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mydearzero · 4 months ago

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Bribes | Stiles Stilinski x Reader

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Summary: You get paired with Stiles to write a paper for Coach's class. But when had Stilinski grown into his awkward features? When had he grown out his buzzcut? Why was he suddenly so insanely fuckable?

Contents: NO Y/N, afab!Reader, smut, Stiles is a bit cocky lmao, fucking in the jeep, reader is related to Coach (wether adopted or not doesn't matter), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, clumsy sex, playful banter, oral sex (v receiving), casual sex, coming inside, mentions of birth control, making out if I missed any warnings please let me know!

3.5K words

Had to get Stiles out of (pls into plEASE) my system SOMEHOW, so here you go. This one is dedicated to @uglypastels for indulging my obsession and continuously sending me Dylan O'Brien thirst edits <3 <3

“Just so you’re aware, this paper is as high on my list of priorities as the Pope is in Amsterdam,” Stiles dropped his binder on the table, startling you out of your daydream. He was exactly 4 minutes late, not that you were counting. It was still impressive, seeing as he just came from practice.

“Believe me, I, too, would rather be hanging around with Isaac Lahey, yet we’re both here. Let’s just get it over with.” Stiles snorted a laugh, but didn’t comment.

You didn’t not get along with Stilinski. You weren’t sure if you could be called friends, exactly. You’d known each other pretty much all your lives, just like the majority of your school. Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly a metropolis.

You sighed and laid out your notes, Stiles following your example. You raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Those are your notes?”

There were only doodles, random calculations and sporadic keywords scribbled on the loose piece of crumpled paper he straightened out next to your notebook.

“I’m surprised, too. There’s actual words. I don’t usually get that far.” The smirk on his face could only be described as smug. You groaned. This was going to take forever. You divided the topics for the paper amongst yourselves and silently got to work. The ‘silently’ part didn't last long, however. It never did with Stiles.

“Are you still living with your uncle?” He questioned suddenly. You frowned at the question, confused, but nodded either way.

“So can’t you just, I don’t know, cook him dinner and have him give us a good grade?” The gleam in his eyes nearly made you laugh. Nearly. Instead, you flicked him on the side of the head. He whined something about unnecessary violence, but it fell on deaf ears.

“I’m not bribing my uncle just so you can slack off, Stiles. Besides, I’m never really sure if he even likes me,” you wondered out loud.

“You and me, both…” Stiles grumbled.

You glanced at Stiles as he scribbled furiously, seeming to finally get some of his research done. His knees wiggled excessively as he wrote about the economic effects of pandemics. You wrote down a few key parts of the paragraphs in your book before turning to your laptop and beginning the outline of the paper. Stiles hummed quietly as he read the entry he’d just written, tapping his pen furiously against the table.

“Can you stop that?” You requested, his incessant movement distracting you more than his general being already did. He glanced up, an amused expression on his face.

“What,” he tapped his pencil faster. “This?” You contained the urge to roll your eyes and stared at him blankly. He stopped the movement for perhaps one whole minute before picking it back up again.

You only glanced up pointedly this time. He added a jiggle of his knees in challenge. You rose from your chair, leaned over and snatched the pen out of his hand, throwing it across the library. “Fetch.”

Stiles gaped up at you in surprise. The timing of it was very unfortunate, but you’d never really noticed how Stilinski had grown into his awkward features. Something must’ve shown on your face, because Stiles now looked just as confused, perhaps intrigued, as you felt. While you’d been confident in throwing his pen across the room in annoyance, having him look up at you like that made it so you weren’t sure if you wanted him to get up. You cleared your throat and sat back in your chair.

“Unbelievable…” Stiles muttered under his breath as he got up to get the pen. It gave you time to recompose. You didn’t look at him as he sat back down, but felt his eyes burn a hole through the side of your head.

An unfamiliar tension hung in the air while you worked in silence. You snuck glances at Stiles, who was finally focussed on his writing once more. His hair was longer, still messy and unstyled from practice. The grey workout gear perfectly accentuated his broadened shoulders. He bit his lip after reading a complex entry, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they’d feel like on your own, or on your neck while your hands tugged on his now perfectly tuggable locks.

A few times his eyes met yours. You’d quickly dart them back to your notebook, pretending you hadn’t been looking, knowing damn well he’d seen.

Oh my god. Get. it. together.

“Did you finish?” You dared ask after a while, having completed your own part. All you had to do was put your parts together, wrap it up and finish.

“I’ll give it to you, but you have to give something to me first,” Stiles spoke in a challenging tone. For a split second back there you’d wondered how he was still single after all this time, but now you were reminded. He was insufferable.

“What could you possibly want from me, Stiles? Just give me your damn part.”

“A kiss.”

“What? No!” You sputtered. Stiles’ tongue poked the inside of his cheek cockily as he raised an eyebrow, pointing to his lips.

“Guess you’ll have some explaining to do to your uncle why you’re only handing in half an assignment, then.”

“This is coercion, Stilinski! Should I call your dad?” You crossed your arms, refusing to look him in the eye. The librarian shushed you loudly. You could feel heat rush to your face, but didn’t relent. Asshole.

Stiles leaned closer, running a finger over the side of your face. Your heartbeat increased what seemed about tenfold.

“It’s not coercion if you want me to.” His breath hit your neck as he spoke, sending goosebumps down your arms. “And I’m getting the feeling you really want me to.”

You jerked away from his reach, coming to your senses. You gathered your things into your bag, mumbling something about your GPA being fine, anyway. You stomped away from the table, heart racing. You were mad, not because he was suggesting something you didn’t want, rather that he’d clocked exactly what you wanted so easily.

Concerned Stiles would follow you out of the library, you hid behind a few bookshelves in a section nobody usually visited. You caught your breath, placing your palm on your chest. You dropped your bag on the floor, turning to peek around the bookshelf to see if Stiles was still stationed at the table. Relieved, you saw he’d indeed decided to follow you out of the library.

You turned back to grab your bag and head out, but were met with Stiles’ face mere inches from your own. You were startled, but he grabbed your waist before you could fall over. His hold was strong. Your hands instinctively went up to his chest, steadying yourself. Had he always been this tall?

One of his hands wandered slightly lower, rubbing small circles on your lower back. Your eyes met his, which were just shining with mischief and an underlying sense of self-satisfaction. His tongue darted out, licking his lower lip.

“Can I be frank? You’re incredibly annoying,” you stated, slinging your arms around his neck, finally giving in.

“You can be whoever you want as long as I get to kiss you, Frank,” Stiles laughed. You groaned but pulled him close either way.

“Shut up.”

Stiles obliged and put his mouth to yours aggressively, tugging your body against his. One of his hands wandered up, cupping the back of your head to bring it closer. You tugged at the small locks at the back of his neck, eliciting a sighed moan from Stiles.

“You’re so hot,” he confessed when you broke apart for a second. He turned you so you were pushed with your back against the bookcase, a few books falling to the floor. Neither of you cared as your kiss continued, deepening by the second. His hands held your hips as he started grinding against you, sweats low on his hips. His mouth made its way down your jaw, moving to suck hasty kisses on your neck.

“Stiles…” you sighed blissfully. Heat gathered in your stomach at the soft, breathy noises coming from his lips combined with the sound of them against your skin. He put his knee between your thighs.

“Knew you wanted this as much as I did, fuck,” Stiles groaned. The pressure from his knee was delicious, but not enough. It was almost as if he could read your mind as he slid his hand into your bottoms, working your underwear out of the way somewhat clumsily.

“God… so wet for me,” he moaned. You could only reply with breathy whimpers, trying to make as little noise as possible. Stiles shushed you, placing his unoccupied hand over your mouth as the other started rubbing small circles over your clit. You closed your eyes and let your head fall against the bookcase. Your knees went weak at the sensation, not much holding you up besides Stiles.

He slipped his hand out of your underwear, bringing a finger up to his mouth. He casually licked it clean. He hooked his thumbs into your bottoms, seeking eye contact and asking for non-verbal permission to tug them down. You bit your lip and nodded enthusiastically. When your underwear hit the floor, so did Stiles’ knees. Your eyes darted around your environment, but the school was nearly empty at this time, especially the library.

You had to slap your hand over your mouth when Stiles made contact with your clit, his tongue tentatively licking between your folds. Your breathing was laboured, chest heaving as Stiles took his time exploring. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth, holding in your moans. Your hands shot to Stiles’ hair. Perfectly tuggable, indeed.

He groaned when you gave an exceptionally sharp tug, taking the time to look you in the eyes. The vibrations of his lowered voice felt good. You had seemingly no control over your hands, fingers tightening their grip the closer you got to the edge.

“Shit, baby… So good for me. Gotta stay quiet…” Stiles mumbled. A small, high pitched keen left your lips. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep the silence up. You looked down once more and saw Stiles palming himself over his sweats as he continued eating you out, rhythmically grinding his hips in time with his mouth.

The sound of a bag zipper closing got your attention. You smacked Stiles’ shoulder to stop, wanting to whine in frustration at just how close you’d been. Stiles paid you no mind, lost in giving you pleasure. You put both your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, careful not to tip him over. It was only then Stiles noticed the noise of someone packing up to leave. He scrambled to stand up, trying to help you get redressed.

“I got it, I got it,” you hissed quietly.

“Who’s there? You can’t be here anymore! Library’s about to close!” It was the librarian who’d shushed you earlier. You grabbed your bag in a hurry.

“Would you still rather be hanging out with Isaac?” Stiles asked jokingly, wiping his chin. You whacked his arm, storming past him to the doors. He followed quickly, arm wandering over your shoulders as you walked out of the now deserted school. You didn’t speak as Stiles led you over to the Jeep, insisting on driving you home, at least.

You sat in the passenger seat as Stiles ran around to the drivers’ side. You wiped your hands on your thighs, huffing a frustrated breath. You hadn’t even finished the paper, and now you got cock-blocked on top of it. So not worth it. You turned to Stiles as he put the keys in the ignition. He’d never looked hotter than that very second, lips bruised, hair tousled and still pent up, besides maybe when he looked up at you with his face buried between your legs. Okay so maybe a little worth it.

“If you keep looking at me like that I’m gonna pull over and we’re gonna have sex in the back seat like right now,” Stiles joked. Or at least, you assumed it was a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, threat or invitation?”

“Option D? All of the above? I mean, D is definitely an option.”

“Pull over and we’ll see how much of an option it is.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, pulling over in a small clearing as soon as he saw the opportunity. He took off his seatbelt, scrambling to get out of the car. He opened the door for you, closing it and letting you in the back seat. You laid back across the seats and manoeuvred your top off, throwing it at Stiles. He caught it, quickly discarding it somewhere in the car. He shimmied his pants down his legs, not bothering to take off his shoes. You did the same, leaving you in your underwear. Stiles stopped to take a proper look.

