And you couldn’t hold it. Your orgasm slammed into you, brutal, violent, overwhelming. You spasmed under him, your entire body trembling, legs trying to close around his head but held wide by his iron grip.

You moaned his name again, loud and desperate, your back arching off the couch as pleasure drowned you. He didn’t stop. He worked his tongue through every devastating wave, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were gasping, sobbing, begging.

"Stop—" you cried out, breathless, half-laughing, half-sobbing from overstimulation.

Your hand fumbled for him, grabbing at his hair, dragging him upward, needing him close, needing him to stop wrecking you from a distance. He came willingly, breathless, flushed, glasses askew, mouth glistening with you.

You didn’t even give him a second to react. You rolled him with all the strength you had left, pushing him back until he collapsed into the couch with a startled laugh. And then you were in his lap. Straddling him, breathing hard, flushed, shaking.

He blinked up at you, dazed and wide-eyed and so fucking wrecked by you.

"Oh," he rasped, voice rough, a stupid, gorgeous grin tugging at his lips.

And God, you could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, pressed against your soaked, trembling center. Still fully clothed. Still starving.

You couldn’t help yourself. Even through the aftershocks still trembling in your thighs, even through the oversensitivity making every movement dizzying, you rolled your hips against him.

Slow, deliberate, taunting. The friction made you moan, a soft broken sound slipping between your teasing words.

"So," you breathed against his ear, dragging another sinful roll of your hips along his aching cock through his pants, "is that how you recharge?"

Rafayel grunted, an incoherent, desperate sound, and lifted his hips in response, chasing the heat of you. He kept the act alive, letting out a dramatically wounded sigh.

"Apparently," he whined, his voice pitched so absurdly you had to bite back a laugh, "not fully. Might need… additional services."

You smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his chest over his shirt, feeling him shudder beneath you. The way his violet eyes raked over you, hot, blown wide, starving, was enough to make your body clench in anticipation.

Your sweater had already slipped off one shoulder in the chaos, and Rafayel took full advantage, leaning in and pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the exposed skin there. You whimpered, grinding a little harder down onto him without meaning to.

"Don't worry," you murmured, voice low, sultry, heady, "I’ve got a few ideas about how to help you recharge... completely."

"Mmph," he hummed against your skin, his mouth moving from your shoulder to your neck, sucking soft marks there. "Is that so?"

You laughed breathlessly, and then you pushed yourself up, sliding off his lap to stand just in front of him. His hands twitched as if to grab you back immediately, but you shook your head, slow and teasing, your eyes half-lidded as you held his gaze.

Then, without rushing, without a hint of shame, you started to undress. First the oversized sweater, pulled off in one slow, lazy movement, revealing your lace bra, your peaked nipples pressing shamelessly against the delicate fabric.

Rafayel cursed under his breath, shifting where he sat, his legs spreading wider on instinct. You smiled sweetly, wickedly. Then came the skirt. You shimmied out of it slow, deliberate, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you bare save for your lace bra and your knee-high socks.

You heard the guttural sound that tore out of him, half whine, half growl. His hands fisted the couch cushions, his knuckles going white.

"Cutie," he rasped, voice breaking slightly, "you’re gonna literally kill me."

You took a single, taunting step closer, hands trailing up your own body in featherlight touches, your fingers dancing over your breasts, your throat, your ribs, never breaking eye contact.

You watched him come apart just from the sight of you, watched his cock strain painfully against his pants, already leaking, already so desperate for you. And when you were sure he was hanging on by a thread, you tilted your head, smiling like the devil.

"Undress," you ordered softly, the command slipping from your lips like silk.

He didn’t even hesitate. With a low curse, he shoved his shirt off first, his chest bare and beautiful, faint traces of paint still smeared over his skin like warpaint. Then his pants, undone with frantic fingers, pushed down his thighs with desperate impatience until he was naked, hard, leaking for you. Still seated back against the couch. Still not breaking eye contact.

You stood there, bare, gleaming, thighs trembling slightly with leftover pleasure, drinking him in. And he stared up at you like you were the sun, the stars, and the end of the fucking world all at once. He reached for you the second you gave him the slightest hint, hands desperate, greedy, big palms curling around your waist, tugging you gently but insistently closer.

And you let him. You let him pull you down, guide you back above him, hovering over his flushed, aching body, but you didn’t let him have you. Not yet. You stayed just out of reach, your slick heat teasing, your skin grazing him without letting him in.

Rafayel cursed low under his breath, his hips thrusting forward instinctively, trying to chase your heat, your weight, your body. You clicked your tongue softly, dragging your mouth down to his neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there.

"Uh-uh," you murmured against his throat, your voice a low purr. "Be a good boy."

He whimpered, the sound wrecked and desperate in his chest.

"You’ll need the energy," you whispered, licking a sweet, taunting line just under his ear. "I’m gonna help you recharge properly... no need to rush."

He let out another broken curse, his head tipping back against the couch, baring more of his throat to you, giving in without even realizing it. His hands, not as disciplined, roamed your body hungrily. One cupping your ass, squeezing rough and desperate, the other finding your breast through the lace, fingers pinching lightly over the fabric.

You bit down harder on his neck, dragging a raw, needy groan from him, then licked the mark sweetly, soothing it, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. And just when you thought he might stay patient…he broke.

"Cutie," he whined, voice wrecked, shuddering with need. "Ride me…please—"

You only smiled wickedly against his skin, and sucked his earlobe into your mouth, biting gently, making him jolt under you. He grunted, his control snapping, pulling you back just enough to look you straight in the eye.

"Fuck—" he rasped, voice low, sharp, almost commanding now, though the desperate edge stayed thick. "Ride me. Now."

You kissed him before he could say anything else, a desperate, brutal collision of mouths, all teeth and tongue and gasping breath. You could feel him throbbing against you, leaking, so hot it almost hurt. And this time, you didn’t make him wait.

You sank down, skin to skin, dragging your soaking pussy over the flushed, aching head of his cock, grinding slow and deep along his length without taking him in fully yet. You both cursed into the kiss, breathless, shattered, helpless. His hands gripped your ass tightly, guiding you, rough and desperate, grinding you down against him with shaking need.

"Fuck—" he hissed against your mouth. "You're killing me—cutie. You're…fucking killing me—"

You smiled against his lips, drunk on the way he trembled under you, drunk on the way he was already falling apart and you hadn't even given him everything yet. And neither of you were going to last much longer.

You stayed pressed against his mouth, hips grinding slow and maddening against his aching cock, teasing yourself as much as you teased him. Between breathless kisses, you whispered against his lips, voice broken and sultry, "Is this what you want?"

Rafayel growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating between your bodies, half desperate, half wrecked.

"Fuck yes," he cursed, his hands sliding from your ass to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. "I need to be inside you…" his voice cracked, so needy, so raw. "need to feel you stretch around me, feel you come all over me again and again—"

You moaned, overwhelmed, the words shooting straight through your core like lightning. He didn't waste another second. One hand found the front of your lace bra, grabbing it roughly, the other guiding himself to your entrance, the blunt, flushed head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

His head fell back, chest heaving, fogged glasses slipping further down his nose, completely ruined from your earlier release. With a grunt of frustration, he ripped them off in one swift, clumsy motion, tossing them somewhere onto the couch, and immediately pulled you down onto him by the front of your bra. Hard. Deep.

You gasped. Both of you gasped as he buried himself inside you in one long, devastating stretch, seating himself fully, your bodies locking together like two live wires.

He filled you perfectly, completely, almost painfully. Stretching you wide open until your toes curled and a broken, desperate moan ripped from your throat.

"F-fuck," Rafayel hissed, his head slamming back against the couch, his hands gripping your ass so tight it burned. "You feel—" he choked on a groan. "So good, cutie—fuck—gonna lose my mind—"

You dug your nails into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as you started to move, slow and torturous. Dragging yourself up almost all the way off him before sinking back down, grinding deep with a roll of your hips.

Rafayel howled low in his chest, his whole body bucking beneath you, instinct trying to take over. He tried. God, he tried to guide you faster, rougher, his hands forcing your hips to move.

But you smirked down at him, wrecked and breathless, and whispered against his ear, "No."

He froze, whimpering a little from the effort it took to obey.

"You let me do the work," you murmured, your voice almost cruel in its sweetness.

Rafayel cursed violently, head slamming back again, thighs trembling under you as you started riding him in slow, punishing rolls.

"You're gonna kill me," he gasped, wrecked, his voice breaking into a whiny, helpless groan. "Please—cutie—please—"

You kept your pace, grinding deeper, harder, your nails raking down his chest, feeling him throb inside you, so hot, so close already. And Rafayel, that cocky, chaotic, brilliant man, could only cling to you and take it, whimpering and cursing and begging like you owned every shattered, trembling piece of him.

You smirked wickedly down at him, hips grinding slow and devastating.

"Maybe," you breathed, voice thick with teasing and breathlessness, "I like you better when you're compliant and whiny like this."

Rafayel cursed viciously, his hands flexing on your hips, his body shuddering under you like he could barely take it. You picked up the pace, rolling your hips with every up and down, dragging him deeper, harder, the sweet friction making your mind fog, your body tighten.

He was unraveling. You could feel it. Fighting not to snap, fighting not to flip you over and pound into you the way he clearly achingly wanted. You could feel every tense, trembling effort he made to stay good for you. And it wrecked you.

You smirked even harder, lowering your mouth to his ear, sucking on the sensitive skin there until he jolted, a broken, desperate moan ripping from his throat. Your hand tangled into his messy purple hair, tugging harshly, making him groan helplessly, hips bucking up into you hard.

You clenched around him deliberately, tight, wet, hot, and Rafayel lost it. His hands shot to your waist, grabbing rough, commanding.

"Turn around," he growled, voice wrecked and dark and cracking apart.

Before you could even react, he pulled you off him, manhandling you easily, turning you so your back faced him, straddling him with your legs on either side of his hips.

He didn't hesitate, he grabbed your hips, lined himself up, and slammed you back down onto him with a brutal thrust. You cried out, your hands scrambling for purchase against his thighs as he filled you to the hilt, deeper than before, grinding up into you with desperate hunger.

He yanked your hair back, harsh, rough, possessive, exposing your throat as he leaned in, biting hard into the side of your neck, sucking a mark deep into your skin before licking and kissing over it.

You moaned raggedly, your body rolling against him, riding him faster, chasing the way he hit so deep inside you now. Every thrust of your hips sent shocks of pleasure up your spine, every slap of skin against skin louder, filthier, raw. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, gasping, your voice rough and teasing even as you moaned.

"Tell me," you panted, grinding down harder on him, squeezing around his cock. "Tell me if I’m good—if I take you good…"

Rafayel growled into your skin, his hands bruising your hips as he fucked up into you harder, more desperate.

"You're perfect," he groaned against your neck, biting again, his voice low and broken. "Fucking perfect, cutie—fuck—take me so good—"

You whimpered, the rough praise making your thighs shake, making your body tighten around him even more.

"You gonna come for me?" you whispered, voice wrecked, taunting, grinding harder against him.

"Fuck—yes.." He almost sobbed it into your ear, voice cracking apart, hips slamming up into you harder, faster, sloppier.