“You’re gonna kill me. You’ve already killed me and this is my pre-hell Heaven trailer of what could’ve been. God iwantyousobad.” You pulled him on top of you as you laughed.

“Less talking, more fucking, yes?”

“Yes, I agree. Wholeheartedly,” Stiles nodded furiously, tugging his shirt over his head with only one hand. Hot. He finally closed the car door behind him before he could forget.

“I’m going to assume you don’t just casually keep condoms in your car?” You questioned. Stiles closed his eyes and tightened his lips in frustration, mentally scolding himself. He finally had you in his Jeep, half-naked, ready to fuck, and he didn’t have a freaking condom??? He finally shook his head no, sighing and pulling away from you slowly.

You leaned up on your elbows and whispered in his ear. “Hmmm… Guess you’re just gonna have to come inside of me… Wouldn’t want to make a mess of the car…”

Stiles pounced at that, kissing you like his life depended on it. He tugged your underwear back down your legs, now very familiar with your pelvic region. He struggled to undo your bra, cursing under his breath. You laughed and lended a hand, undoing it and slipping it off your shoulders.

“Holy shit,” Stiles groaned. “Promise me to thank Coach for pairing us up.”

“You did not just mention my uncle as a reaction to seeing me naked,” you complained.

“I did. Not sorry. He did me a favour.”

You ignored the comment and decided to kiss him to shut him back up. Him and his mouth… God his mouth. You were still pent up from the library, and if he didn’t fuck you soon you were pretty sure you’d go crazy.

“Stiles, want you,” you whined impatiently. He was too busy paying attention to your nipples, taking one between his teeth as he made eye contact. “Shit,” you gasped.

Your hands wandered down his torso, stopping at the hem of his boxers. You tugged them down, setting his very hard cock free from its confinement. The tip was red, dribbling with pre-cum. He was obviously just as pent up as you felt. You gave him a few experimental tugs with your hand before lining him up with your entrance.

Stiles took over, taking his time to slowly push inside you. You put your hands on his shoulders, holding your breath at the stretch. He was so much bigger than you’d expected. You both moaned when he bottomed out. You felt so full, it was insane. You dug your nails into his shoulders and gave him a nod, indicating he could move.

He set a slow pace, testing the waters. He was enthralled by the jiggle of your tits with every movement. Typical. His hands moved up to hold them, almost as leverage, as he picked up his pace.

“Fuck, so good,” Stiles moaned. You were about to move a hand down to touch yourself, but Stiles stopped you.

“Let me make you feel good, let me make you come.” He put one hand on your shoulder to steady himself and brought the other down to where you were joined. He continued to thrust, putting his fingers on your clit. It took him a second, but he found a rhythm where he could thrust and stroke at the same time.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” You moaned, the added sensation feeling amazing. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was filthy to say the least. You moved to hold onto something above your head as Stiles sped up. Your hands soon found the little ledge, and you gripped it to the best of your ability.

Stiles bent down to kiss you, pace still unrelenting. The new angle of him bent forward sent his cock exactly where you needed it.

“Shit, oh my god.” It was all the confirmation Stiles needed to keep it up.

“So pretty, so tight around my cock. Such pretty tits. You feel so good,” he mumbled against your lips.

The pace of his hips became more erratic, both of you nearing the edge. Your knuckles turned white with how tight you were gripping the car door.

“Gonna come inside you,” Stiles moaned. “Fill you up so nice.”

“Yes, Stiles, please!”

“Fuck, so good, so good for me,” Stiles was becoming more talkative and less coherent as he lost himself in the pleasure. He was mouthing at your jawline, sucking another hickey where there were already plenty.

“Fuck, Stiles, gonna come,” you whined. You could feel his smile against your neck. Smug idiot. He then started rubbing your clit exactly the way you liked it. Combined with him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over again, you were seeing stars.

“Don’t stop, please,” another moan left your lips.

“Come for me. Come on my cock. So pretty, so good,” Stiles blabbered.

“Fuck! Stiles!” You keened, tightening around his dick as you came. He kissed you again as his hips stuttered, thrusting a few more times before painting your walls with his cum. His head fell on your chest as you both caught your breath.

When his breathing had slowed, he groaned before lifting himself off you, chuckling as he pecked both your nipples, then your lips before looking for something to clean you with. He settled on the shirt of his lacrosse uniform.

“Ugh, gross,” you mumbled as he wiped you clean. Stiles shrugged. “It was going into the wash, anyway.”

Stiles put his underwear and sweats back on, opening the door and getting out so you could have the space to redress yourself. When you reached under the seat for your bra, you pulled out a baseball bat. “Why do you have a baseball bat in your car?”

“No… Particular reason. Safety. Lots of dangerous animals… out there.”

“So you settled on a bat?” You wondered, holding the object. Stiles nodded, not meeting your eyes, his locked on your still naked chest. You threw the bat at him and laughed, reaching under the seat again and this time pulling out your bra.

When you were finally dressed, you got back in the passenger seat so Stiles could drive you home. It wasn’t a long drive, as you’d already been halfway there before pulling over. He drove up the driveway, and you cringed on the inside, hoping your uncle wouldn’t see who dropped you off. You took your bag and got out of the car, walking around to the drivers’ side where Stiles was already leaning out the window.

You looked at him and gave him a small smile. You leaned forward to give him a kiss goodbye. “You better email me your part of the paper tonight, Stilinski.”

“You bet, babe,” he winked and gave you a salute, watching as you laughed and turned to walk inside the house.

You closed the door and took off your shoes, hanging your coat and leaving your bag by the door. “I’m home!”

Coach took one look at your appearance and frowned. Right… maybe you should’ve straightened yourself out before walking into the living room. Disheveled hair, hickeys on your neck, it wasn’t exactly rocket science as to why you were home later than usual.

“If you’re gonna be having boys over, do it when I’m not around, please? I have enough of them to deal with at practice and in class. And at least have the decency to tell an uncle who he’s dealing with.”

You cringed as the Jeep’s headlights very obviously flashed through the window at that very second, Stiles driving home. It was anything but unrecognizable.

“Stilinski!? You’re sleeping with STILINSKI?! God, kill me now. If I’m now expected to have him over for Christmas dinner you better throw me off a bridge. And you BETTER use protection because I’m NOT gonna have Mini-linski’s running around.”

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dollishmehrayan · 4 months ago

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# “HOLD UP, POSE!” ── .✦ ( model!reader x batboys s/o kinda requested ˚⟡˖ )

a/n: so sorry for the break and how i traumatized half of you guys with my rant (if I suffer you gonna do too && let’s move on now ) and it’s lowkeyy funny ngl but omgg, I’m finally back though soo yeah but I’m finally taking requests again for a bit too so about that yeah and also make sure to go vote on the poll, we’re at 600+ votes already for my 1k event!! Tags: (batboys x model!reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Your biggest fan, no contest. He has a folder on his phone labeled “My Gorgeous Girl” filled with all your magazine covers, runway shots, and candid photos he’s sneakily taken of you (even the ones where you’re eating pizza in sweats).

Loves to drop the fact that you’re a model into conversations. Someone says something even remotely related, and Dick is like, “Oh, that reminds me of the time yn walked for Valentino. She looked stunning. Anyway, how’s your dog?”

Flirty but lowkey jealous. He’s all smiles at your shoots, but if a photographer or fellow model gets a little too friendly, he’ll sidle up behind you, wrap an arm around your waist, and casually go, “Hey, babe, everything good here?”

Runs your fan page in secret. He denies it every time, but you know it’s him posting like archive photos of you? with captions like, “Truly the most breathtaking woman alive.”

Always hypes you up. You’re stressing before a runway show? He’s holding your hands, looking you dead in the eyes, and saying, “You’re going to kill it, just like always. They’re not ready for you.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Pretends not to care, but he’s secretly obsessed. You’ll catch him flipping through your magazines with a bored expression, but the dog-eared pages of all your spreads say otherwise.

Gets grumpy when he has to share you with the world. “Do you really have to fly to Milan again? Can’t they get someone else to wear the fancy coat?” But he’s the first one to text you after your show with a “You looked amazing. Miss you, though.”

Always lurking at your events. He doesn’t do red carpets, but you’ll spot him in the back of the after-party, leaning against a wall with a drink in hand, watching you like you’re the only person in the room.

Jealous but funny about it. If a male model gets paired with you for a shoot, Jason will grumble, “You know I could wear that suit better, right?”

Says he doesn’t care about fashion but definitely critiques it. “They put you in that? Really? That’s what they think is high fashion?” (Meanwhile, he still owns a leather jacket he’s had since he was 17.)

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

The low-key proud boyfriend. Tim doesn’t brag about you… unless someone else brings it up. Then it’s a full PowerPoint presentation: “Oh, you didn’t know she walked the Paris Fashion Week finale? Let me show you.”, “it’s not that serious Tim.”

Forgets how famous you are sometimes. He’s so focused on his work that when he accompanies you to an event, he’s always surprised when people scream your name. “Wow, they’re… really excited to see you, huh?”

Pretends to be chill but panics at your shoots. If you’re wearing something too revealing, Tim’s sitting in the corner like, “Does she really need to wear that? I mean, it’s fashion, I guess, but still…”

Shows up to all your shows with coffee. He knows your schedule can be brutal, so he always has your favorite drink ready and a warm smile. “Long day, huh? Here, you’ve earned this.”

Accidentally goes viral as your boyfriend. Someone snaps a picture of him holding your bag while you’re doing a fitting, and now he’s trending as “hot model’s mystery man.” Or “Drake Spotted With L/N?”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Thinks modeling is beneath you. Not because he doesn’t support you, but because he genuinely thinks you’re too good for it. “Tt. Why waste your time parading around in someone else’s designs when you could rule the world instead?”

Still shows up to your shows like a proud dad. He won’t admit it, but he’s ridiculously proud of you. He’ll sit front row, arms crossed, looking annoyed until you walk out. Then his face softens, and he claps (but only once).

Hates everyone in the industry. Photographers, stylists, agents—he side-eyes them all. “Do they have to touch you so much?”

Quietly supportive in his own way. You come home exhausted, and he’s already brewed your favorite tea and laid out your comfiest pajamas. “You should rest. You’ve worked hard enough today.”

Keeps all your clippings. You find a scrapbook in his study filled with your covers, tear sheets, and event photos. When you ask him about it, he just mutters, “I didn’t want them getting lost.” And even keeps some fan letters that you keep or lost along the way.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Thinks it’s “adorable.” Bruce can’t help but chuckle whenever you mention your modeling career. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?” But he’s not teasing he genuinely admires how passionate you are.

Surprisingly knowledgeable about fashion. He knows every major designer, can spot couture from a mile away, and will occasionally surprise you by saying things like, “That’s Galliano, isn’t it? From the ‘06 collection?”

Makes every event feel like a power couple moment. When you walk a red carpet together, it’s like the world collectively gasps. He keeps his hand on your back, whispers sweet nothings, and makes sure you’re the center of attention.