And you could feel the way he was right on the edge. The way he needed you just as much as you needed him. And neither of you were going to last much longer. You could feel the way your orgasm started to build violently inside you, coil after tight, trembling coil pulling tighter, hotter, closer. You rode him faster, hips rolling frantic and desperate, your whole body starting to tremble.

Your pace faltered, a broken whine escaping your throat, but Rafayel was there instantly.

"I got you," he rasped against your neck, voice low and wrecked, hands steadying your hips.

He started to guide you, dragging you down onto him, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway, deep, punishing thrusts that made you sob into the air. You were both panting now, harsh and raw, every breath a broken sound. Every curse and praise slipping out without a filter.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," Rafayel moaned into your skin, biting your neck again, not soft, not sweet, but raw need.

One of his hands slipped between your legs, two fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it, rough and relentless. You screamed as your whole body jolted, your muscles locking up as pleasure roared through you. Your hands dug into his thighs, your nails scraping his skin as you mumbled, sobbed, gasped.

"So close—I'm so close—"

"I know, cutie," he groaned, his thrusts slamming up harder into you now, faster, brutal. "Come for me—fuck—please—"

You didn't need more than that. He slammed you down harder, his cock hitting that spot inside you just right, over and over and over until your thighs locked up, trembling violently, and you shattered.

Your orgasm tore through you, brutal and vicious, your whole body spasming in his arms. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your head thrown back onto his shoulder, your walls squeezing him so hard he almost sobbed from the sensation.

"Fuck—fuck—cutie—" Rafayel cursed into your throat, his own body shaking, his cock twitching deep inside you.

He tried to pull out, to keep control. But you clung to him, refusing to let him go, and the second he felt you clamp down even tighter around him, his control shattered. With a deep, wrecked growl, Rafayel buried himself as deep as he could go, his whole body convulsing against you.

You could feel it, hot and thick, filling you completely, mixing with your own release as you both trembled, locked together, panting and cursing into each other’s skin. He pulled you into his chest, one hand splayed against your stomach, the other tangled in your hair, breathing ragged against your throat.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you could. You were a mess of trembling thighs, shaking limbs, sweat-slicked skin, tangled hair, and gasping breaths, but you had never felt more whole, more wrecked, more alive.

Rafayel pressed a broken kiss against your shoulder and you laughed, breathless and wrecked, your body trembling faintly against his.

"You feeling fully recharged now?" you teased, voice low and ragged.

Rafayel huffed out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, still wrecked, still breathless, still so fucking beautiful you could barely look at him without melting.

"Maybe," he whined dramatically, nuzzling against your jaw, his mouth dragging lazy, messy kisses along your skin. "Still feel kinda drained. Might need another session later. For safety."

You laughed harder, the sound bubbling up helplessly even as your thighs still trembled from your release. He shifted beneath you slowly, carefully, and pulled out of you with a soft, broken groan, both of you wincing at the overstimulated drag of sensation.

But before you could move away, he caught you. He turned you around in his lap with surprising gentleness, tugging you until you were facing him again, your legs straddling his hips, your bare skin flush against his. And then he kissed you. Messy, sweet and slow. His mouth soft and clumsy, his hands holding you close like he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance between you.

The kiss wasn’t about hunger now. It was about clinging. About wanting. About everything neither of you had dared say until now. He pulled back first, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his violet eyes still dark, still wild, but softer now.

"I want this," he whispered, voice rough and raw and real. "And more."

The words hit you harder than anything he could’ve done physically. You blinked at him, stunned, feeling your face heat, actually blushing, like some lovesick idiot. You scrambled for something to say, anything, and latched onto the first thing your wrecked brain offered.

"Inappropriate," you said, mock-scandalized, raising your eyebrows. "A professor with his student?"

Rafayel let out a wheezy, exhausted laugh, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn't believe you.

"For the last time," he groaned, dragging his hands dramatically up your bare back, "I’m not a fucking professor." he tugged you closer by the waist, burying his face in your neck with a whiny groan. "And you know it, cutie."

You laughed again, breathless and giddy and warm all over, your hands threading through his messy purple hair, holding him there against you.

"I guess," you murmured, teasing, your voice softening into something dangerous, "I’ll allow it."

He lifted his head just enough to catch your mouth again, another slow, messy kiss that said everything neither of you could put into words yet. And somewhere deep inside, where your bodies still trembled against each other, where the taste of each other lingered, where the chaos had finally settled into something real…you knew.

This between you…didn’t need any more words.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

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[lia-linny]

Hi ;-)

If your request are open may i request something Fluff Felix from stray kids x platonic child reader whos shy and needs time to warm up with new faces and Felix gets on babysitting duty?

summary: Felix is yn's new babysitter, but she needs a little time to get used to him

genre: fluff, (platonic) babysitter au,

words: 1k

Carefully, very carefully, the little girl peeked around the corner. She had been engrossed in her game when she heard voices from the hallway. She had tucked her bear cuddly toy under her arm and, curious as she was, had gone to see who was talking to her mother. The man was just a little taller, like mom, and had long blond hair. They were talking about a salary or a contract, which she didn't understand.

But then her mother's eyes wandered to yn's safe hiding place. She had been found out.

"Yn darling, why don't you come here? I want to introduce you to someone." Her voice changed immediately, from her normal voice to a higher octave. However, her "baby voice" did not make yn any less afraid of the stranger. She had been more than satisfied with her role as observer.

Nevertheless, she now had to shuffle out of her cover and over to her mother. She hugged her teddy bear to her like a protective shield. When she reached the two adults, she pressed herself against her mother's leg. Where had her curiosity led her again? What if the stranger was a spy? Or wanted to steal her teddy?

"This is Felix. Your new babysitter. He'll look after you when I'm not here. He can play and paint with you... whatever you want." Her mommy smiled as if it were a gift.

"Hey, little one!" Said this Felix, kneeling down to be at her eye level.

"Your teddy bear is so cute. Shall we play something together?" Felix beamed at her, the adoration in his eyes was clear to see and he had to pull himself together not to get cuteness aggrestion as the little girl hid behind a curtain of her own hair. She was obviously a shy child, but Felix was determinated to win her heart. Yn looked helplessly at her mom, who nodded encouragingly. With her teddy bear and Felix in tow, she marched ahead to her room, where there were countless opportunities to play.

"What do you want to play?"

"Can we paint?" she asked cautiously, brushing the loose strands of hair behind her ear. Felix laughed and yn noticed the funny dots scattered across his face. Her mom once told her that these were called freakles.

Felix carefully reached into a small box on her bedside table and took out a colorful hair clip. He used it to fix her hair behind her ear.

"There, now you can see something too." He grinned at her, even though one of her hiding places was now gone. Yn dug the box of pens out of one of her desks and put a sheet of paper down for both Felix and herself. She immediately grabbed the red pencil and drew some spidery lines. Felix also took one of the blue markers and began to draw little stars on the sheet. There was silence for a while while the two of them diligently completed their works of art.

"Done!" Felix announced proudly and showed yn his paper. It showed a drawing of yn's teddy bear, which she still had sitting on her lap. Stars and clouds were floating around the little bear. Yn was amazed. The picture wasn't completely realistic, but in her eyes it was absolutely perfect.

"What's your bear's name? Then I'll write his name on the picture."

"Muffin" she mumbled. Felix used the same blue marker to write the name on the picture and then handed it to her. She smiled cautiously at him and he smiled back.

~☆~

The ringing of the front doorbell lured the curious yn out of her room again.

"Hello Felix, it's nice that it's worked out so spontaneously."

"No problem at all," Felix smiled at yn's mom.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the little one!" This time her mother smiled.

"Yes, she really is an angel. Just a bit shy. "

"Don't worry, I understand. Strangers can be scary, especially as a child." She was caught in her hiding place again when Felix's gaze fell on her.

"Hey, I've got something for you." Her mother let Felix into the apartment. She said a quick goodbye to her daughter and then she was gone. Felix came up to her and handed the girl a packet of sweets.

"Your mom said these are your favorites." She smiled shyly at him and reached for the bag with her small hands. She tugged at his sleeve to get his attention.

"Do you want to play with me...?" Felix smiled at her, how could a little girl be so sweet?

"What do you want to play?"

"Can we sing? Pleaseeee?" Yn looked at him with wide eyes. Felix grinned.

"I love singing!" He proclaimed and Yn beamed.

"Me too!" Together they plugged in the karaoke machine and sang several children's songs. As time went on, yn relaxed more and more, laughing and joking with Felix. By the time her mother came back through the door, they were both engrossed in their songs, which they sang at the top of their voices. Smiling, her mother leaned in the doorway and watched them.

~☆~

"Mamiiiii?" yn jumped up at her mother and tugged at her sleeve.

"When is Lix finally coming?"

"Honey, you have to be patient. Felix will be here soon." When the doorbell rang, the little girl dashed to the door and pulled it open. Felix greeted her with a beaming face, which Yn immediately returned.

Yn grabbed his big hand in hers with her small one and hurriedly pulled him into her room. This time she wanted to try out different hairstyles on him and couldn't wait any longer.

It had taken Yn a while to get used to him, but by now they were inseparable. Her mother smiled, even though Yn had forgotten to say goodbye in her haste.

[kozachenko]

[Click for better quality]

Ok yay I'm back from my vacation yipeeeeeee. I started this drawing of Keiki before I left and I was half considering just giving up on it.... until I did a short study of facial planes and then got motivated to work on this again! I'm glad I didn't give up on it though, as I'm actually really happy with this one!

Artist's Notes;

So as I mentioned in my last post about Touhou 17, I wanted to finish this by the game's five year anniversary but with how progress was going I didn't want to rush this so I decided to take a long break from it. Mainly because of the face. For a while now I was kind of feeling like I was stagnating with my drawings, not really in the clothing but in the bodies. There was something about the way I was rendering them that I just wasn't happy with, and after talking with someone else about this issue, I realized that the reason I felt this way was because the faces were too flat and didn't match the rest of the drawing and that I needed to find a way to make the rendering of the face feel consistent with everything else. So after doing a short study of the plains of the face (I used this 3D head model from art station as a reference for my short study, please go give this person some love as they are a lifesaver) I went back into this drawing and applied what I learned here. It was only after that that I finally became motivated to finish the piece, and while it started off as just a simple character sketch like Saki and Yachie's were, the moment I added in Keiki's little fire dragon I knew I had gotten in too deep and now here we are with a full on background. OK it's not super crazy or anything, but it gets the job done and it's better than there just being an empty void behind her. It's rare moments like this when I use brushes other than the Clip Studio Default Charcoal Brush and use the Clip Studio Default Paint Brushes as well (god bless the oil paint and dry gouache clip studio brushes, they were amazing). I don't know why but painting fire has always been really fun for me, there's something oddly satisfying about it y'know? I do think that another reason for this problem was because I was drawing faces like I would in my more sketchy style that didn't mesh well with my lineless style, so I'm glad I've started remedying that.

After adding in the fire dragon I had an idea to kinda make it feel like splash art in the way the composition works... probably because I have been playing Reverse 1999 again and it has taken over my brain. I do feel like Keiki's tools get a little lost in the composition, and I didn't fully render the metal parts of them mainly because I didn't feel like they needed it, but that's just something for me to improve on later down the line.