Defends your career to anyone who dares question it. Someone makes a snide remark about modeling being “shallow,” and Bruce immediately shuts them down with, “Actually, it’s an incredibly demanding profession that requires both discipline and skill. You should try it sometime.”

Buys your agency. You’re stressed about a bad contract or a difficult agent? Suddenly, Wayne Enterprises owns the company, and Bruce is like, “Problem solved. You can thank me later.”

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ilovethanosdick · 4 months ago

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Choi Su-bong/Thanos (Squid Game) x fem! reader HCS

IM OBSESSED WITH THIS MAN!!!!!

also first ever post?! it’s a little short, but hope ya enjoy!!

SFW:

• he ADORES physical touch

• touching u at every chance he gets, like even simple hand holding, leaning against u

• HE LOVES IT ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES FROM U!!

• casually grabs u by ur ass in public, or give u a lil slap. when u confront him about it, he acts like he dont know what are u talking about, then giggle

• using ur breast like fidget toy, when he’s stressed

• squeezing it, when he feels like it

• shoving his head between ur boobs, bro can stay like that for a good 10 minutes until he calms down

• if u ask him if he would still love u as a worm, he would tell u that he’s not a zoophile

• pet names!! baby, babe, princess are his favs!

• he’s not so good with commitment and stuff like that, would prefer an open relationship (one sided tho, he's so possesive of u)

• have huge jealousy issues when it comes to u

• a male species near u??? he goes into rage mode, getting aggressively touchy to claim u! show everyone that u are his!!

• would apologise to u with rap songs

“Y/N” he screamed outside your house. throwing rocks at the window to wake u up.

“what the fuck…” u muttered to yourself, as u walked over to the window to check what this idiot come up with this time.

as soon as he saw your face, he screamed again, his hands clutching onto his chest “SEÑORITA!!! I WANT TO APOLOGISE TO U!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!! U DO REALISE THAT ITS 3 AM RIGHT NOW???” u screamed back at him, slightly leaning forward through window.

“I LOVE U!!!!!” he get on his knees.

“ARE U HIGH?????” u asked, clearly pissed at his presence.

“HI!!!!!” he said as he waved his hands to u, enthusiastically with a goofy grin.

even after this response, u can’t tell if he’s high. that’s pretty much how he’s acting regardless if he’s on drugs or not.

he turn on boombox, a cliche beat hit your ears. he stands up and cleared his throat.

“Yo, I messed up, I admit it, I’m a clown,

Flirting like a fool when you weren’t around.

But I swear, it was harmless, just a slip of the tongue,

Now I’m here confessing where I went wrong.

I told her, "Hey, nice shoes," and that’s all I meant,

But now I’m in the doghouse, paying the rent.

Baby, you’re the star, the queen of my heart,

And that other conversation? A throwaway part.

She laughed at my joke, yeah, I felt kinda cool,

But now I see, I was the class clown fool.

I’d never trade you for some silly chat,

You’re the boss, the CEO, I’m just the doormat.

I’ll buy you flowers, write your name in the sky,

Sing off-key if it’ll dry your eyes.

I’ll even quit drugs if you need me to,

Just don’t leave me hangin’, I’m a mess without you.

So baby, I’m here, on my knees with this beat,

Admitting my crimes, can’t handle defeat.

Let’s laugh this off, put it in the past,

‘Cause you and me, girl, we’re built to last.”

he end up the song showing a small heart formed with his thumb and index finger.

u sighed “all right, come inside”

“YAYY!!!” he did a happy jump and clapped his feet in midair.

• tbh he’s so silly

• steals flowers from a random garden for u

• night visits, but uses a window instead of a door to enter ur place, literally like some kind of teenager

• even if u gave him the keys to ur apartment, he will use the window no matter what

it was dark outside, about 11 pm. u were coming back from work. damn how exhausted u felt. some arguments with clients, boss yelling at u. it was not ur best day for sure.

u checked ur phone. still no text from Thanos. why he was ghosting u? probably he don’t want to deal with ur complains about how bad ur day went.

u opened the apartment door. u don't give a damn about anything. you plan to go to bed right away, you don't have the strength to change your clothes, wash yourself or eat something.

you threw everything aside and went to the bedroom. when you turn on the light in the room, you see your boyfriend lying on his side, resting his head on his hand, rose in his teeth.

“U WANT TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK???” u flinched. u can’t get used to Thanos randomly spawning in ur house.

“and i missed u too, princess” he grinned, standing up and then theatrically hand over the rose to u.

“i brought ur fav burgers and lotta beer” he said, pointing out at ur kitchen.

“thanks” u smiled softly at him. u can’t help but melt inside at his behaviour. he’a an asshole, but what a cute asshole.

“no problem, babe” he leaned to u, giving u a tight hug. burying his face in the crook of ur neck.

• avoids deep emotional conversation

• would tell that he loves u, but he don’t put much weight into that

• he’s saying it casually like it’s common sense that he loves u

• painting each others nails!!!!

NSFW:

• pansexual king, but he wouldn’t label himself

• he don’t care about gender, he fucks who he consider as cute and that’s it!!

• when u ride him, he would comment something like: WROOM WROOM!! or YEEHAW!!!

• A TOTAL FREAK….

• piss kink (y’all can’t prove me wrong)

• HE LIKES IT DIRTY!!!!

• public sex

• like fingering u in a club or on a party, sometimes anal when he's high

• claiming u like that in front of other people?? IT TURNS HIM ON SO BADD

• never a sub, it would hurt his ego

• bro don’t know what gentle sex is

• always rough and aggressive

• smokes weed/cigarettes during sex, blowing smoke in your face

• talking about himself in third person "yeah, babe. the great Thanos will make u feel so good”

“u like that slut? u like Thanos’s dick that much??”

• he’s not into after care. usually he just rolls down on bed, doesn't even bother putting on clothes, hug u tightly and fall asleep like that

#squid game #squid game x reader #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong #choi su bong x reader

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lynbels · 7 days ago

Text

TAMED DASH ୨ৎ 박성훈

pairing idol 박성훈 x reader

୨ৎ Your boyfriend returns from Coachella, exhausted, and snaps at you, quickly regretting it 💌 wc. 2043 - genre, fluff, slight angst

📝 what the fuck was enchella. I’m not sane after that shit

The airport was still buzzing, flashes from camera phones and the hum of tired conversations fading behind him as Sunghoon gave one last wave to his members.

“Text us when you’re settled,” Heeseung called out, already sliding into a black van.

Sunghoon just nodded, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. His limbs ached from the flight, his hoodie felt suffocating in the spring heat, and his head throbbed with every sound. He didn’t even have the energy to pull out his mask as he stepped into the quiet car waiting for him. His driver asked if he wanted anything to eat. He just shook his head, eyes already fluttering closed against the window.

The drive home was a blur. Familiar city lights painted the sky, but Sunghoon could only think about the bed that had been calling his name for days. That, and you. He hadn’t seen you since before they left for California. The two of you had barely gotten used to living together—boxes still shoved in corners, bookshelves half-filled, your toothbrush resting beside his like it had always been there.

He missed you. He did. But right now, exhaustion gnawed at his bones, and the Coachella high had long since crashed into post-tour burnout.

The elevator dinged softly, and he stepped into the hallway of your apartment. The familiar scent of laundry detergent and that vanilla candle you were obsessed with welcomed him home more than anything else. His keys jangled as he pushed open the door quietly.

The living room was dark except for the flicker of the TV playing some random drama rerun. You were curled up on the couch, the oversized hoodie you wore practically swallowing you whole. Your mouth was slightly open, breaths even and soft.

Sunghoon sighed. You’d waited up.

He toed off his shoes with difficulty and set his bag down beside the door, stretching once before padding quietly into the kitchen for a glass of water. But before he could even fill it, a rustle from the couch caught his attention.

You shot up like a zombie resurrected by caffeine, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You’re home!”

He blinked. “Yeah…”

“I missed you so much.” You launched yourself off the couch before he could even process it, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in like you were trying to memorize the scent of airport air and whatever cologne he’d used during the trip.

He stood there, frozen. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, muscles stiff. But then, he relaxed, trying to push down the exhaustion and irritability that had built up over the past two weeks. He knew how sensitive you were, how you could feel the tiniest hint of his frustration. So, despite his body practically begging for rest, he smiled softly.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands hesitated for a moment before settling gently around your back, just enough to hold you without feeling overwhelmed. “It’s just… it’s been a long trip.”

You smiled against him, clearly not noticing the slight tension in his shoulders. “I’ve been watching all the fan edits. You looked so good, Sunghoon. Seriously.”

His smile faltered just a little as you continued talking, your words pouring out in a rush—how much you missed him, how great he looked in the videos, how the edits had made you wish you were there, and how you’d barely been able to sleep without him next to you.

“I—” Sunghoon’s words got caught in his throat for a second. He didn’t want to come off as rude. He didn’t want to hurt you. So, he just nodded, trying to keep his patience. His thumb gently traced circles on the back of your hoodie as he focused on keeping his emotions in check.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. He was smiling, but the exhaustion in his eyes was becoming harder to hide.

You pulled back slightly, still talking about how you couldn’t wait to catch up on everything, but Sunghoon’s head felt heavy, his body sluggish with the kind of tiredness that was almost painful. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep calm as your voice bubbled on, not realizing the way he was barely holding himself together.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate how much you cared, it was just… right now, it felt like too much. But he didn’t want to snap. Not when he knew how much you valued the little moments like this.

So, he smiled again, faintly, despite everything. “Let’s talk later, okay? I just… I really need to rest.”

And with that, he gently pulled away, walking past you toward the bedroom, trying to ignore the weight that pressed down on his chest.

You didn’t hear what Sunghoon had said, your excitement still buzzing in your chest as you bounced on your toes, waiting for him to react more to your rambling. When he moved past you toward the bedroom, you were still talking, eager to close the distance between you and him.

“Sunghoon, wait! I swear you looked so—”

You followed him into the room, heart racing with anticipation. “Hey, are you still tired? I just missed you so much. We can go get food or I can make something—whatever you want, I don’t care, I just want to be with you.”

You tried to sit next to him, but he was already sitting on the bed, rubbing his temples like he was trying to hold it all together. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket yet. You could feel the tension in the room—the kind of tension that made you nervous but also desperate to make everything right. You missed him, and you just wanted him to talk to you.

“Sunghoon?” you asked again, your voice softer this time as you sat beside him, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t look at you. He just stared at the floor, his lips pressed together in a thin line. You could tell he was holding something back, probably frustration from the long flight, but you couldn’t help yourself. You needed to talk to him. Needed him to see you.

“Sunghoon, are you mad at me? You’ve barely said anything, and—”

That was when he finally snapped.

“God, can you stop?!” he growled, his voice sharp, like a sudden burst of anger he could no longer contain. He jerked away from you, swearing under his breath. “I’m fucking tired. Why can’t you just give me a second to breathe?!”