If you guys are wondering where I went for my vacation, I went to New York and got to go to the MET and the Museum of Natural History. In both places I found Kofun period stuff and I was so happy to see it you have no idea. I remember one of the Haniwa I saw had some neat face paint under the eyes that I tried to replicate with the makeup under Keiki's eyes in my drawing, though I think I'll gave to figure out how to draw makeup on characters because this reads more like blush to me than anything. While drawing this I also looked up some references of Kofun period jewelry and really liked the stuff I found, which also meant that now she has proper Kofun earrings instead of earrings shaped like Kofun tombs. I put some of the things I referenced with a closeup of Keiki's face as well down below. I made her outfit more reminiscent of the outfit I gave her at the beginning of the year with the buttons and all, though I do want to try and draw her in some more period accurate clothing like the Haniwa I took a picture of at the Museum of Natural History. I wish I could find a way to make her handercheif look better though as I wish I made it a little bit bigger, though I think I'm saying this because I've looked at this drawing for too long lmao. Once again something to work on for when I next draw her. Also want to get better at rendering hair, as some details (like the little strands in front of her ears) kinda got unreadable due to the similarities in colour lol.

Now you may have also noticed the little cracks I added onto Keiki's face, and that's because I have fallen in love with the idea of Keiki's body being made from ceramic and that she crafted her body herself. While they aren't very visible I also tried to add some doll joints to her body, which is an idea I played around with in the past but never went to far with. I also want to get better at rendering cracks in ceramic, porcelain, etc, as I'm not sure how those read in the drawing. I also have a headcanon where the cracks in Keiki's face show up because of heightened emotions, and while Keiki is aware of this and does her best to make sure her face doesn't break off.... she will still end up with at least a few cracks during any given day, and she can often forget to repair her own body quite frequently so Mayumi has to remind her quite a lot. Mayumi even taught herself some basic sculpting techniques to help repair parts of her body that are so badly damaged to the point where Keiki can't repair them herself, i.e. if both her arms broke off, Mayumi would put them back together for her so Keiki can at least have something to repair herself with rather than nothing. I also like to imagine that if Keiki created her own body, if you took a look at Keiki from the beginning of her life she would look completely different compared to now.

BTW If you guys are wondering what a very very angry Keiki looks like....ok in order for this to make sense have any of you read volume 11 of Land of The Lustrous? Am I bringing back some memories for those of you that have? Ok good, glad we all got that mental image brewing in our minds, I'll probably draw a version of Keiki that is somewhat inspired by that one day as it's an idea I've had for a little while now. And to those who haven't gotten to that volume yet and are confused.... don't worry about it, just keep reading :)

[kxlluaz]

on my first rewatch of étoile and during episode 2 when Jack is telling Cheyenne she can't "come to new york and piss off the entire company in one fell swoop" (something around those lines, close to verbatim) I remembered how sometime after this moment is when Tobias over in Paris practically does the same thing, calling the entire French company to rehearsal just to not cast all of them and Geneviève says something nearly identical to him. I think its really cool how Tobias and Cheyenne are simultaneously opposites and parallels, kind of like a path forking in the road that leads to two very different outcomes (at least so far).

For different reasons and under different circumstances, they are both incredibly passionate about the work they do, in the sense that they are very particular about their personal art and will prioritize it over everything else. But the reason they turn out rather differently despite starting so similar is because Tobias gets someone in his life who is willing to support him how he needs in order to be freed from the pressures that are making it hard for him to do what he loves. Most people aren't willing to *learn* Tobias and work with him. When Gabin does, it also helps Tobias to start getting better at doing the same, to being more receptive to the collaborative aspect of art.

Side note, I know just how hard this is also as an autistic person who works in live entertainment tech. As much as I enjoy "working with others," it has taken me *years* to make progress in actually working WITH others and not just working around or near them. I can get so caught up in my personal vision of the way things "need to be" or "should be," and forget that the work I do and love inherently *needs* the ideas and experience of many, and is also all the more amazing for it.

But back to Cheyenne. Cheyenne has a similar mentality about the art she creates, like Tobias-- again, with many other factors involved, but what I'm trying to get at is they both come across the same way to most people in the show. She too feels more and more hopeless about the work she does. She explicitly states that she does not enjoy or love it, but it is her calling in this world, her obligation. What she was born to do. Tobias and Cheyenne both have a passion for what they do, and lose it more throughout the show. But where Tobias' love for his work is reinstilled through the support of another, Cheyenne's pressures are furthered and her turmoil worsens. She is not shown understanding or support, but rather her concerns are brushed off (i.e. the slip) and expectations are worsened. Cheyenne doesn't get a Gabin in her life who is willing to stick around, understand her, and help her change.

In the case of the job offer, she's ecstatic discovering something that she feels will rekindle her love for dance. She realizes how she can channel her passion in a way that *she* enjoys and is much healthier for her (physically and mentally). But ultimately, she's the one who gets shit from everyone else involved, despite doing nothing wrong. Geneviève only sees Cheyenne as her étoile, as her top dancer that makes the National money. Once Nicholas recovers, Jack rescinds the offer, understandably so, but he could've avoided getting Cheyenne caught in these crossfires in the first place had he waited to ask her until Nicholas had passed. He's also upset at Cheyenne, for making Geneviève upset at him, and ultimately Geneviève and Jack act like a divorced couple using their child as an outlet for their frustrations with one another. Don't even get me started on Gael just being... Gael. Love him in some ways, but he really could've handled things with Cheyenne better to say the least. Basically, Cheyenne is trying to make herself happy while also being obligated to make everyone else happy, and since it's impossible to please everyone, is turned against entirely instead AND loses the singular light at the end of the tunnel she found. Cheyenne's crash out was so incredibly valid, and it was so heartbreaking to see her get an entirely different outcome from Tobias at the end of season 1, having both started from the exact same spot and being taken in the exact opposite directions.

All this is to say, I really hope Cheyenne gets in season 2 what Tobias got for season 1: somebody to offer her a hand to pull herself up with, to help her take the first step so she can continue the journey.

I know I had a lot more evidence and points to make, like the choreographer for I Married Myself, but I've been pacing in my kitchen typing this for the past half hour and still have episode 2 paused in front of my dinner. I can GLADLY talk about this more and in more detail, since there really is so much to unpack with Tobias and Cheyenne's characters and how they're treated so differently due to their occupational roles (and, dare I say, genders and perceived neurotypes as well). But for now, to those of you who got this far, I hope you enjoyed this accidental mini-character-analysis-rant. Go watch étoile. Or watch it again like me if you already finished it.

[pankowcrumbs]

Love in every corner X Dad Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

The house smelled like dust and old books.

Moving boxes were scattered around the living room, some neatly taped shut, others still waiting to be filled. The walls looked bare without the pictures and little trinkets that had made this place ours for so long.

I knew we were doing the right thing moving forward, starting a new chapter but that didn’t make it any easier.

I sighed, wiping my hands on my old hoodie before reaching up to open one of the kitchen cupboards. A little cloud of dust floated down, making me cough.

"You alright over there, love?"

Harry’s voice drifted from behind me, amused and affectionate.

I turned to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely too relaxed considering the mess surrounding us.

"Fine," I muttered, stepping onto my tiptoes to reach the back of the shelf. My fingers brushed against something small and wooden. Frowning, I pulled it out.

Harry’s eyes lit up the moment he saw it. "No way."

I turned the little carving over in my hands. It was a tiny, lopsided heart, the initials H & Y carved into the centre in scratchy, uneven lines.

"You kept this?" I asked softly.

Harry pushed off the doorframe and came closer, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Course I did."

I looked up at him. "You made this for me in Year Nine."

"That I did," he said proudly, wrapping an arm around my waist. "We had Design & Technology together, and I spent the whole lesson trying not to lose a finger while carving that for you."

I snorted. "It was a terrible carving."

He gasped in mock offence. "Excuse me! That’s a priceless work of art, that is."

I turned the heart over, running my thumb over the familiar grooves. "It’s sweet, though. You gave it to me right before you asked me out for the first time."

Harry hummed, his chin resting on my shoulder now. "And you said no."

I grinned. "I did not!"

"You did!" he insisted, laughing. "You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll think about it.’"

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "I was just playing hard to get."

"Well, it worked," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "I was smitten, remember?"

My heart melted, like it always did when he spoke like that like he was still the same curly-haired, lovesick boy from school, looking at me like I’d hung the stars just for him.

I sighed, leaning back into him. "We were just kids."

"Yeah," he murmured, squeezing my waist. "And now we’ve got kids."

I turned my head slightly, looking up at him. "When did that happen?"

He chuckled, kissing my temple. "No idea. Feels like just yesterday we were sneaking out to that field behind your house and lying under the stars."

I smiled at the memory. "You played me that song you wrote for me. You were so nervous."

"Was not."

"Harry, your voice cracked on the first line."

He groaned, hiding his face in my shoulder. "Let’s not relive that part, yeah?"

I laughed, patting his arm. "Come on, let’s see what else we can find."

We spent the next hour digging through cupboards, reminiscing over every little thing we found.

An old school photo of us Harry with his wild curls and dimples, me with a shy smile and braces.

A crumpled note he’d passed me in class that simply read, You’re beautiful. Don’t argue with me.

A mix CD he made for me when we were sixteen, titled Songs That Remind Me of You (featuring an embarrassing amount of early 2000s love songs).

We found our old wedding invitation, the edges slightly yellowed with time.

"Best day of my life," Harry murmured, tracing the date with his finger.

I glanced up at him, feeling my chest tighten with emotion. "Yeah?"

He looked down at me, eyes warm. "Yeah."

I swallowed, reaching up to brush a curl away from his forehead. "Mine too."

We kept going, and soon we were finding things from when our children were little finger paintings, old birthday cards, a tiny shoe that neither of us could figure out why we still had.

"Look at this," I said, pulling out a crayon drawing.

Harry peered over my shoulder. "Oh, this one’s a classic. That’s me, isn’t it?"

I grinned. "Obviously. See? You’ve got the massive green scribble on your head that’s your hair."

He laughed. "Brilliant. And what’s this?" He pointed to a small blob beside him.

"That’s Hattie. She told me once she drew you as a giant because you were her hero."

Harry’s breath caught slightly, and when I turned to look at him, he was gazing at the picture with something so tender in his eyes it nearly made me cry.

"She really said that?" he murmured.

I nodded, resting my head against his shoulder. "She adores you."

Harry exhaled softly, setting the picture down carefully, like it was the most precious thing in the world.

We fell into a comfortable silence as we kept sorting through memories. Every now and then, I’d feel Harry’s lips press against my hair or his arms tighten around me as we unearthed another cherished moment from our past.

Finally, as the sun began to set, I sighed, stretching my arms. "Well. That was emotionally exhausting."

Harry chuckled. "Think we did more reminiscing than packing."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But I’m glad we found all of this. Makes it a bit easier to leave, knowing we’re taking the best bits with us."

He hummed in agreement, pulling me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist.

"You know," he murmured against my ear, "it doesn’t really matter where we go."

I turned my head slightly. "No?"

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Nah. Because as long as I’ve got you, I’m home."

My breath hitched, warmth flooding my chest.

I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze. "You always say the perfect thing, you know that?"

He grinned. "That’s because I mean it."

I turned in his arms then, winding mine around his neck. "I love you, you soppy idiot."

Harry’s dimples appeared as he leaned in, brushing his nose against mine. "Love you more, sweetheart."

And as he kissed me, surrounded by boxes and memories, I knew no matter where we went, no matter how much time passed he would always be my home.

[solidagotea]

when the vegetable

yayy tutorial for how to make your art look sorta like this? perhaps??

aka the way i render when wanting to make a doodle look more interesting without following any principles of light and color

yippee

draw the lineart and the flat colors of your character. i’m drawing @chrometheraptor ‘s oc because silly, and using the syrup brush for everything but gradient overlays . (usually i use something more textured but this works for now probably maybe)

on the same layer as your coloring, use a darker color to add some basic shading to the more flat-looking areas of the design. bbut. not the whole character because i am lazy.

dots are good when you’re using a flat brush and don’t have the option of adding smooth painterly shading. they help to break up the planes to make everything look a little more natural

on the same layer, add minor highlights on places where the light would probably hit the character a little harder, like for here, the frilly edges of the moss. on moss. moss’ moss.

then, if there are parts of the character that would probably be smoother or more shiny, add lighter dots for highlights on top of the darker highlights. like on the horns. you can never have enough highlights.

you can also imply some texture while making the shading more complex. here, i put down some Gay Lines to make the moss texture look rougher, as well as the leafy v-looking shapes.

now, go to your lineart layer and set it to alpha lock. ignore the fact that the stuff i told you to put on the base layer is actually on a clipping mask

set it to multiply too. this way, you don’t actually have to bother with hue-shifting to make a darker color look decent

use the colors within the design to subtly color your lineart. i usually keep more important features like the eyes and horns black, and only lighten lesser details

make a new clipping mask layer over your base colors. with a gradient or any soft brush, pick a side of your character where you want to pretend to have a light source, then add a gradual fade into a brighter version of a color found in the character’s design. (heheh. yellowe) set the new layer to like 30-50 percent

from the opposite direction, add a new clipping mask layer and make a gradient with a darker color found in the design. set it to 20 percent ish

make a new layer above everything else. with a really light color, in this case muted yellow, add more highlights. too many. this is a great stage to outline more important features, as well as imply more texture with extra v’s and Gay Lines.

since the highlights looked a little too gaudy, i muted them in the darker areas around the spine by setting the layer to alpha lock and coloring over it with the soft brush from earlier

because this clearly isn’t textured enough, you can optionally add random markings with any textured brush. (i used a facet brush from my personal brushpack. might share that too if people want)

set it to color burn or overlay, or really anything that looks alright, and lower the opacity until it’s no longer stabbing your eyeballs out with contrast

wow look it’s a vegetable

@nevermore-ramblings hope this helps with. something

a

[feebisart]

The Door You Don’t Knock On (1/4)

I feel like writing down the fic idea that spawned from talking with @caffeine-at-3am on Discord.

It began with a door.

A strange and curious wooden door appeared misplaced in the apartment.

It had faded yellow paint cracked, fraying edges. Parts of the wood were chipped, fragments spread across the floor. The inviting golden bronze handle gleamed in the room's incandescent light with a warm glow.

The child with black unruly hair and shining blue curious eyes gazed at the door in the wardrobe. It was tall enough for a child to open. Faint spirals were etched in the wood's grain, different from the long vertical lines he was used to seeing.

He tilted his head to the side as he brushed aside the hangers of red sweaters, white shirts, and similar shades of jeans. He hesitated but curiosity won over as he felt the spiral patterns etched onto the wooden surface.

As his sky blue eyes focused on the handle, his hands moved unconsciously towards it. A quick, sharp jerk of his head and he pulled himself back. He moved the hangers back to their original position and closed the door. Darkness enclosed the small yellow door, coated with harsh rejection.

Billy Batson, a normal seven-year-old boy, found himself with a trivial issue. Fawcett City was already a strange place—a city so full of magic and topsy-turvy Wonderland rules, 1940s art Deco, and buildings that defied gravity.

So, a yellow door stalking a young kid wasn't out of the ordinary.

It materialized out of nowhere or perhaps everywhere. In everything. Apparently, many things can count as a 'door,' from what Billy discovered.

As he walked from his home to WHIZ radio for his shift, he saw the overpass he usually walks beneath take on an off cream color. The boy let out an irritated groan before taking the long way to work. Mr. Morris was very kind and understanding. After all, the way to work varies every day due to the eccentricities of the city. Mr. Morris said it gave Fawcett a unique kind of character.

He woke up one morning and went to the restroom to do his morning ritual. His eyes narrowed at the cap of his toothpaste which was a dark chartreuse color. With a sigh, he opened a new tube remarking what a waste as he tossed the previous cylinder.

The Door took other forms as well—e-mails, cup lids, welcome mats, crossing signals, and Broadway openings. He wanted to watch the Beetlejuice musical. However, he couldn't even stay since the maroon stage curtains changed into washed-out, sickly lemon-colored curtains during the opening act.

Billy could handle adversity. He had dealt with the death of his parents, living with Ebenezer, and being a homeless part-time superhero, but this?

This was torture.

The boy could endure outrageous nonsensical rules and avoid eerie traps every day if he needs to. Billy draws the line at being unable to watch a musical he saved up with his meager pay. He only heard the audience's screams and laughs as he gave the curtains a stink eye.

Fine.

Two can play at that game.

Billy goes home with a stop for groceries. It takes him a while to head home because he took the long way for certain stalker reasons.

In the morning, Billy avoided opening the wrong packet of flour, clearly the gold trim was the mimic here. It was like playing the world's worst game of Spot the Difference except every scene was a waking nightmare of a Hidden Object game.

He had a plan.

Finally, the child had finished preparing and plating. There were strawberry shortcake scones with a light dash of powdered sugar, shortbread cookies with a chocolate drizzle, and freshly brewed oolong tea with a porcelain teapot set.

Tawky Tawny had told him that the best way to come to a compromise is when you negotiate with a meal.

He cleared his closet looking for that nauseous underripe citrus shade of a door and... Yup, there it was. With a disarming smile, Billy Batson knocked on the door three times and waited.

There was silence and only the faint trail of steam flowing into the air from the spout. Gradually, the handle turned, a cacophonous creak of nails against the chalkboard as the door slid open.

Fingers, if it could even be called that, splayed and curled and twisted as a voice croaked out on a saccharine, static-filled voice, "why don't we have tea inside?"

Billy could make out shapes and fractals converging and diverging at the same and different times. Angles sharp enough to hurt then rounded and curled to offer a false sense of comfort. The eyes ever changing revealed the truth, though. Hunger, a meal, and a trap.

"Why not." Billy stated with a cordial smile while carrying the large tray, stepping over the boundary. Behind him, the door creaked shut and the monster grinned with unspooling lips lined with jagged glass teeth.

︵‿︵‿୨𖦹୧‿︵‿︵

Next

[oceangirl24]

Fandom drama finally over (next chapter on the way).

Well, this month has been surreal.

For those of you who have been following me for a while you know I have dealt with plagiarism and harassment by a fandom writer since October of 2022- exactly twenty years after I posted the first chapter of AiP on FFN.

Totally gone.

Everything has been deleted everywhere.

The name has been scrubbed, even on pages that tagged her. Only a few gift fics on FFN and a few stories on WhoFic.com remain.

Gone like she never existed.

I've held off saying anything in case it was a just a dream, but it's real.

She is gone!

It's over.

Finally!

I cannot tell you what a massive relief this is.

I have never named her publicly through all of this, although I know some of you figured out who it was.

MrsFizzle. Kaylie Night.

I never shared the extent of what went on for several reasons, but mostly because I knew my socials were being watched and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that what she was doing was so badly affecting my physical and mental health.

I was already dealing with a severe bout of depression and anxiety when she contacted me on FFN in October 2022. At that time, I did not have any socials linked to my FF accounts other than my art account on FFN. I was just getting back into fandom and hadn't decided how I wanted to engage yet. We had been talking in comments on AO3, and instead of asking me if I wanted to talk privately, she just appeared in my dms saying she wanted to talk so she "found" me. This was disturbing, especially since she indicated she was aware I likely did not want to hear from her, but I brushed it off as anxiety talking. I had said I wanted fandom friends after all. And I had no reason not to talk to her.

I should have listened to my instinct.

She straight up told me what she was going to do and how she was going to do it- take my work and Audrey to chop up and use as she pleased. She immediately began to gaslight me by saying she had all of this already written and was giving me a heads up so I wouldn't think she copied. Later, she insisted she would not change anything about Ashley, which made her previous offer to change her name not sincere.

I felt I couldn't say anything about this, not even saying yes, please change the name. What right did I have anyway? It's fanfiction. Mine is the only story like it in the fandom and recognizable, so she'll credit me, and I'll get over it.

I hated it, though. I hated what I thought she was trying to do, and I hated myself for thinking that of someone new to and excited about the fandom. I've been in BMW fanfiction since 2002 and have always had a great experience with it and the people in it. I convinced myself that I was reading into things, and that depression and anxiety were skewing my perception.

Over a year later, while putting the report together, I saw her own words in comments with the dates on them telling me she read AiP and Flashbacks before writing her story, I just didn't catch it. I also saw all the lies she told her readers about the situation. I saw the little comments picking at my characters and story line, the ones she said she loved so much to make herself look better. I can't imagine what she was telling people privately with how bold as she was publicly.

She lied to me about everything from why Ashley's name was so similar to Audrey's to the plot she had planned for her "little family". Told me our OCs had to be the same because they were written for the same character. They had to be younger than Jon, had to have a traumatic backstory, and had to be good with teens, very pretty, etc. There were differences: her character wasn't as young as mine and "had more of an edge to her".

Also she said she couldn't tag Ashley as an OC because she wasn't. Not really. To say she was original would be "presumptuous". She existed in GMW.

Somehow Audrey did not nor did any other OC love interest for Jon even though they too were nurses like in canon. Unbelievably, she even told a reader Ashley was a canon character.

We talked for one week.

It was a miserable seven days. I set my discord status to invisible to get rid of the pressure to respond right away when she messaged. She didn't like this and wanted to know why she couldn't tell when I was online.

No one else ever shows up like that she said, why do you?

I made something up and said a bunch of things to appease her, but I was worried about why this was such an issue, especially since many of my friends were also permanently invisible. The fear she was watching my online movement just had to be my anxiety driving paranoia, right? She couldn't be. Who has time for that?

A fandom friend I had been talking to about the conversations as they happened advised me to get out. She said I shouldn't be afraid and anxious when talking to someone about fandom things.

I finally got the courage to end it. She didn't like being cut off. I tried to be nice about it and took all the blame on myself for this fandom friendship not working out, but that wasn't enough. I finally had to be forceful (or honest I suppose) and tell her I felt like I was being lied to because what she told me was different than what she was telling other people.

She denied it of course and was very offended.

"May God deal with me as He sees fit if I have intentionally decieved you."

This closed out one of her last FFN messages and always bothered me. Was it purposely worded like that or a Freudian slip? In hindsight, now that she's deleted everything, maybe He did just that.

I found out later that the "repetitive stress injury paired with hypermobility" in her wrists that left her unable to type for a year was not her story. See I have hypermobility in my lower body, really bad in my hips. In talking to her, a lot of what she said didn't make sense and she often wouldn't give direct answers. Later on Reddit she announced that her wrists were suddenly healed, all better now. I had no clue you could be cured of hypermobility (you can't).