His words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, all you could do was freeze, mouth open in shock. Sunghoon had never talked to you like that, never let his anger spill so suddenly.

He sat up straighter, hands gripping the bed, his knuckles white. His eyes, though tired, flashed with frustration.

“I just got off a plane after two weeks, and you won’t stop talking. It’s too much!” he spat, his voice cold and harsh, every word laced with irritation. “I don’t need this right now.”

You pulled back, confusion and hurt twisting in your stomach. You’d never seen him so on edge with you before. His words hung in the air, sharp and cutting, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. If you’d pushed him too far.

But Sunghoon didn’t apologize. Not yet. He just stared at you, waiting for your reaction, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to collect himself, his gaze hard.

It felt like the room was holding its breath, and you didn’t know whether to keep talking or give him space.

You sat there in stunned silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, like there was no room left to breathe. Sunghoon hadn’t moved, his gaze still fixed on you, but he wasn’t looking at you like he usually did—not with warmth, not with that soft affection you were so used to. No, right now, his eyes were filled with something else.

Frustration.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath, but the weight of his words hung heavy in the air between you. It was clear he was tired, but his snap… it hurt. It wasn’t like him.

“Sunghoon…” You whispered, your voice smaller than you intended. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care if you didn’t mean to,” he interrupted, his tone still biting. “I just want a damn break, okay? I haven’t had a moment to myself in weeks, and now you’re here, talking my ear off and acting like everything’s fine. It’s not. I’m not fine.”

You flinched. His words felt like a punch to the gut, and you could feel the sting of them deep in your chest. The part of you that wanted to defend yourself, to explain that you just missed him, was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of guilt. You hadn’t meant to make him snap, but you had.

He sighed, rubbing his face in frustration as he slumped back against the headboard, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Just… just give me a minute. Please,” he said, voice softer now but still tinged with irritation. “I don’t want to yell at you, I don’t. But I need you to understand. I’m so fucking exhausted, and I don’t know how to say it without sounding like an asshole.”

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your lip as you tried to fight back the tears that suddenly stung at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him, not like this. But everything inside you felt… heavy. Overwhelmed. All you wanted was to be with him, to make up for the time lost while he was gone.

Instead, you felt like you were pushing him further away.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible now. “I just… I missed you so much. I was excited you were finally home, but I guess I didn’t realize how tired you were.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just sat there, eyes staring ahead as if he was lost in his thoughts. You felt the space between you both growing with every second that passed. His silence was suffocating, but you didn’t want to make it worse by saying the wrong thing.

Finally, he let out another sigh. This one wasn’t as harsh, though it was still filled with exhaustion.

“I know,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “I know you missed me. I get it. But I didn’t have time to miss you. I was too busy being run into the ground. You know how it is.” His voice softened again, just barely, as he looked over at you. “I don’t want to make you feel bad. I’m just… I just need a minute to breathe. Can you give me that?”

You nodded again, this time more understanding, though your chest still ached.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll give you space. I’m sorry for… pushing you.”

Sunghoon leaned back against the bed, eyes closed, and you could hear the faint sound of his breath, a little steadier now.

“I’m sorry, too,” he muttered after a beat, his voice still rough but with a touch of sincerity. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you’re not the reason I’m so tired. It’s just… I didn’t know how else to handle it.”

You didn’t respond right away. You simply sat there, letting the tension simmer between you both, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had been a few moments ago. You still felt the sting of his words, but the soft apology was enough to ease the weight, even just a little.

After a long moment of silence, Sunghoon finally shifted in the bed, sitting up straighter. He hesitated before reaching over and pulling you gently toward him. He didn’t say anything, but his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close in a quiet, almost apologetic hug.

You rested your head against his chest, and for the first time since he’d come home, the ache in your chest eased, just a little.

want to read my long fanfics? Check out @shy9-29

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zaynessbeloved · 1 month ago

Text

The Bond remembers

Synopsis: You were only meant to be a life model—just another muse in Rafayel’s class. But when you touched his painting, something ancient stirred. Dreams followed: a glowing city beneath the sea, a violet-eyed god, a sacrifice made in the name of love. Now, the past is bleeding into the present. And neither of you can resist the pull of a bond that’s waited eight hundred years to return.

Content warnings: Soulmates, reincarnation, divine bond, immortal love, slow burn yearning, pining, memory awakening, Lemuria-inspired tale of past life sacrifice, first kisses, emotional, soulbonded sex—including grinding, oral, praise kink, body worship, and soft angst that heals as much as it hurts.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 16.8k

A/n: this fic is so special to me—I poured my whole heart into the bond, the yearning, the underwater dreams, and ALL the Rafayel soul-ache (his god of tides myth broke me). I really wanted to explore something slow, sacred, and emotional… with a touch (okay, a lot) of steamy intimacy too hehe. thank you for reading!!

You’re used to being looked at. Not in the way strangers leer on subways or the fleeting glances in crowded rooms. No, this is the quiet, calculated attention of artists—where every tilt of your chin, every arch of your spine, becomes something to be studied, understood, immortalized.

The art studio smells like charcoal dust and old wood varnish. The spotlight above you casts soft shadows along your skin, bathing you in that familiar warmth. Pencils scratch. Brushes drag. Someone sneezes. You barely move.

Then you feel it. A stare that lingers a little longer than the rest.

You don't know why it strikes you, but it does—like a thread being pulled taut across your collarbone. Your gaze flickers, subtle, and lands on him.

He’s not drawing. Not right now. His hands are still, resting over his sketchbook, fingertips lightly stained in colors that don’t belong to today’s palette. And his eyes—violet, no, more like twilight bruised with a hint of storm—are entirely fixed on you. Not your form. Not your pose. You.

You look away.

The session ends. The instructor claps, voices rise, stools scrape against the floor. You reach for the silk robe hanging nearby, slipping it over your shoulders as the cold air starts to bite. You’ve done this a hundred times. It’s routine. Predictable.

So you’re not sure why you approach him this time.

“Your piece,” you say, feigning casual. “You looked… focused.”

He doesn’t look up right away, as if he's reluctant to let go of whatever spell he’d put himself under. But when he does, there’s a slow, knowing smile that curves his lips.

“You noticed.”

You shrug, the silk shifting against your skin. “Hard not to.”

He closes his sketchbook, stands. He's taller than you'd expected. “I didn’t finish it,” he says smoothly, brushing a faint streak of ochre from his wrist. “Not here, at least. I prefer to work where it’s quiet. Where things breathe.”

You blink. “Things?”

“Art. Memory. Obsession,” he adds, that smile widening slightly as he gestures toward the door. “Would you like to see it?”

You hesitate—half out of instinct, half out of surprise. But there’s something magnetic about him. Something veiled behind his poise, like danger dressed in velvet.

“…Sure.”

His studio is tucked in a quieter district, away from the city hum. The building is old, with high arched windows and white-washed brick. He walks ahead of you, unlocking the door with a key that glints under the moonlight. You step inside.

The air is cooler here. And quieter. Paintings line the walls—some abstract, others disturbingly real. But at the center of the room, draped beneath a white cloth, stands something tall. Almost human in shape.

You glance at him.

He says nothing, only watches as you step forward, fingers brushing the edge of the veil.

You pull.

And there you are.

No… not quite. Marble. Cold. Eternal. But your expression. Your body. The tilt of your lips caught mid-thought. The way your fingers rest against your thigh just like they had earlier.

You gasp—quietly. Breath stolen.

“You—this is…”

“Not what you expected?” His voice is low now, like the final stroke of a bow across a cello string. “I didn’t want to capture what everyone else saw.”

He’s beside you now, but not touching. Not yet.

“I wanted to carve what I saw.”

You stand frozen, staring into the marble eyes of yourself. It's not just the accuracy that unsettles you—it’s the way it feels like she's watching you back.

Your marble double is beautiful, yes, but there’s vulnerability carved into her lips, strength in the tension of her shoulders. Like you’d been captured in the exact moment your thoughts had strayed—just before the end of the session. How did he know?

You don’t realize how long you’ve been silent until you hear the soft shift of his coat as Rafayel steps closer behind you.

“I thought you might run,” he says, voice smooth, low, and almost amused.

You glance over your shoulder. “Should I?”

He tilts his head slightly, a few purple strands falling into his eyes. “You tell me. You’re the one standing face-to-face with your own ghost.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breathless. “It’s not a ghost.”

“No,” he agrees, moving to your side, his hand barely brushing the edge of the pedestal as he circles it with a kind of reverent attention. “It’s a moment. Suspended forever. Just for me.”

You swallow. “That’s a little intense.”

He hums. “Oh, cutie, I’ve been called worse.”

There it is—that lilt in his voice. Playful. Velveted and dangerous. And suddenly you feel it again—that strange heat blooming low in your chest, curling under your ribs. It doesn’t feel threatening. Just… unexpected.

You shift your eyes back to the statue, trying to compose yourself. “You really made all this… from memory?”

“Of course.” His tone softens, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “I don’t need a photograph to remember how your collarbone caught the light. Or the way your fingers twitched when you were trying not to shiver. I remember all of it.”

You go still again, pulse thudding in your throat. He isn’t teasing anymore. Not fully.

“…Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “There were a dozen models in the academy files. Some who’ve done this for years.”

He steps closer, and when he speaks next, it’s not playful—it’s precise.

“Because you don’t flinch when people look at you,” Rafayel murmurs. “But you do when someone sees you.”

You meet his eyes then, caught in a silence that says more than either of you is ready to admit.

And yet—he leans in, ever so slightly, and adds with that crooked smirk returning, “Besides… I don’t think the others would’ve let me get away with sculpting that dimple just right.”

You laugh—actually laugh this time—and the tension crackles, not with discomfort, but something almost magnetic. The kind of static you feel right before a storm.

He turns then, breaking the moment, and gestures toward a dark curtain tucked into the far corner of the studio. “Want to see the rest?”

You blink. “There’s more?”

“Oh, cutie…” He tosses you a glance over his shoulder, that spark unmistakable in his eyes. “You’ve barely seen the beginning.”

You follow Rafayel through the studio, brushing past the heavy curtain as he pulls it aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. The space behind it is smaller, dimmer, lit only by scattered floor lamps and soft light pouring in from a tall, arched window. The air smells faintly of turpentine, dried roses, and something else you can’t name. Something sharper.

You weren’t expecting this.

The walls are lined with canvases—some finished, some half-covered with strokes and smudges of color. There’s a narrow table covered in sketchbooks, loose pages, and clay fragments. You take one step inside and then another, until your breath catches in your throat.

There’s you. Again.

But not in marble.

Paintings. Sketches. Charcoal etchings. Miniature sculptures in rough, beautiful progress.

You blink, stunned.