When compiling the plagiarism report, I came across the AN on a story written by a close friend of hers (I was blocking all close associates). What was it about? A repetitive stress wrist injury paired with hypermobility. It looked like it went up during the time we were talking.

She told me one thing about why she left her job in the AO3 comments. Then she used my own AN about why I left teaching (internal school politics) to come up with a different reason for leaving education on FFN that honestly made no sense to me but I didn't question her. She then told Reddit something different.

There were other instances where she took someone else's story and claimed it as her own real-life tale. Some of this was public, too. Either she thought no one would pick up on it, or she thought she could say anything she wanted and not be held accountable. I don't know.

Then there was the drive to push me out of the fandom using what weaknesses she knew I had to do it. Looking back, she was very good at it. Too good for it to be the first time she'd done this to someone. She claimed I was the first person since high school she'd had drama with and the first ever online. I highly doubt that now.

I had Cameos from Tony Quinn and had spoken to him in dms. I mentioned these to her, and she insisted on seeing them. I didn't want to share them. They were special to me with a lot of personal things said. But I was selfish by not sharing, right? So, I gave in, edited out the personal stuff, and sent them to her.

Immediately I regretted it.

As soon as she indicated she's seen them, I deleted them. Then she said she hadn't seen part of one and none of the others, could I send again? I ended up making an excuse as to why I couldn't - too much personal info. Truthfully, I had the inexplicable fear she was going to take the videos and claim them as her own.

You see, she didn't care anything about Tony whom I've been a big fan of since 1994 when we first started talking. He was just some old guy to her. Until she found out how much I liked him. Then suddenly she was his biggest fan and just had to meet him because he was so wonderful. They lived in the same state after all. Oh, but don't worry I would get to meet him too someday for sure, she told me... on the other side of heaven. 🙄

When I told my friend about this one, she said to cut contact.

(Ironically, by the time we started talking, Tony had already moved back to my home state, where he and his wife are from. Learned that from his Pod Meets World interview that came out a month after we stopped talking. I cried-laughed the first time I listened to the interview.)

She liked to point out how old I was. I never told her, she did the math and figured it out she said. She was wrong, but it didn't matter. She was aware of personal insecurities and liked to push this one. I told her things I should not have but I was desperate for another friend and I convinced myself that all the warning sirens I was hearing in my head was just anxiety.

Towards the end of our time talking on Discord, she had started the subtle dismantling of my confidence in AiP. I was very aware that my work was outside of the norm for the fandom at the time and was often insecure about it. With little feedback at the time, I didn't know what to do.

It's a trilogy, split it into three parts maybe, so the word count isn't so intimidating?

She told me the story was too long, and even splitting it into three parts wouldn't help- no one reads sequels or will go back to read the first parts. On the other hand, no one would be interested in giving it a chance because of the length. Also, the story wasn't healing- and that is why people read, you know. Her attitude toward Audrey grew chilly and very, "she's an OC, people don't like OC main characters." This was a drastic departure from her comments on AiP.

Then she started bragging about how well her story was doing and all the comments she got. Fans were just begging her for more.

After I cut contact, she blocked me on Reddit and purposely took over the Jon and Jon and Shawn threads so I couldn't participate. This continued until I blocked her. She didn't like having her participation limited.

Blocks on both sides were lifted for awhile. I wish I hadn't lifted mine. But I had been so looking forward to season 2 of PMW and wanted to talk to others about it and Mr. Turner. I thought I could handle dealing with her more out there takes.

During this time, I noticed a sharp drop in interaction on my stories.

Readers not from Reddit or FFN disappeared. I always wondered about the timing. Readers gushed over her, though, and several indicated they were talking to her on Discord, too.

She knew how much fandom connection meant to me and took every opportunity to flaunt hers, whether in her comments or on Reddit. She had a thing for following me around and posting where I did, including on other people stories.

I mentioned this feeling of being left out and wondering if there was a Discord server for BMW I didn't know about. She said there was none she knew of and told me no one wanted to talk about BMW in a discord server anyway. All the people she talked to were uncomfortable with that. They only wanted to talk to her privately.

Turns out that was another lie.

Not only did I find that people wanted a discord server, in a comment thread with her and another reader about wanting to discuss head canon offsite, one of those readers "uncomfortable with discord servers" created one of their own and dropped a link inviting them to it some months before that conversation.

It wasn't the existence of a private server that bothered me so much. If there was, there was. It was the way she told me: everyone wanted her, nobody wanted me.

Had it not been for readers alerting me to the stolen work, I would never have known any of this. I'd still be wondering why the fanfiction side of the fandom wanted little to do with me when I sincerely tried to give back as much as I got and tried to welcome/encourage writers, especially new Jon & Shawn writers.

Then she contacted me on Christmas Eve 2022 on Reddit. After I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with her. As always, I was too nice. I still blamed myself and the anxiety for everything that happened. She offered friendship and apologies and then abruptly ripped the offer away when I expressed having reservations. When I didn't do what she wanted, she got mean.

Admittedly, her hurtful words about having "tons" of fandom friends to talk to when I didn't upset me. Since she liked to talk about God and being a Christian, I shot her some Bible verses about words and told her how cruel she was.

That didn't go over well.

Later I felt bad about it. Maybe I was too harsh, too judgemental, too sensitive. Blaming my anxiety for my reaction, I stupidly reached out on Valentine's Day 2023 to try to make peace with her.

She was even meaner and now saying she was afraid of me. She said I had hurt her so much she couldn't trust me. She admitted that she'd hurt me too but wouldn't say how, just that we kept hurting each other, so she was too scared to talk to me.

What?

I was talking about her, she claimed. And that was too much. She couldn't take the pain and stress of being talked about online. Oh, and her depression was worse and she struggled more, so what I was going through didn't matter.

Did I talk about her online?

In the aftermath of the Discord chats, I was angry she wouldn't leave me alone when asked. I resented her trying to push me out of a fandom I've been in since I was a little kid. I vented my frustration by making a wildest opinion that fans had heard over the years post on Reddit. Mine was that Jon was a coward for letting Shawn go back to Chet. I never named her or how I'd heard this opinion. I didn't think she was even still around the subreddit.

She outed herself.

I think the biggest problem with the post was that no one agreed with her take. I deleted the post not long after it was made and apologized to her for it later, but it wasn't good enough.

The next thing wasn't even about her. I told her that when she contacted me on Reddit. Someone had posted about having to block someone online and why. I responded sympathetically, referencing something that had happened before I met her. She refused to accept that my comment wasn't about her. Of course, I was talking about her, how could I not be?

Everything was about her no matter what the topic was.

But these were the terrible things I did to her that made her afraid of me. She couldn't come up with anything else. Turns out what she was really afraid of was that I would find out what she was doing and what she was telling others.

For 16 months I was so stressed and depressed that I started having panic attacks again. @lizettevanessa and later @mrsmungus virtually held my hand and talked me through these. They spent hours trying to help me calm down and get me to think rationally over that time.

I have type 1 diabetes and stress is a killer for me. Throughout this ordeal, my blood sugar was stuck at over 300 for hours on end and it seemed that no matter how much insulin I used it wasn't enough. And then the bottom would fall out and my blood sugar crashed. It was a never-ending cycle of trying to bring down highs and bring up lows. This led to stomach problems, constant migraines, and eventually hair loss. I had so many nights where I couldn't sleep. I was so depressed I couldn't work out and I couldn't cope with online or rl situations that shouldn't have been a big deal.

It also triggered the ED.

I hadn't had a relapse in years.

Online I was always looking over my shoulder wondering if the people in fandom were being honest with me or if they were pretending to be my friend while reporting back to her. I know for a fact one person in the BMW server was doing this. I know at least a couple of readers/friends were involved and that she created alts impersonating others.

Trying to run an inclusive, welcoming fandom server while trying to protect myself was a nightmare.

I honestly can't put into words how much damage she did. It was only because of my chaos family and sis @mrsmungus that I didn't quit everything. No exaggeration. I came very close several times to deleting over 20 years of work and history because of her.

What I've just told you is a just a part of what I've dealt with since late 2022.

The worst part is I think she'd be pleased to know how effective her tactics were. I don't know what was going on in her life that drove her to do this. I don't know if she is just that jealous, entitled, and petty a person or if she was lashing out because of something done to her and this was the only way she could get revenge- by going after an easy target and inflicting the same hurt she'd suffered.

What did she gain by doing all of this? If if I had left the fandom, what was the end goal? There were/are a lot of Jon and Shawn adoption writers out there. Would she drive them out to so she could be the BNF of BMW?

I've been in online fandom for over 20 years and I've learned that fandom is cyclical. Favorite tropes, characters, etc. change over time, falling out of favor and then becoming popular again. It would be a full-time job plus overtime trying to stay on top.

As for me, all she had to do is admit where her inspiration came, just once, just a note. Instead, she chose to lie, manipulate, and harass me just so she didn't have to admit it.

It's incredibly stupid if you stop to think about it.

But she is gone now and all of that is gone with her.

I don't know what happened that made her nuke everything and I do not care. It doesn't matter.

I used to want that story rewritten or gone. But in all honesty, I am ecstatic to see she's gone.

Good riddance.

Looking back, I get the feeling she is a very privileged person who has been sheltered from having to deal with the consequences of her actions for a long time and not just online.

Going back over all the private correspondences with her, the ones she had a with a mutual reader that were sent to me, and her response to AO3 that was removed by staff, in them is a trend in claiming something awful happened to her making it impossible for anything to be her fault when confronted with something negative. Flu, injury, baby, computer theft, ID theft, etc. There was always an excuse. She was always the victim.

She got away with it until she didn't.

I really do hope she deals with whatever caused her to act this way. It's terrible for those who cross her path who aren't her constant cheerleader, but it's worse for her in the end.

You can't be like that and be happy.

You know what is sad?

She's actually a talented writer. She could have taken that story and really done something special with it. The foundation was there. She could have taken Ashley and made her into a fully developed, living, breathing character who could have shaped her family unit in a way that didn't look anything like mine even if the same basic elements were there. It would have been so easy for her to do. Instead, she picked what she wanted from mine, minced it up, and harassed me over what she was doing.

AO3's verdict on my report, which was still out a year later, no longer matters since she deleted everything.

If by chance Kaylie is reading this or does read this someday, let me be very clear: Do not think I feel sorry for you in any way. Do NOT contact me for any reason, not even to apologize. Do not come at me with new accounts anywhere. I do not care if it's ten years from now. I want nothing to do with you.

Yet out of all this mess, there were some incredible things that came of it. Because of her behavior, it drove me to get involved with fanfiction outside of the fandom and find my online family. If I had the chance to go back in time and avoid her, but it meant not finding my family, I'd decline. Her nonsense was worth finding them.

Because of her, I did become afraid to get involved with fandom people and very nearly missed meeting someone who is very dear to me. @justanotherpersonwhowrites posted her story on FFN and I completely panicked when I saw the description of her OC. Thankfully she posted on Tumblr and AO3 later on as I was finding my family. I reread her story and fell in love with her OC. I got up the courage to reach out and I am so glad I did. She is an amazing person, a talented writer, and an incredible friend.

Also the BMW discord server happened because of Kaylie. I didn't want others to be isolated from the fandom like I was and Reddit is good for some things but not others. Not only is it an archive for the show but a place for fans to find each other. It is also a safe place for fanfiction writers to get together.

So what happens now?

Autumn in Philadelphia will go on, without a doubt. And I will be picking up my other stories that were more lighthearted and fun. I have a series of Jondrey one shots that I really want to do too. A lot fun stuff and art. I'll be more active on here and in the BMW server.

The AN that's on every story will be changed to link to this post.

As for blocks, they will remain for now.

The reason is I've been through too many bouts of silence only for her to resurface. Although she can't return in the same way, I don't know that she doesn't still have former readers acting as her eyes and ears. Eventually all blocks will be lifted except on those I know to be her friends because she named them as such.

I still have the report, the screencaps (soooo many screencaps), all her messages, and a copy of that story. I took screenshots of all the places she used to exist but doesn't anymore because it still doesn't seem real. I thought about purging everything, but they are now a part of AiP's history. Someday I'll get around to building that neocities site as a tribute to the era this all began in and I will include everything: the fantastic, the strange, and the nightmarish.

I want to extend my eternal gratitude to one of my dearest friends, @lizettevanessa, to my sis @mrsmungus, to little sis @justanotherpersonwhowrites, to @lena-hills @kayedium-writes @hylianjo @sliebman10 @axolotlsupremacyowo @udaberriwrites @fattybattysblog @narcissasdaffodil @danceswithdarkspawn and the rest of my Chaos family for your love and support during the past two years. I owe you everything.

And to my readers, who've been with me whether from the beginning or just joined, THANK YOU. I love and appreciate you more than you know.

❤️❤️❤️❤️

-Aria

[starlightguh]

An Artist Always Signs His Work

Word Count: 1,879

Tags: inappropriate uses of paint, Oral f!receiving

AN: 18+ Smut !MDNI¡ I started working on this before the Rafayel banner announcement and wanted to finish and post this before the new card dropped! I’ve truthfully not been the biggest Rafayel girly but lately he’s shown up in some spicy dreams of mine so I hope this does him justice 💕

I was taking my time doing my hair for a little outing with Tara that I had planned, when my phone started buzzing. I pause my hair routine and see Rafayel’s picture with his contact name: My Sushi <3 light up my screen.

I answer with a cutesy ‘Hellooo’ and am met with a disgruntled groan from the other end.

“I can’t do it! I won’t do it! I simply cannot draw anymore no matter how much Thomas threatens me!”

“Woah, slow down what happened?” I stifle a laugh at his dramatics.

“They expect me to have a new painting for that gallery by the end of this week and I just can’t! No matter how much I’ve painted nothing is giving that inspiration I need….You have to come help,” his voice sobbed on the other line.

“Rafayel I can’t, I have other engagements today I can’t just drop everything to help you with your art,” I sigh at his drama.

“Oh so you hate me. I get it. Well I see how much you care about me and my dying wishes, so I’m hanging up now,” his voice was full of sass as he then hung up on me.

I let out a long exasperated groan and gave Tara a phone call, “hey girl I might have to rain check on our tea date.”

“Oh that’s funny you called first! I actually ran into Dr.Greyson and am kinda caught up with him right now…We’ll definitely touch base and reschedule when I see you at work! Bye girly!”