“I—wow,” you murmur, hand lifting on instinct but stopping just short of touching one of the canvases. Your painted self sits on a chair, sunlight sliding down your bare shoulder, hair falling loose around your face. In another, you’re half-turned, caught mid-laugh—something he never would’ve seen from the platform. Not unless…

“You watched me when I wasn’t posing.”

Rafayel doesn’t deny it.

He leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable save for the slow tilt of his head. “You were always more interesting between the poses.”

You laugh under your breath, unsure if you’re flattered or unnerved. Maybe a little of both. “You had time to do all this?”

“You modeled for the entire semester,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’m a fast worker. When I’m… inspired.”

You glance around again. There are easily a dozen versions of you here—each one different. Each one seen through his eyes.

“I didn’t know I was that inspiring.”

“You didn’t know,” he echoes, pushing off the wall now and walking toward you with a lazy grace. “That’s what made it so addictive.”

You glance over at him, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. “You sound like a man with a problem.”

He smiles. “Oh, I am. But I’m not in a rush to fix it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you take the chance to breathe—slowly, evenly. You think back to how this all started.

You’d signed up to be a life model on a whim. It was good money, flexible hours, and easy enough work if you could sit still for long stretches of time. You never expected to enjoy it. But there was something about being seen through an artist’s lens that made you feel like more than just skin and bone. You became texture. Shadow. Light.

Rafayel had been one of the quieter students in the class. Never asked questions. Never joked around with the others. He showed up late sometimes, left even later. But his eyes… they were always on you. Focused. Sharpened like a blade in water.

And now, standing here among the pieces he’d carved and painted in secret, you realize— Maybe he hadn’t been sketching you like the others had. Maybe he’d been studying you.

You look back at him now, and say, almost too softly, “I never thought I’d be a muse.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of clay and paint on his clothes, on his skin. “You were never just a muse.”

You raise a brow. “No?”

His gaze drops—first to your mouth, then to the dip of your throat, before lifting again. “You were the thing I couldn’t get out of my head.”

The words strike something deep in you. It’s not even what he says, but how he says it—like it was inevitable. Like he’d already resigned himself to it long ago.

You should leave. That would be the logical thing to do.

But instead, you ask, “And now that the semester’s over?”

He leans in just a touch, one hand lifting to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are cool from the clay. His smile? Absolutely sinful.

“Now,” he murmurs, “I get to sculpt you from memory.”

You don’t move away from his touch—not when his fingers ghost behind your ear, not when they linger for just a second too long. Instead, you tilt your head slightly and meet his gaze. Steady. Searching.

“You say that like I’ll disappear,” you murmur. “Like one day, I’ll just… fade out of your mind.”

Rafayel lets out a soft exhale—part laugh, part something else. “Oh, cutie. If only I could be that lucky.”

You raise a brow. “Lucky?”

He steps past you then, glancing down at the statue once more. His voice shifts—quieter now, thoughtful. “You think it’s lucky, remembering everything? Every line, every glance, every pause you took between breaths?”

You watch him as he brushes his fingers along the edge of one canvas, his movements delicate, reverent. There’s something in his voice that makes your skin prickle—not just flattery, but the sharp edges of something deeper. Obsession, maybe. Or something far more dangerous.

“You don’t forget anything?” you ask softly.

He glances back at you. That smirk returns, but it’s tempered by something real beneath it. “Not when it matters.”

And suddenly, you find yourself smiling. A slow, curious smile that edges toward something bolder. “Still…” You walk closer, deliberately slow, and come to a stop just in front of him. “If your memory ever fails you—and I’m not saying it will—but if it does…”

He arches a brow. “Yes?”

“…You could always ask me to model again.”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he laughs—low, rich, and surprisingly warm. “Are you offering?”

You shrug, casual. Teasing. “You do have all the lighting equipment already. And I wouldn’t want your next masterpiece to be inaccurate.”

“Ah,” he hums, circling you now like you’re already on the pedestal, “so generous. Offering your time, your form, your presence. Truly, my muse is merciful.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Don’t get used to the praise.”

“I don’t need to,” Rafayel says, stopping just behind you again. His voice lowers, brushing against the shell of your ear. “I already carved it into stone.”

The words settle deep in your chest—too intimate, too serious, too... him.

You’re quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the works around you again, until your voice slips out, softer than before. “Do you do this often?”

He doesn't answer right away.

When he does, his voice is distant, like he's remembering something from far away. “No.”

Just that. A single word. Honest. Heavy.

You glance at him, this time really looking. Behind the velvet charm and practiced poise, there’s something guarded in his expression—like there are doors he keeps locked tight, even as he offers you the keyhole to peer through.

“So what made you do it this time?” you ask, your tone barely a whisper.

He looks at you, then. Really looks.

“I don’t know,” Rafayel admits, lips curving into something almost rueful. “Maybe I saw you before I ever knew your name. Maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like to want something I couldn’t quite touch.”

You swallow, heart fluttering in your chest like wings against a glass cage. He isn’t just playing anymore. Not entirely.

And you? You should be afraid of how deeply he’s seen you. But instead, all you can think is— What else is he hiding in this studio? And why does part of you want to be the one to find it?

Your fingers trail lightly across the edge of one of the canvases—this one smaller than the rest, no more than the size of a dinner plate, but framed in silver. It doesn’t quite match the others. It’s abstract, layered with swirling, iridescent hues that shimmer like oil over water. The colors shift the longer you look, bleeding from violet to blue to a shade that doesn’t quite exist in the normal spectrum.

And then—a pulse.

It’s faint. Like a heartbeat caught beneath the canvas.

You snatch your hand back instinctively.

“What was that?” you murmur, frowning slightly. Your eyes flick to Rafayel, who’s now quietly watching you from across the room. His arms are crossed loosely, expression unreadable—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

He shrugs, lazy and amused. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.” You glance back at the painting, hand still hovering just above it. “It… moved.”

“Did it?” he drawls, wandering over now with that slow, predatory grace he seems to wear so effortlessly. “Maybe the studio’s just messing with your head. Happens sometimes. Low lighting, late night, a mysterious artist with questionable morals—” he taps his chin theatrically—“Classic cocktail for hallucinations.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was going for enigmatic. Did it work?”

You give him a dry look, but there’s a flutter of unease in your chest. Not fear—more like your instincts whispering, something’s not quite right here.

Your gaze drifts back to the painting. The colors shimmer again, but softer this time. Gentle. Luring.

“…What did you use to paint this?”

He lifts a brow, and this time his smile shifts—just a flicker tighter. “Trade secret.”

Your lips part, but before you can press further, he closes the gap between you. “Come on, cutie. You’ve seen my secrets. Let me keep a few.”

You hesitate—but his voice is velvet, and his presence overwhelming, like the painting itself. Warm, close, disarming. Distracting.

Still, your gaze lingers on the painting one second longer.

It did pulse. And your skin still tingles faintly where you touched it.

You step back, breaking eye contact with the canvas. “…Fine. Keep your little secrets, artist boy.”

He smirks, clearly victorious. “Thank you. I promise they’re all very harmless.”

You eye him. “That’s exactly what someone with very harmful secrets would say.”

Rafayel lets out a soft, theatrical sigh. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”

But even as you say it, you catch the gleam in his eyes—a flicker of something deep, unspoken, ancient.

And you wonder—not for the first time tonight—just how much of him is artifice… and how much is something else entirely.

You should probably leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But your feet don’t move.

Not when he’s looking at you like that—head tilted, violet-pink eyes half-lidded, like he’s measuring something unseen. The room still hums faintly, thick with the scent of mineral dust and paint thinner. The pulse of that strange painting seems to echo in your fingertips even now, long after you stepped away.

“You’re still curious,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not denying it,” you murmur.

He moves then, sweeping past you toward the far end of the studio. A large sheet rests over something draped in shadow—another canvas? A sculpture? It’s hard to tell.

He stops, turns to glance at you over his shoulder. “I’ve been working on something new,” he says, voice smooth as wine. “It isn’t finished, but…” He steps aside and lifts the sheet away with a slow, elegant motion.

It’s a painting—tall, vertical, and haunting.

You.

But not like the others. Not posed. Not serene.

This one is raw—your expression caught in mid-thought, lips parted as if about to speak, hair slightly mussed, something stormy in your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a portrait. It feels like an argument. A secret. A confession you didn’t know you made.

You stare. “That’s not how I looked in class.”

“I know.” Rafayel leans one shoulder against the wall beside the canvas, watching you. “That one’s from memory too. But a different kind of memory.”

You glance at him. “When did you see me like this?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I imagined you this way. Wanted to see you like this.”

You exhale slowly. He’s toying with you again, as always—but something in your chest flutters, caught between intrigue and tension. “You’re impossible to read.”

He grins. “Good.”

You turn back to the painting, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something about this piece that pulls at you in a way the others didn’t. You don’t feel like a muse here. You feel like something else—like he painted what you hide even from yourself.

“…Do you want to sit again?” His voice breaks the stillness.

You glance at him.

He nods to the chair near the easel—closer than the platform in the academy. Much closer.

His expression is casual, but his eyes? They gleam.

“I have a few hours,” he says lightly. “If you’re brave enough.”

You hesitate for only a heartbeat. Then you move toward the chair, dragging it a little closer to the light, the hum of the room still buzzing faintly in your bones. You sit, heart ticking a little faster, but your posture relaxed.

You meet his gaze head-on. “Alright. Show me what you see.”

Rafayel smiles, slow and satisfied, as he lifts his brush.

“Gladly.”

The chair creaks softly as you shift into it, smoothing your hands along your thighs—suddenly hyperaware of your posture, the slope of your shoulders, the angle of your neck. You’ve done this before, countless times under the sharp gaze of students and instructors. But this time, it feels different.

This time, he’s closer.

Rafayel stands only a few feet away, sketchpad balanced loosely in one hand, charcoal stick in the other. The dim, amber glow of the studio lamp halos him in warmth, but his focus is sharp—eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

You hold still.

Not because he told you to—but because somehow, you want to.

The scratch of charcoal fills the silence, soft and rhythmic. You watch the way his wrist moves, fluid and precise. His eyes flick up to meet yours, then back down. Again. Again. Every glance is deliberate. Each line he draws is a secret he’s pulling from you without permission.

You clear your throat. “Do you always draw this close?”

He doesn’t look up. “Only when the subject is interesting.”

Your brow lifts. “And am I interesting because I sit still well, or because you’ve made an art gallery of me in the back of your studio?”

That earns a soft chuckle from him—a real one, low and warm. “Neither. You’re interesting because you’re still trying to figure out if you like being seen.”

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He’s not wrong. You’ve always worn your calm like armor in these sessions—but Rafayel sees through it, and you don’t know how to stop him.

You shift slightly, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of the lamp’s glow. “What about you?” you ask. “You act like someone who enjoys the attention, but you keep everything else locked up.”

He glances up this time, and for a second—just a second—something flickers in his eyes. Something colder. Older.

“Maybe I do both,” he murmurs. “Maybe I want someone to look close enough to ask.”

You meet his gaze, and neither of you looks away.

“…So?” you ask softly. “What are you drawing now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your hands. The curve of your jaw. Then he says:

“The way you sit when you think no one’s watching. The way you try to hide the fact that you’re intrigued.”

You blink. “That’s not very objective.”

He smirks. “Who said I was going for objectivity?”

You exhale, letting your gaze wander across the scattered canvases and sketches that surround you both. The studio feels like its own world now—removed from the streets below, the sounds of the city, the weight of normal life. Here, there’s only this strange rhythm between you.

You tilt your head, eyes returning to his. “How long have you had… whatever this is?” You gesture vaguely toward the paintings. “The obsession.”

He hums, dragging the charcoal in a soft curve across the page. “Since the first session, probably. You didn’t look away when I stared. Most people flinch. You didn’t.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe I wanted to be seen.”

He pauses, then looks up, slower this time. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.

“Then you should be careful,” he murmurs, “because I don’t just look, cutie. I remember. I keep.”

Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the weight behind those words. The intimacy in them.

You sit in stillness again, pulse steady but a little too loud in your ears.

And across from you, Rafayel draws.

The charcoal moves again. Slow, deliberate. You don’t speak for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you like mist.

Your hand drifts idly to the edge of the table beside the chair, fingers brushing across splattered wood and scattered graphite stubs. You’re not really thinking about it—until your skin skims something slick and strangely warm.

You flinch.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

Just—wrong.

Your fingers jerk back, and for a second, the edges of your vision blur—like the room shifted, just slightly out of alignment.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Something buzzes faintly at the back of your mind, like a note played on a frequency just out of reach.

Rafayel pauses.

You look toward the doorway—the curtain still drawn back from earlier. The painting. The small one with the impossible colors.

It’s glowing.

Faintly. Softly. But unmistakably.

The swirling shades now pulse gently, like the slow rhythm of a sleeping heartbeat. Not steady. Not quite natural. The light ripples across the studio walls, reflecting off silver frames and casting strange shadows behind Rafayel’s silhouette.

You stand slowly, not taking your eyes off it. “It’s doing it again.”

Rafayel doesn’t move. His head tilts slightly, one brow raising. He watches you, not the painting.

“You’re not screaming,” he says, voice low, thoughtful.

“No.”

“You’re not running either.”

You glance at him, jaw tightening. “Should I be?”

He smiles, but there’s something else behind it now. Something deeper. Interested. “Most would’ve broken the door down by now.”

You look back at the painting. That shimmering glow calls to something deep in your chest, strange but not unwelcome. Like a dream you can’t remember but know you’ve had.

“What is that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, setting his sketchpad down carefully on the table. Then, slowly, he walks to your side, eyes never leaving your face.

“It’s made with a pigment you can’t find on the surface,” he says at last, voice almost too casual. “Coral stone. Grows in deep ocean pressure, where light folds in on itself. Very rare.”

You glance at him. “And the pulsing?”

“Side effect. The material’s… reactive.” His tone is deliberately vague.

“To what?”

He leans in slightly, head tilted as he studies your expression. “That’s the interesting part.”

You stare at him, heart thudding, the air now humming softly around you. “It reacted to me.”

“Yes.” His smile stretches. “And you’re still standing here. Still looking.”

There’s a beat of silence. Long. Charged.

You don’t know what he’s expecting from you now—fear, maybe. Or retreat. But all you feel is a slow-burning fire in your chest, drawn by the pull of something unknown. Him. This place. The strange materials he works with. The secrets layered beneath his art.

“…Is it dangerous?” you ask.

“Only if you try to understand it too fast,” he replies. Then adds, with a slow, playful drawl, “Like me.”

You look up at him, eyes narrowed, heart steady.

“Maybe I like puzzles.”

Rafayel grins then—sharp, amused, intrigued in a way that feels far more dangerous than anything glowing behind a curtain.

“Well, cutie,” he says, “in that case… welcome to the deep end.”

You take a step toward the painting.

Rafayel doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like he’s holding in something unspoken.

The canvas pulses again—soft waves of color folding into one another, blooming and collapsing like a living thing caught in rhythm with your heartbeat. You hesitate just before your fingers reach it.

“Should I?” you ask.

His response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“…If you want the truth, cutie, you should probably turn around and go home.”

You glance back at him, eyes sharp. “But if I want the interesting answer?”

He gives a soft, velveted laugh. “Then touch it.”

So you do.

Your fingertips graze the painted surface—and the world tilts.

Color surges beneath your skin, blooming through your veins like warm lightning. The room swims. Not violently—more like the sensation of being pulled underwater without drowning. Shapes swirl at the edge of your vision, fractals folding into memories you’ve never had. You see light refracting in deep sea currents. Hear whispers in a language that doesn't exist. The hum becomes music.

It doesn’t hurt. But it changes you—just for a breath.

And behind you—something shifts.

You whip around, breath catching in your throat.

Rafayel is standing still, but the air around him ripples—just once. Like gravity bent sideways. Like the studio itself responded to your touch.

His eyes glow faintly—violet brightening into a glassy, inhuman shimmer. His hair drifts slightly, as if underwater, and for a heartbeat, the shadows on the walls crawl inward, drawn to him like a tide responding to the moon.

Then it all vanishes. A blink—and he’s just Rafayel again.

But your heart is pounding now. “That was—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Side effect,” he says smoothly. Too smoothly.

You blink at him. “You reacted.”

He lifts a brow, expression unreadable. “Did I?”

“Yes.” You step toward him now, breathless but steady. “That was your Evol, wasn’t it?”

Another pause.

Then—finally—he speaks. “You’re not supposed to see that. Not yet.”

“But I did.”

He sighs through his nose, almost amused, almost annoyed. “And yet here you are. Still not screaming.”

“I told you,” you murmur. “I like puzzles.”

He studies you again—really studies you. You expect him to retreat behind one of his deflections, the playful teasing or velvet charm.

But this time, he doesn’t.

He just says, quietly:

“You touched something that should’ve cracked your mind wide open… and you’re still standing. Still you.”

You swallow, pulse thudding in your neck. “Should I be afraid?”

Rafayel’s expression softens just slightly, though something ancient still lingers behind his eyes. “Maybe. But I’m starting to think you’re the kind of girl who’d smile with a knife in her hand.”

You laugh—soft, uncertain. “What does that make you?”

He steps close. Just close enough for his voice to drop again, low and rich. “A very willing volunteer.”

The studio feels different now.

Not just in atmosphere—but in weight. Like the air between you and Rafayel has thickened with something older, heavier. Unspoken things shift just below the surface.

He’s still watching you—not with playful interest this time, but something else. Something sharper. Ancient.

You cross your arms, trying to steady your breath. “You said I wasn’t supposed to see that yet.”

“I did.�� His voice is quiet now, velvet-dark. “But it’s not the first time you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.”

Your brow furrows. “That sounds like more than just tonight.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Maybe it is.”

You pause, searching his face. That unreadable look in his eyes isn’t unfamiliar—but tonight, it feels less like a mask and more like a lock. One you’re finally finding the edges to.

“…Tell me,” you say.

He lifts a brow, amused. “Tell you what?”

“The truth.”

There’s a silence then. Long. Intentional. His fingers trail along the edge of the sketchpad, absently picking up the charcoal again, as if drawing gives him something to anchor to.

Finally, he speaks.

“There are stories,” he says, “about how the soul remembers what the mind forgets. That even when time folds in on itself, there are things we carry forward—things that find us again.”

You tilt your head. “Are we talking about art now, or something else?”

Rafayel’s gaze lifts to meet yours—and it’s too much. Like looking through centuries all layered behind violet eyes. He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach the surface.

“I don’t know yet.”

That throws you.

“You don’t know… what?”

“If you’re real,” he says. “If this is real.”

You blink. “I’m right in front of you.”

“I know. And yet, the last time I saw your face…” He stops himself, eyes narrowing slightly, as though something painful brushes the edge of his memory. “You were dying in my arms.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

He watches you. Measuring. Waiting.

“…I think I knew you once,” he says, barely audible. “Long before this. Long before now. But I don’t know if you’re her. Or just another face I want to believe in.”

You take a slow breath, pulse hammering. “You think I’m someone who… died?”

“Not just someone.” His voice is a whisper now. “The only person who ever made me want to stay.”

That silences you.

He steps closer, but not too close—like he’s afraid getting near might break the spell. “So you see… when you touched that painting, and you didn’t break, didn’t crack—I had to wonder.”

You meet his gaze, heart racing. “Wonder what?”

“If your soul remembers mine.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. You don’t speak, don’t move. Because suddenly you understand why he’s been watching you all semester. Why he sculpted you from memory. Why he seems pulled to you—not with infatuation, but with recognition.

You’re a puzzle he hasn’t solved in 800 years.

“…And if I’m not her?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

Rafayel’s eyes dim slightly, but the softness never fades. “Then I’ll still paint you until my hands forget how.”

His words hang in the air like smoke:

Your heart is a wild, fluttering thing in your chest, trying to make sense of a weight that doesn’t belong to this life. Of a name unspoken, a rainstorm long gone, a dying moment that shouldn't exist in your memories—and yet something stirs.

But before you can reach for it— Rafayel steps back.

The motion is quiet, gentle. Not rejection. Something else. Like he’s pulling a curtain shut over a window that should never have been opened.

“That’s enough,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

His eyes lower, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. “If we go any deeper… I don’t think either of us will come back the same.”

You hesitate. “Isn’t that the point?”

He lets out a slow breath, then meets your gaze with something raw behind his usual teasing exterior. It’s not fear. It’s not disinterest. It’s care. Restraint forged in the fire of something ancient.

“I’ve waited too long to get this wrong,” he says.

You fall silent.

It hits you then—this isn’t just intrigue to him. This isn’t flirtation or artistic obsession. It’s something sacred. The way someone might cradle a long-lost melody at the edge of memory, too afraid that humming it aloud will ruin it forever.

He looks down at the sketchpad—still open, lines half-formed.

He closes it.

“I’ll walk you out.”

You don’t argue. Don’t push.

But as he leads you to the studio door, your hand trails along the edge of the curtain again. The painting behind it hums faintly, still pulsing like a distant heartbeat. Waiting.

You glance back at him one last time.

Rafayel catches your eyes, and though his expression is calm, you can feel it. The storm hasn’t passed. It’s only been postponed.

--------------------------

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since you left Rafayel’s studio—since you touched that painting, felt something move beneath your skin, and saw his eyes burn with light not meant for this world.

Winter break came like a snowstorm that buried everything. The city slowed. The academy emptied. And for a while, you told yourself it had all been a trick of the light. Stress. Exhaustion. A beautiful artist and his strange materials.

But it didn’t go away.

From the moment your fingers touched that coral pigment, something inside you began to stir.