Well that was easy. I continue to finish getting ready to go see my dying artist…

~~~~~~~~~

Im buzzed into Mo art studio with no problem. I didn’t bother calling Rafayel back since I knew where he would be whether I showed up or not.

“Knock, knock,” I call out as I open the doors to his studio space.

“Studio’s closed, I'm busy passing away…” Rafayel, whose clothes were covered in various paint colors, was laying on the floor with his arm covering his eyes.

“But I came to revive you.”

He lifts his arm away from his face and he lets in a sharp little gasp as he takes in my appearance.

I was a bit dressier than usual in my shiny short white dress and my hair and makeup done. I smiled down at his stunned expression as the pupils of his eyes darken.

“I think I’ve found my inspiration,” he says with a bit of a confident smirk.

He slowly lifts up his torso and smiles up at me before holding out his index fingers and thumbs to create a frame of me in his vision.

“Oh so that’s why you wanted me to come here, you needed a muse?”

He stands up and his taller height makes me lean my head back a bit to glance into his deep sea blueish eyes. Rafayel placed his hand under my chin and moved my face from side to side, appraising my facial features.

“Not necessarily, but your beauty has striked my inspiration. Come here while I paint,” he takes my hand and drags me to the center of his studio.

He has me sit on top of a stool in front of the background of his flowing white curtains as he sets up a canva and easel in front of me.

I sit a bit awkwardly, unsure of what to do with myself. So I kick my feet a bit as Rafayel is pouring the paints he wants to use on his wooden pallet.

His eyes are scanning the scene before him as a mischievous smirk crosses his face, “I think the subject needs more color.”

I look down at my white dress and frown, “Well I didn’t exactly bring anything else.”

He wordlessly strides over to me, and with a paint brush he slashes a stroke of blue paint on my bare arm.

“Hey! Rafayel! What are you doing?!” I shout as he laughs while splashing my skin with more paint.

“I'm just painting on my lovely canvas,” he smirks and then dips his hand in some of the paint on the pallet.

He places his forehead against mine while letting out a shaky breath as his paint covered hand slowly and sensually caresses down my bust to my waist. As his hand is the paint brush that has now ruined my dress, he stops at my waist and grips it.

“Raf,” I whisper as I glance at his plush lips. His eyes were now dark and intimate as he no longer stared at me like his muse, but rather his meal.

He lets out a huff and leans his head down to place a soft kiss at my pulse point in my neck. The only sounds I could hear was the smacking of his lip’s against my skin and the shakiness of my own breath.

I felt his nose drag up against my neck as he then brought his lips to my ear to whisper to me, “You know, when I paint, I prefer to paint subjects in their most natural state…”

He purred in my ear and pulled away a bit as he dipped his hand in his pallet and proceeded to set it down as he covered both hands in colors.

“Rafayel,” I said in a warning tone as he now has both of his hands on my body and ruined my dress with shades of blues and purples. “You owe me a new dress.”

He looks down at the paint covering my arms and seeing his hand prints on the dress he hums and nods, “You’re right….Let’s get this canvas to her natural state then.”

Before I could process what he meant by that, he had unzipped my dress and removed it off my body. I let out a yelp as the cold air touched my now exposed skin.

“This too,” he grumbled and popped my bra off immediately.

As I sat on this stool naked in nothing but my panties with wet paint covering my arms, I looked at him annoyed as my face with hot with embarrassment, “Shouldn’t you stop fooling around and actually work on your painting?” My eyes glance to the now abandoned easel he had set up.

His hands were all over my skin, his soft fingertips gently tracing paths around my breasts and sternum, leaving color in its wake. “But I am working on my painting dearest, it’s already beautiful,” he says in a whisper before leaning down to capture one of my plump mounds in his mouth.

I wrap my legs around him and let out whimpers as his tongue swirls around my sensitive bud. His face is now getting paint on it from the trails his fingers left behind earlier.

As he pulls away from my breast with a smack he stares up at me as he goes to give the other one attention. My face contorts as the feeling of his lips breaks my composure. His deep eyes are drinking in my expression as his mouth works on me and I close my eyes and turn my head away to hide from his intense gaze.

Rafayel pulls away and moves my head to face him, leaving more stains of paint as he does, “Look at me.” His voice sounds deeper than his usual teasing tone and is full of command.

I open my eyes and as I do he leans in and kisses me with a fierce intensity. His hands cup my jaw and I wrap my arms around him as his tongue parts my lips and dances in my mouth.

I drag my fingers into his purple hair as he groans into my mouth. When he pulls away I’m panting as our lips are still connected by a strand of saliva. He licks his lips with a smirk and he bites his bottom lip as he takes in my panting and flushed form.

“This is almost the vision I have,” he says as he crouches down to get more paint on his hand. He slides his hands that are wet with fresh colors up my legs as he parts them to have me sit in a straddle pose on the stool. “Beautiful.”

His hands grip my thighs as he stares at the small wet patch that’s dampened my teal cotton panties. Rafayel, like a man possessed, slides his hands underneath both sides of my underwear to slide them off me. My legs follow his path as the cotton is now cast aside and his hands are holding my painted thighs apart to expose my wet center to his vision.

“Now that I’ve painted my canvas, it’s only right that I sign my work,” his voice rumbles as he gets closer and closer to my center and he gives a lick on my slit.

“Raf-“ I pant and go to grab the back of his head, but he stops my movement with a grip on my wrist, “Don’t move or you’ll ruin the portrait.”

He lets my wrist go and dives into my center, drinking in my dripping essence with his thirsty lips. I can’t help but grip the sides of the stool and lean my head back with a moan.

The contrast of his hot mouth on me in comparison to my cold body covered in wet paint made my mind melt. I was drowning in pleasure as I could hear the lewd squelching and smacking of his mouth on my dripping pussy.

I could feel more than hear him growl as I placed my legs on his shoulders and my toes dug into the fabric of his white shirt.

“Gods Rafayel…I’m gonna,” I squeal as I close my eyes and feel his tongue on my clit.

As I focus on my breathing I can feel his tongue make what feels like the shape of an R on my slit, followed by an A then F….

I could feel my lower body tighten and heat up as I was close, “Rafayel please I’m-I…” I sputtered out as he made it to Y in his name.

He pulled away for a moment and his voice was filled with lust, “Come. Let go for me.”

When he went back to my clit and quickly finished spelling his name he then slid his tongue inside my needy hole and I instantly came undone on his mouth with a high pitched moan.

As I was breathing heavily from my orgasm, Rafayel pulled away with half of his face dripping in my juices. He smiled and licked his lips, “Perfect stay like that.”

He stood and rushed over to the actual canvas and quickly began trying to immortalize my pleasure in a painting on his canvas.

Needless to say he had to repose his muse with a few more orgasms to ‘get my expression just right.’

The finished product was me covered in paints of blues and purples and completely fucked out of my mind, while his actual portrait depicted a naked woman being swallowed up by the sea. I was too embarrassed to acknowledge that her pleasured face was what Rafayel saw as he expertly pulled out of me over and over again that day.

~fin~

[curvydave]

your tattooed!reader hcs for the icebound crew (specially when you said jornir would draw designs on you himself) made me think.... what would they think if we tattooed something based off of/ because of them? (i say this bcs i thought it would be cute if we made one of his drawings or queenie's coloring for our tattoos an actual part of us)

also sorry if this was too long! you can ignore this if you dont feel like writing it btw

I need you to know that I was SO excited when I saw this in the inbox -- sorry it took so long! My life kind of got turned upside down recently, and I've been fighting through the last few breaths of my studies & research. Hard to find time to sit down lately! But Skrimm and Jornir below the cut <3 I'll come back to this prompt eventually, it's just too cute not tooo <3

Skrimm

Skrimm's life just feels like a big series of bad omens, one after another. If he's not being actively followed by some horrible spectre of death, then he's probably waking up in a graveyard -- and if he's not there, he's more than likely only a few drinks shy of it. There's few things he holds dear that doesn't strike a chord with someone else's danger sense… or otherwise just bring him misfortune. He's a gambler, but he's got just about the worst kind of luck you can imagine.

He's so used to everything "Skrimm" being linked to "bad" in some way or another, than not only is he shocked that you've found something good to remind you of him, but that you'd want to get it marked on your skin forever. Marked by him, in a way.

It takes him a good minute to form anything coherent beyond giddy laughter -- maybe a "wow," if he's feeling particularly composed, but when he finally pulls it together he is just full of compliments. It looks good! Really good! I mean you always look great but this is just, wow.

You've gotta bat his hands away from the fresh ink while it heals -- a month of agony for him, because truth be told he really wants to trace the lines and just feel that little extra bit of connection, but alas.

The electric joy that comes with seeing it never really seems to wear off, either -- even months after its healed, he still beams whenever he lays eyes on the ink.

Jornir

He would be lying if he said he did not suspect that you wanted this piece to be more permanent -- he remembers the look in your eyes when he brushed the dye onto your skin that day, and how your voice changed ever so slightly once it dried. He had felt very proud of his work, then -- you seem to have liked every piece he's done on you (both doodle and sprawling art alike,) but this one seemed to resonate with you in a new way. He made a mental note then, to touch up the piece next time the stars aligned to give you both a moment of relaxation.

Only, he didn't expect you to exchange the surface dye for deep ink, and commit to it forever. Not that he's complaining, of course. Far from it, actually.

Its no secret that Jornir is smitten with your tattoos, just as a general rule. But just as you found this piece special, so does he. With the lives you two lead, few things are guaranteed to be forever -- possessions get lost, break, get tossed to the sands of time; the people of Mamut eventually grow old, and leave their children to fill their shoes; mountains slowly crumble to give way to the dirt you walk upon, and trees fall to be replaced by their own seedlings. It is simply the nature of things. But this is permanent. Truly, truly permanent. No matter where you go, there's always that note of connection. And he finds it very touching to think that you'd truly want a slice of Forever, in this way.

Part of him would like to know what drew you to this piece, in particular. He's secretly taking notes on your answers -- the art he drew on you is too complicated to perfectly mirror in a freeze brand, but there's a part of him that would like to match with you in some way. He does eventually design something of his own -- its subtle, and you'd have to know the runes of Jorn to glimpse its meaning and significance, but it rings clear as day to you. He, too, would like a piece of Forever with you.

He's very conscious of healing times, and takes care not to disturb the ink while your body heals. But once it does, you'll find he's prone to just pressing gentle, lingering kisses to the skin where the design is etched. Most often at night, when the lights are low and you're both just on the precipice of sleep.

[breakfastatmiles]

Your art is wonderful!!!

A constant inspiration to my own creativity and art work. Could you explain some of your art style to me? I’m interested in looking at a bunch of different ones to try and finally find one for me.

Goodnight!!🌙

Thank you so much! That means the world to me! I’d be happy to share some of my process with you 😄

Keep in mind I’m completely self-taught, so this is just the process of how I make my drawings and not any sort of professional advice 😅 apologies for the long post ahead 😪

Starting with the basics, my biggest influences are Jin Kim and Ami Thompson. Both are amazing character designers and I really admire their stylization and expressions. Whenever I feel stuck on something, I always go back to their drawings for inspiration.

I typically start in Procreate with a canvas size of 3300px x 4200px or 11” x 14” with a DPI of 300.

I put my reference in the corner of the canvas (in this case it’s a screenshot from the movie She’s the Man) and I start my rough sketch (emphasis on rough). Sketching is probably the longest part in my drawing process because I’m focusing on expression, composition, proportions, etc. This usually has about two to three passes before I move on.

Then I lower the opacity of the sketch and clean it up with some lineart on a new layer. Lineart doesn’t play a huge part in my style, but I still like to play around with line weight. Since I knew this was going to be a fully rendered piece, I didn’t spend much time on lines that I knew were going to be removed later in the process.

Underneath all of that, I use the skin tone and color the base of the character. I make sure that I color ever so slightly past the lineart, for reasons that will be important later. This part can be tedious, especially because I use a textured brush, so there are a lot of gaps that I fill in later.

Then using new layers with clipping masks, I start the flat colors. Nothing too crazy here.

I’ve made color palettes for characters and backgrounds that I typically draw, so this way it speeds up the process and maintains style consistency. If I need a color that I don’t normally use, I’ll just play around with the colors until I find something that fits well with everything else.

Next, on a multiply layer, I add some basic shading (with the skin tone color) and blush (with an orange-pink color). I also move onto the background. Some are more complex than others. If I’m going for a more cinematic look, I’ll fill the background in with some basic shapes and blur it slightly. Thankfully the background was pretty simple in this reference.

I start checking proportions now that everything has basic colors. Then I duplicate my lineart layer and change it to a pinkish-red and put it on multiply mode and turn down the opacity. This is why the base color layer needs to line up with the lineart, otherwise there’d just be gaps underneath. Instead of erasing my black lineart layer, I put a mask on it and just keep the eyes and eyebrows.

Then I start working on the shading and hair, which is an entire process in itself. Maybe I’ll make a tutorial on that one day 😅

I also use some vivid light and soft light layers and put in some subtle colors for extra pizzazz.



Then I add a hard light layer to the eyes for that glossy look and on a normal layer add some white details just to make some things pop more (like the nose, lips, eyes, sometimes hair, etc.)

I did make an eye tutorial a while back, but my process is still the same!

Lastly, I spend a lot of time playing with different blending modes (multiply, add, soft light, vivid light layers) and really focus on the lighting. I used to focus on adding a lot more details and make the coloring more realistic, but I found that the more simplistic coloring was easier for me to do and fit my style better. Sometimes I still tend to go too far with the details and realize that it looks better when I tone it down a bit.

That’s pretty much it! Let me know if you have any questions! Hope this helps. Have fun making art!

[princeoferror]

Ashei x Shad

Any other Shad x ashei shippers out there?!

Commission info | Buy a Print! | portfolio | twitter | insta | Discord server

Progress pics below!

Sketch:

Oki so first up I found a reference I liked off Pinterest which had some interesting vibes I wanted in my piece. While drawing the two in these poses I realized just how many oocca faces Shad has on his design, it's actually awful. Shad I love you but this is disturbing.

Line art:

For the line art Ive tried adding more detail here just as I'm still playing around with what I want my art style to be. I think this part turned out rly well, I got the line weights down nice and the details really work.

Flats:

The flat colours do look a bit strange on their own, if I was planning to leave this piece at this stage I would move the colours over to be warme. I planned to do a lot with the rendering so it's not an issue here.

Finished render:

I didn't initially plan to return to my more painterly style, I was going to cel shade it like the pieces in my recent posts, but I'm so glad I randomly decide to. The high contrast of shadow, especially the cast shadow Ashei is making, really adds some depth I think my art hasn't had for a while. The details of the brush strokes add more visual interest to the piece and can imply more form than just flat cel shadows. The background also turned out really nicely being lineless I think that helped to not steal any attention with unnecessary line art.

This is my new favorite piece I think this shows some really nice progress in my artistic journey. I can't wait to immediately use this style for putting master kohga in a banana dress but unfortunately you will have to wait til next Saturday for that so make sure you're following as to not miss it.

Thank you so much for reading if you did! If you'd like to buy this as a print it'll be up on my inprnt, I also have commissions open if that's something you're interested in

Oki bye!

[inkcapjester]

How did you find your artstyle and how do you consistently draw it, if I may ask?? I’m having a hard time being consistent with my artstyle 🥲

Also, I hope you don’t mind- but I’m just gonna…*noms your art* Delicious <33

To be totally honest, I'm still finding my art style!! It's not really something I've 100% decided on yet, and that's partially because I have so many! I'm gonna use my story that I've been developing for a while as an example, along with other drawings for things I've done :]

Also idk if this counts as a tutorial, but I do yap a lot about loosely put-together steps, so here we go!

I love experimenting with things like brushes, color palettes, blending modes and effects to see which things serve the purposes I most need them to. All of the brushes I currently use I found for free, mostly on Gumroad!

Experimenting would probably my first step, regardless of what I want the style to be. I usually have at least a vague idea of what kind of vibe I'm going for, but sometimes I get more inspired just from experimenting with various brushes and coloring styles.

Something ill do when trying out new brushes (usually line art brushes) is to go over the same sketch with them. This is a very old example LOL but it was when I was trying to develop a style for a comic/light novel of an extensive fantasy world I've been working on for a long time.

I labeled all the different brushes so I could easily remember which was which, and from there I ended up liking the Kumpu brush the best.

Then I made a bunch of drawings with that brush of some of the main characters, to get a feel of what I liked and what I didn't. I knew I wanted the style of this comic to feel a little bit like a pixel-art game (think undertale and stardew) but also have a clear color palette. I liked the drawing in general, but overall wasn't ecstatic with how they came out, because it wasn't as close as I wanted it to be. So, a while later, I searched the internet for more inso, and brushes.

This was feeling a lot closer to what I had envisioned in my head, but it still wasn't quite there. It wasn't until I took a creative writing class that I actually gave myself time to work on this world and style more. I ended up making these portraits to go along with my paper, and I started to really like the palette that I had coming together.

I knew I wanted this world's primary color to be purple, with the accent being mainly yellow/orange, so I made sure to keep those at least as undertones in my drawings. For example, Lenni is a grey tabby cat, so I chose a grey with a purple undertone, so that he didn't look out of place in this world that (design-wise) he clearly belongs in. I also chose to give a purple undertone to Espi's skin color, along with her brown hair. Sometimes undertones are more subtle, but from the very beginning I knew that I wanted the purple undertones in this style to be very noticeable.

That's something that I highly recommend thinking about when wanting to develop a style!! That would probably be my second step. What purpose do you want it to serve? I knew that I needed a style that was 1) simple enough for me to draw over and over 2) interesting enough to carry the story artistically like I wanted it to and 3) be visually different in an eye-catching way. My different iterations of this style I think achieved these goals in varying levels, and I tried to keep track of what things were working towards my goals, and what wasn't.

I also had to make a cover and back cover for my paper, so I used that as an opportunity to explore this style even more, with the introduction of how I wanted to use shading!

I knew I wanted the cover to have striking lighting, but I wasn't super sure how I wanted to go about it. Eventually, I kind of just tried to give up on my perfectionist mindset of "it has to look exactly how I want it to!!" and instead focus on actually drawing something. I've had to keep revisiting this world after long breaks because I was never satisfied with how my drawings were turning out, and in turn, I'd give up for a while. Which is NOT a good work flow LMAO. I do like how this cover looks as a drawing, even though it's just not QUITE what I want. But I'm trying to work on that mentality shift, and it's helped me make a lot more progress in my styles so far.

This is the mock back cover! I was much more satisfied with the shading in this one, and I felt like I was finally finding my footing with that. Now that I've become more comfortable with my line art, color, and shading for this style, I feel like I can finally start experimenting with the fun parts of the style I know I want to include, like sprinkled in pixel textures, etc. I haven't gotten to that part yet though, so we'll see how it goes!!

Besides my story-style, I would say I have two main other styles, being my "normal" style (even that could have different iterations), and my rendered style.

I'm gonna use my most recent drawing as an example for my normal style. In this style, I knew going into it that I had a vague want to explore color more, so that became the thing I decided to experiment most with.

Something I started noticing in my experiments was that I would be generally satisfied with the base colors, only to slap some shading on and not like it anymore.

When this kept happening time and time again, I decided that since I had a concrete goal of improving my colors, I would take a break from shading all together.

This is when I started taking more requests to really work on my understanding and application of color. I wanted to give myself a fun excuse to make lots of drawings of characters, and working until I was happy with how my colors looked. When I was doing this, I was referencing artists where I specifically admired their colors, and using information I gathered from my painting and color analysis classes! I love color and could yap about it for a while so lmk if you want more on my process for that.

After I felt like I had a good grasp on color, I started to tackle shading again. And....I'm still tackling it!!

I love the idea of textured shading and using masks, so I combined those two things for this piece. I think the use of masks worked well, but I'm not satisfied with the rake brush textures I used. I want them to be more noticeable and intentional, so that's the next thing I'm choosing to work on! I'm not abandoning the non-shaded style of my art, especially because I like it so much!!, but I for sure want to continue my process of experimentation and figuring out what purposes I want to achieve.

The other major style I use is my rendered style!

This style obviously is a lotttttt more time consuming, so I don't do it all the time, but it is something that I really enjoy! I use this style mainly for poster-type drawing that I want to make into prints to sell someday! This style is also en exploration of my skills and application of the things I learn in my studio classes! We do a lot of time-intensive realistically rendered drawings in my classes, and I wanted to use that knowledge that I've gained and apply it to my personal art! I can't share a lot of the work I do from class since I draw models and they're nude (they didn't consent to the internet seeing those drawing lol!!) but I can share some self portraits I did!!

These classes really honed my shading skills that I want to work on applying to my personal digital pieces, along with the hatching that I used in these graphite drawings (something that I really grew to love about them!!)

So to wrap things up, I'm still finding my style(s)!! As any good artist is. I focus on experimenting with things that intrigue and inspire me, with artists I look up to as references, and then figure out what I want the style to be and what purposes I want it to serve. I hope this was helpful!! If you have anymore questions please feel free to ask!

[the-froschamethyst4]

It’s a Pinterest Idea

𖤐Pairing: Husband! Alejandro x Wife F! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: fluff, wholesome, language, kissing, married couple

Y/n is a very creative person, she has her own home art studio that she’s in almost 24/7 coming up with new ideas

Her husband Alejandro comes home from work and sees her painting and also making it look 3D

He loved it and wanted to know how creative his wife can be

——————

——————

9:25AM

Y/n was heading to her home art studio. She put on an old t-shirt and some old shorts; she wore when painted. They were already covered in paint and spray paint from previous art projects.

She put her hair up into a messy bun and opened the glass door that led to her studio. She turned on the bright white lights and she also opened the window and balcony door to lighten up the room and let any paint fumes leave her studio.

Y/n's art studio is what you'd normally see, paint all over the place, pencils, markers, paint brushes and paint sets covered her desks.

She had a big blank canvas set up and ready to be painted on, now she just needed to know what is she going to paint?

She went to her computer that was her 'inspiration computer' she liked to call it. She would just look at other paintings and get an idea from that or looking at old paintings.

"Ummm~?" She hummed. She sat in her chair and swung her legs back and forth looking at inspiration.

She then found a painting and had some inspo, she smiled when it was a romantic painting a man holding his lover in her arms, and she seemed so sane and safe in his arms.

She grabbed a pencil and went to the canvas and started to do the outline.

Alejandro, Y/n's husband of 6 years came in the house. He rubbed his tired eyes and grabbed a glass cup from the kitchen filling it up with whiskey. He took a sip from the whiskey, he ran his fingers through his hair and now was trying to find his wife, which he knew where she was.

He went into her art studio and saw her mixing paints; he saw the canvas and saw the outline. He smiled seeing that it was a lover portrait.

"So, what's todays inspiration?" He asks, she stops mixing and looked up at her husband.

"Love...I haven't done a lover one in a while, so, that was todays inspo," she said. Alejandro hummed as a response.

"When was the last love painting?"

"Like...a year ago, I think..." she smiles and starts painting the canvas. Alejandro grabbed a chair and pulled it out from under her desk and sat there watching her paint.

Alejandro loved watching her paint, it was also like therapy for him, seeing her go in the lines with no problem, it was so satisfying to watch her paint.

He watched her start with the male's hair, it was a dark chocolate brown color almost like his. He leaned back and watched her put so much detail into the painting.

he untied his tie and removed his blazer; he placed his blazer on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. He leaned back in the chair and looked at her painting, his eyes wondered the outlines...he realized that the portrait was on him and her.

"Ohhh~ I get it...that's us," he said, Y/n turned and smiled up him.

"Yeah~ when it's done...could we hanging it up in the living room over the fireplace."

"Of course, mi amor, we could do that," he said, getting out of his chair and walking to her and kissing her lips. "Anything for you," he said.

He walked out of the studio and was going to the bedroom to change into comfortable clothes. Before he went back into Y/n's studio, he poured himself another glass of whiskey and even brought Y/n a bottle of water.

Y/n mixed paint to now do her hair color. She placed it on the canvas and started to put detail into her hair too. He placed the water bottle on her desk, and he watched her rub paint onto her forehead by accident.

He laughed and leaned forward wiping the paint off her forehead with a clean rag. Alejandro tosses it over his shoulder and took a sip from his whiskey.

---------

2:30PM

Alejandro was now in the living room and Y/n was taking a small break from painting. She cuddled up to Alejandro's side, her eyes closed, and Alejandro had the TV playing in the background.

He was watching some Netflix series, the volume down, and he looked down to his right to look at his wife. Her knees to her chest and her hand placed close to his heart.

He placed his hand on hers and kissed the top of her head, and he rubbed her side.

"Mi amor? Are you done with your break?"

"No, not yet..." she yawns. Alejandro just smiled at her.

Y/n then sat up rubbing her eyes and leaned against him to watch the series as well.

"What even is this?"

"I don't know, I was watching it yesterday, but I got bored with it 3 episodes in but now I just turned it on," he said, rubbing her shoulder.

Alejandro then just looked around the house, he realized how filled the house was with Y/n's art pieces. He smiled glad that she has a hobby that she is proud of doing.

"Amor, have you ever thought about selling some of your pieces?"

"What do you mean...selling? By getting rid of them, are they ugly, do you not like them?"

"Huh? Amor no, I mean like making paintings and just selling them, they might fit peoples taste and may want to buy them from you," Alejandro said.

"I have thought about it, but I thought maybe people might not like my style, so I've just never done it," she said, playing with the jaw strings of his black sweatpants.

"No way, amor, people will love it, I love it, others will too...just...think about it, amor," he kissed her temple.

"I guess, I will," she said, smiling up at him.

---------

7:40PM

Y/n went back to her art studio, her phone in hand and started to download the Ebay app, she already posted 5 of her art pieces to see what people may want it.

She placed her phone on her desk and went back to the painting, she started with Alejandro's skin tone and put detail into it, to the veins of his hands, to some of his beard hairs.

She was so focused on her painting that she didn't notice that people were already bidding on her pieces. Soon she stopped and could hear the ping of her phone.

She looked at her phone and saw one of her pieces was going up to $50,000.

"HOLY SHIT!!" Y/n yelled. Alejandro jumped from his spot on the couch and ran to Y/n's studio.

"WHAT!? WHAT'S WRONG?!!" Alejandro yelled.

"My piece, my koi fish piece, is going up to 50 grand with 10 minutes," she said, with her jaw dropped and Alejandro's did too.

"THAT'S INSANE!!" Alejandro yelled.

"I know! What should I do?"

"Close the bid on the 50 grand," Alejandro said as she did and now will be giving her first piece away.

"Let that person know that you closed the bid, and they will get the piece you just need their info to deliver the painting," Alejandro said. Alejandro was excited that Y/n already have her first painting sold.

He watched her get excited and kissed her lips when she came close to him excited. His hands landed on her waist and smiled with her as she was so excited that she had made 50 grand on her first painting.

"Thank you for suggesting doing this Alejandro."

"Of course, mi amor," he kissed her lips again.

[merrock]

EVENT: Earth Week

LOCATION / TIME: all around Merrock

IC DATE: April 19-27, 2025

OOC DATE: April 19-27, 2025

The time has come to celebrate Earth Week! We wanted to give everyone an opportunity to do fun things around town that helped make the earth a better place, and also give you the chance to do a little cleaning and tidying of our public spaces and waterways, to help make our town that much more beautiful.

WORKSHOPS:

build-a-house -- stop by Creekside, where the lumber has been donated, to learn how to build a number of birdhouses and insect hotels!

how to compost -- at the community garden, we'll be hosting work shops that teach you how to compost and make the world a better place.

butterfly garden -- learn how to plant a beautiful garden at Lavender Lane that will attract local species of butterflies and help grow the population.

how to upcycle -- join the folks at Treasure Chest as they show you a variety of fun upcycling projects from things that can be found in your backyard (or trash)!

bee keeping -- whether you want to start a colony yourself, or you're just interested in finding out how it works, head to Harmony Ranch to listen to their bee keepers (and get free honey!).

native plants -- at the State Park, you can learn about plants that are native to our area of Maine, and purchase a few to plant at home, too!

FUN THINGS FOR EVERYONE

scavenger hunt -- pick up a scavenger hunt sheet at Town Hall and wander around Earth Week looking for all of the things that you need to find!

gardening time -- snatch up a plot at the community garden, and get started a little early on planting everything you want for summer time!

cooking classes (for minis, too!) -- there will be fun cooking demonstrations at various restaurants in town, using fresh, locally sourced ingredients only.

nature walks -- join the rangers on nature walks through the State Park to see the very best signs of spring coming into our little town.

arts & crafts for kids -- at the Children's Museum, we will have a number of crafts that can be made from recycled materials, teaching that everything has a second use.

LET'S CLEAN OUR TOWN

cityview park -- grab a garbage bag and clean up trash, help clean the benches & fountain, clean out the flower beds for city workers to plant new pretty things!

merrock railway -- walk along the tracks that run through town and clear away any brush or garbage that might have made it through the winter (no trains will be running!).

the marina -- crew will be wandering the marina with gloves and waders for anyone who wants to clean up along the docks.

the swimming beach -- let's get the beach ready for the swimming season! clean up any trash, help clean up the snack shack, and enjoy some sun.

aster playground -- the equipment could use a new coat of paint and some tightening up to make everything safe & ship shape, plus the grass raked & flower beds cleaned!

ruff around park -- garbage needs picked up (and emptied!), with brush cleaned up and the park tidied up so the dogs can run again.

black creek -- bundle up, grab waders, and do a little cleaning up and down along black creek, especially around the swimming hole.

lake malory -- there's a lot of garbage, logs and dead plants gathered at he edges of our town's lake. clean it up so fishing season is that much more fun!

the meadows -- clean up any trash that you might see, and try your hand at lining the athletic fields, repairing the bleachers, and painting any equipment!

While we have given everyone in town lots of things to do and enjoy, please note that the purpose is to get out in nature, help our earth, and make our green spaces that much better! If you want to do something that isn't listed above? Go for it! Maybe someone else would really love to do it with you. As long as it helps our earth. xx

ADMIN NOTE: There will be a thread / plot call post in the OOC blog to let others know you want to get involved! But open starters are highly encouraged, as well.