It started small—barely noticeable. A flicker of déjà vu when you passed by deep water. The whisper of a name you didn’t know on the edge of dreams. But the dreams…

The dreams were different.

You saw a city of glass and coral, spiraling towers bathed in soft blue light, luminous creatures drifting through vaulted domes. You saw him. Rafayel—but not as he is now. His hair flowed like liquid starlight, his eyes glowed brighter than the surface sun, and the sea bowed to his will. You saw yourself too—kneeling in shallow water, trembling as golden hands touched your face with reverence.

In one dream, they tried to take your heart. You remember the blade. You remember his voice, shaking as he said no.

And you remember the feeling of falling into his arms as he chose you—over them.

You wake up each time with your heart in your throat, your sheets damp with cold sweat, whispering his name into the dark.

--------------------

The semester starts again.

The halls of the academy buzz back to life, laughter and boots crunching ice into slush. Students carry portfolios and half-finished canvases under their arms. But you? You find yourself in front of the model roster sheet again, pen hovering.

You don’t even hesitate.

You write your name down under his class.

You tell yourself it’s for the money, the familiarity. Routine.

But when you walk into the room that first day, and see him at the far end of the studio—his back turned, sleeves rolled up, brushing powder onto a canvas with long, elegant fingers—your chest clenches.

You feel it. Like gravity pulling toward the sea.

Rafayel turns. And when he sees you—his expression doesn’t shift.

But his eyes do.

A flicker. A pause. Like he’s been waiting for this.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the moment stretches between you like a thread pulled tight through time.

And the soul in your chest begins to remember.

-------------

Class ends.

The students begin to gather their things—brushes clattering into tins, sketchbooks snapping shut, chairs scraping across the floor. Someone laughs near the back, muffled behind their scarf. The air smells faintly of varnish and cold.

But you don’t move.

You watch him.

Rafayel closes his sketchpad with a quiet, final motion. He doesn’t look at you—not yet. He’s already halfway to the door, coat slung lazily over one shoulder, hair loose, untied. Like nothing happened. Like he hasn’t haunted your dreams for twenty-one days straight.

Like he wasn’t holding you in the depths of a forgotten world—choosing you over everything he was meant to protect.

Your voice rises before you can stop it.

“Wait.”

He freezes. One hand still on the doorframe.

Slowly, he turns. Violet eyes meet yours, unreadable. Calm. Too calm.

“Yes?” he asks, as if nothing’s changed.

But you see it—the flicker behind his gaze. A flash of recognition. And something else, too. Restraint.

You take a breath. Step forward.

“Don’t go.”

That catches him.

His brows lift, just slightly. He turns fully now, facing you. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you moves. The others file out behind you, unaware. Unimportant. The world shrinks to the space between you and him.

“You came after me,” Rafayel says softly, almost to himself. “Of course you did.”

Your throat tightens.

“Something’s been… happening. Since that night,” you say. “Since I touched the painting.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He watches. He waits.

“I didn’t think it was real,” you go on. “But then I started dreaming. Or remembering. I don’t even know which it is.” You shake your head, breath catching. “You were there. Not as you are now. You were…”

“…More,” he finishes, quiet.

You nod.

“And I was…” You swallow. “I think I was meant to die. But you stopped it. You saved me.”

His eyes close. Just for a moment. Like your words strike a place he’s been guarding too tightly for too long.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you whisper.

Silence.

Then—his voice, soft and steady:

“…You remembered.”

Something in your chest folds inward at the way he says it. Like it matters. Like it changes everything.

You search his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “And I didn’t want to force it. If you were her, you would feel it in time. If you weren’t…” His jaw tenses. “I didn’t want to break you chasing a ghost.”

“But I’m not broken,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m still here.”

His breath catches—just slightly. And you swear, in that moment, the air shifts. Like the ocean, rising behind his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, almost in wonder. “Not again.”

You reach for him. Not with your hands. Not yet. Just with your voice. Your presence. The truth you’re not afraid to look at anymore.

��Then maybe we were never meant to forget.”

You wait—for him to reach for you. To say something more. To close the space between your bodies the way your souls already have.

But he doesn’t move.

Rafayel stands there, barely a foot away, and yet there’s a wall between you. Not one made of distance or doubt—but of memory. Of fear. Of something ancient and fragile, breaking open again.

His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling faintly. You catch the motion. He wanted to touch you. He stopped himself.

“Why won’t you say it?” you ask softly. “Why won’t you let this be real?”

He meets your gaze, and gods, his eyes—there’s a whole world inside them. A depth you’ve seen only in dreams and drowning.

“Because the last time I did,” he says, voice barely audible, “I lost you.”

The words hit like a wave to the chest.

You don’t remember how. Not clearly. The dream ends in his arms, in the choice he made to protect you. But after that—nothing.

Just a pressure in your ribs. A cold that clings to your bones. A final heartbeat, echoing in his silence.

Still, you don’t ask. You don’t need to.

Because even now, standing before him in this studio full of light and pigment and breath—you can feel it. The pain. The love. The unspoken ache buried so deep in him that he’s sculpted you again and again just to survive it.

And somehow… so have you.

“I don’t remember everything,” you murmur. “I don’t know the names or the place or the time. But I feel it.”

You step forward, slowly.

“I feel you.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes burn. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach.

And it hurts, the way he holds himself back. Not out of cruelty. But reverence. Like you’re a flame he already burned himself on once.

“I want to remember,” you say. “But even if I never do—I still choose you.”

His breath falters.

Something shifts in the room. Not big. Not loud. Just the faintest tremor beneath your feet. A hum in the floorboards. In the air.

His Evol. His soul. You don’t know.

But he does. He feels it too.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says, voice rough now. “What it costs.”

“Maybe not yet,” you whisper, “but I understand what it feels like.”

His eyes close. One slow breath. And when they open again, there’s something soft in him. A crack in the marble.

He doesn’t touch you. But his voice reaches you anyway.

“Not yet,” he says. “If you’re really her… this time, I’ll wait.”

And you nod.

Because you understand. Because this time—it’s him who’s afraid to lose you.

--------------------

It starts the same way it always does—cold.

The weight of water presses in around you, dark and endless. Your limbs move slow, your chest burns. You're drowning, sinking toward a seabed that glows faintly with bioluminescent vines. Your dress fans around you like seafoam. You know this place. You’ve been here before.

You look up.

And then—he’s there.

A figure gliding through the currents like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Hair like flowing starlight. Eyes like amethyst struck by lightning. He reaches you just as your vision begins to blur.

He cradles your face in both hands, and you remember this part—the fear, the pleading, the way you mouthed “please” even as your lungs gave out.

You didn’t know what you were asking for.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But still, you kissed him.

A desperate, breathless thing—your lips pressed to his in the dark as your heart sputtered its last beat. And instead of death— You breathed.

The kiss lit your chest with warmth. Not fire. Not air. Something older. Your eyes flew open underwater.

And you weren’t dying anymore.

He held you close, his forehead pressed to yours, and when you looked at him again, something had changed behind his eyes. Something vast. And sacred.

The bond had been made.

Not with words. But with the kiss.

The unspoken offering. The soul deep vow.

You became his follower. His chosen. His beloved.

You were only human—but in that moment, your soul was marked with the sea. Claimed by a god who didn’t yet know the price of it.

The dream shifts. Fractures.

You see the temple now—carved of pearl and obsidian. Lemuria, luminous and ancient. The central flame of the sea god ceremony burns in a great sphere above a blackened altar. The people bow. They chant.

You stand in the center, trembling. Rafayel stands beside you, lips pale. Silent.

He’s been told what must happen. He has been given the blade.

Your heart is needed to sustain the fire. Your heart, bound to his.

You remember the way he looked at the high priest. The way his fingers refused to close around the handle. You remember the way the entire sea trembled when he said no.

And then—his power unraveled.

The light of Lemuria flickered. The waters darkened. The fire went out.

You remember the way his arms wrapped around you again—just like the first time.

You remember whispering, “You chose me.”

And him replying, brokenly:

“Always.”

And still, somehow… you died.

You wake in the dark, gasping. Salt on your tongue. The echo of his kiss still burning your lips.

You touch your chest—right over your heart. It’s whole. It’s yours. But it remembers.

The dream returns like a memory you never meant to forget. You’re underwater again—but this time, you’re not drowning.

You’re breathing.

The world around you is impossibly still. Pale coral arches reach above your head like the bones of a cathedral, glowing with soft blue light. Strange flowers drift on unseen currents, petals fluttering like wings. Fish made of shimmer and shadow pass by in slow spirals. It's quiet. Sacred.

And you’re not alone.

Rafayel is nearby, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not the reverent awe from the ceremony. Not the pained hesitation. This is something gentler. Curious.

He stands barefoot on the stone, hair floating around his shoulders like silk in the current. His robes are darker here, marked with shifting patterns that seem to move when you look too long.

You float a little clumsily in front of him, trying to adjust to this strange new weightlessness.

“I thought I was dead,” you murmur, your voice somehow carried clearly through the water.

“You were,” he says, gaze never leaving yours. “Until you chose otherwise.”

You swallow. “I didn’t know what I was choosing.”

“No,” he says softly. “But you meant it anyway.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

He doesn’t press.

Instead, he moves toward you—slow and fluid, like he’s always belonged to this world and you’re only just being invited in. His hand reaches out, not to touch, but to hover near your cheek.

“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Being here?”

You think about it. Then shake your head.

“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”

His smile is faint—barely there. “You’re strange for a surface-dweller.”

“You’re strange for a god.”

That makes something behind his eyes flicker. Not offense. Amusement. Maybe even affection.

You spend what feels like hours in that place. Days, maybe. Time doesn’t move here like it does above.

He shows you Lemuria not as a ruler, but as a guide. A hidden garden of crystal reeds that sing when touched. A cave where ancient murals tell stories in light. A forgotten chamber where fire dances in airless flame.

He walks beside you.

Listens when you speak.

Watches when you laugh, like he’s memorizing the sound.

You learn him slowly.

How his powers respond to emotion. How he carries the weight of his people even when no one is watching. How he hides pain behind poetry and sharpness.

And he learns you.

How you hum when you think. How you press your hand to your chest when something stirs too deeply. How you’re always looking up—even underwater—like you're still searching for the stars.

You never touch. Not yet.

But one night, you sit side by side on a stone ledge beneath a glowing coral arch, legs drifting just above the sea floor.

And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than it’s ever been.

“Once the ceremony begins, I won’t be the same.”

You turn to him. “What do you mean?”

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to decide whether to lie.

Then: “A part of me must burn to keep Lemuria alive. It’s always been this way.”

You nod slowly. “And what about me?”

He looks away. That silence is your answer.

You don’t understand yet.

But you feel it.

Something terrible is coming.

But you also feel this: The way he leans just slightly toward you, like he’s afraid of breaking something holy. The way your bond tugs at your soul, even before either of you speaks its name.

And before the dream ends, you whisper the words you won’t remember come morning.

“I’m not afraid of the fire. Only of losing you in it.”

-----------------------

The dream begins in silence.

Not the silence of fear or sorrow—but the heavy, sacred quiet that comes just before something ends.

You’re with him again.

It’s the night before the ceremony.

The air in Lemuria glows low with golden biolight. The current is still. Even the reefs seem to hold their breath. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the people prepare for the great rite—songs and rituals to awaken the ancient fire. But here, in this quiet chamber of smooth obsidian and woven pearl, it’s only the two of you.

You sit beside him on a wide, polished ledge, your legs dangling in a pool of slow-moving current. Above you, light filters through a ceiling of living coral, casting soft shadows that drift across your skin.

Neither of you speaks at first.

He sits close—closer than ever before. His shoulder brushes yours. His fingers rest on the stone between you, twitching once, like he wants to close the space and doesn’t know how.

“I dreamed of the surface,” you say quietly. “Last night. I think I remembered what stars look like.”

His lips quirk. “Do you miss them?”

You nod. “A little.”

He hums. “They pale in comparison to your light, you know.”

You laugh, soft and tired. “Flattery won’t change what’s coming.”

The smile fades from his face. “No. It won’t.”

You look at him then, really look. The lines of his jaw. The quiet weight in his gaze. His beauty, yes—but more than that, the sadness he wears like silk beneath his skin.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” you whisper.

And finally, finally, he turns to you. His voice is low, almost breaking.

“So do I.”

He reaches for you. Fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw. There’s hesitation in him—like a god afraid of touching something mortal and fragile. But you lean into him. Let him touch. Let him feel.

“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” he says, so softly it hurts. “But if there’s a world after this one… I’ll find you in it.”

You breathe. “You promise?”

His forehead touches yours. “With everything I am.”

You press your lips to his. Not desperate like the kiss that saved your life. This one is soft. Reverent. Like two souls saying goodbye before they’re torn apart.

Your fingers curl in the silk at his shoulder. You could have more. You both know it. You could fall into each other here and now and let everything else go.

But he pulls back.

And when he speaks again, there’s a tremor in his voice. “If I touch more of you, I’ll never let go.”

So you don’t ask.

You just stay like that—forehead to forehead, the fire of Lemuria flickering in the distance, and the sea whispering of things it already knows it will lose.

You wake up with a gasp. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp with sweat, and your chest aches like something was carved out of it in the night.

You press a trembling hand over your heart.

You remember.

Not the ceremony. Not your death. Just him.

The way his hands trembled. The promise he made.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You throw on a coat over your clothes and leave your apartment before the sun finishes rising, wind biting at your skin. The academy isn’t open yet, but you know he has a private studio nearby—on the edge of the district, tucked between half-forgotten buildings where light paints long shadows.

You reach the door and pause. For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat.

Then your knuckles lift, and you knock.

Once.

Twice.

And when the door opens— He’s there.

Rafayel.

Sleep-rumpled, bare-footed, paint smeared faintly on his wrist like he’s been working through the night.

He stops when he sees you. His eyes widen. And something in them breaks. Your eyes meet his, and he goes still. Entirely still.

Like he knows you’re not just looking at him. You’re seeing him.

Through the centuries. Through the weight of what he’s carried.

And somehow, through that endless ache that’s lingered between you since the moment your soul touched his again—you feel it.

The pull.

That thread woven between you, stretching across lifetimes, and still just as strong.

You step forward. Quiet. Unhurried. He moves aside.

You enter the studio.

It’s warm inside, dimly lit with scattered lamps. The scent of salt, paint, and something faintly floral clings to the air. The walls are lined with canvases again, some half-finished, some covered. But you barely glance at them.

You turn to him. He closes the door, slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter what’s happening between you.

You still don’t speak. You just look.

And he knows. That you remember the fire. The sea. The altar. The way he whispered “always” and chose you over an entire civilization.

“…You’re not her,” he says softly, voice fraying at the edges. “But you are.”

You nod. Just once.

“I’m not who I was,” you say. “But I carry her. She’s in me.”

His throat works as he tries to swallow the weight of everything behind your words. He takes a step back, not away from you—toward something deeper. Something buried.

Your voice barely makes it out.

“Tell me.”

He looks at you.

“What?” he whispers.

“Everything,” you say. “Lemuria. The fire. What happened. Why I died. Why you—” Your voice breaks. You inhale. “Why you’ve been alone for so long.”

His eyes close. One breath. Then two. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t warn you away.

He only steps forward and nods toward the armchair near his worktable. You sit, and he sits across from you—close, but not touching.

Not yet.

And then, for the first time in eight hundred years, Rafayel begins to speak.

He leans back in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers lace together, but his hands don’t stop moving—twitching, flexing, like they’re remembering something. Or trying not to.

He stares at the floor for a long moment.

And then—he exhales.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says. “The whole ‘mysterious artist who might be a little unhinged’ thing? That’s new. Took me a couple centuries to refine.”

You don’t smile. But he knows you heard the joke.

His eyes flick up to yours, then drop again.

“Lemuria was real. A city beneath the sea, ancient as anything you’ve ever read about and ten times more arrogant. We weren’t gods—not really—but we were close. More powerful. Longer-lived. Bound to elements. Mine was fire.”

He pauses.

“In the ocean, I know. Hilarious.”

You’re silent, letting him continue.

“Our survival depended on balance—between power and the sea. Every few hundred years, we held a renewal ceremony. Something to keep the core of Lemuria alive. It required a sacrifice. A living soul, given freely. Always human.”

He leans back, eyes distant now.

“You were the next one.”

Your breath catches. He hears it—but keeps going.

“I didn’t choose you. The council did. You were caught in a storm. A shipwreck. They pulled you from the water and called it fate.”

His jaw tightens.

“But I was the one who pulled you the rest of the way. I found you when you were drowning—dying. And you…”

He looks at you again, voice quieter.

“You kissed me. Just once. Desperate. Barely conscious. But it was enough.”

You feel the heat rise behind your ribs.

“You didn’t know what it meant. Neither did I, not really. But the bond was made. You became mine. Not in some ceremonial sense. Not a title. Real. Your soul tied to mine. I should’ve broken it then. I didn’t.”

His voice dips.

“Instead, I kept you.”

Silence again.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“We had time before the ceremony,” he says. “Not much, but enough. I showed you the city. You smiled at things I’d forgotten to see. I told myself it was fine. That we’d find a way to make it work. The ritual had been done before, right? It would be painful. It would be cruel. But you’d be honored. Remembered.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“I didn’t know what the fire would ask.”

His voice cracks.

“They didn’t tell me. They let me fall in love with you knowing what it would cost.”

You stare at him, chest tight.

“And when the time came…” He laughs, but there’s nothing amused in it. “I dropped the blade. Like a fool. Like a man instead of a god. I chose you.”

His eyes lift, finally meeting yours again.

“And Lemuria fell.”

The words drop like stones.

“The fire died. The sea went silent. The city collapsed in on itself and slipped into slumber. My people… gone. All of them. And you…”

His hands curl into fists.

“You still died.”

The silence between you is unbearable.

“I searched,” he whispers. “Every century. Every continent. Every flicker of something familiar. Until now.”

Your throat tightens, your chest aching like the memory is still carved into it.

And then, very quietly— “You never hated me?” you ask.

Rafayel looks at you, and his voice is nothing but raw truth.

“I hated myself enough for both of us.”

You sit with the weight of his words echoing in your chest. Not as a story. Not as a myth. But as memory.

Pieces of the dreams begin snapping into place—too vivid to be fiction. The drowning. The kiss. The glow of Lemuria’s fire before it went dark. The way he held you. The way he chose you.

Your throat burns.

He said it so simply. So quietly.

“You still died.”

You still feel it—that cold, final moment. The pain. The way his arms wrapped around you as everything collapsed. Not in a temple. Not in fire. But in a goodbye you never got to speak.

You study him now. He’s staring at the floor again, trying to hold himself together.

Not out of pride.

But because he always has.

You can see it all over him now—grief carved into every line of his face. Regret tucked behind every flicker of his eyes. He’s worn it for centuries like armor, and now it hangs off him like a second skin.

And even though he's the one who remembers everything, your own soul is screaming that it recognizes him.

That this man—this tired, deflecting, beautiful man—is yours.

Not because he claimed you. But because you chose him, too.

Your fingers twitch once on your lap. And then, slowly, you reach forward.

No words. No hesitation. Just the soft, deliberate motion of your hand covering his—warm skin to trembling knuckles.

He stills instantly. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like the fire that once destroyed a city might spark again beneath your touch.

His head lifts. And when his eyes meet yours, you see it.

Everything.

The eight hundred years of silence. The fury. The ache. The guilt. The hope he buried so deep he stopped believing it could ever breathe again.

And something inside him breaks.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But in the way his fingers curl into yours without thinking. The way he leans ever so slightly forward, breath catching. The way his voice—when it finally comes—is barely more than a whisper.

“…You still want me?” Your voice is soft. Cracked open.

“I don’t know what this life will ask of us. But yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then his fingers tighten around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Like the bond has always been there, tugging at him through lifetimes. And now, finally—finally—you’re here.

And this time, he doesn’t let go.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not with desperation—but with certainty.

As if he’s grounding himself in your warmth, your presence. Your soul.

And then—you feel it.

At first, it’s subtle. A shift in the air. A pressure beneath your skin. The kind of sensation that makes your breath catch in your throat. Then his Evol stirs.

Not violently.

But deeply.

You feel it hum in the floorboards. In the space between your bodies. The pull of gravity—not toward the earth, but toward him.

Your heart stumbles as the air thickens with heat and stillness. The lamps in the studio dim slightly, like shadows drawn inward to watch.

And then—he exhales.

His shirt shifts slightly, neckline tugged just low enough from how he’s leaning forward, and you see it: The mark.

Etched into the skin over his heart, faintly glowing with light that moves like liquid gold beneath his skin.

Not a scar.

Not a wound.

A marking—long-forgotten, hidden, sacred.

Flowing like a river. Like the pull of tides. The bond.

It pulses once. Then again. And your own body answers—not visibly, but within.

You feel the pull so deep it hurts. Like your soul is trying to leave your body just to meet his halfway.

You gasp and close your eyes, clutching his hand harder, like if you let go, the bond would rip you apart. Your heart pounds. Your skin burns. It’s too much and still not enough.

“Rafayel—” you whisper, and your voice is wrecked with it.

He’s already beside you.

He moved without thought, closing the space, kneeling before you, both hands now on yours. His breath is shallow. His pupils dilated. His voice when it comes is strained—barely held together.

“It’s reacting.”

You meet his eyes.

“I feel like I’m dying,” you whisper. “But it’s not pain. It’s—”

“I know.” His forehead presses gently to your hand, his hair brushing your skin. “The bond was never meant to wake like this. Not after everything. Not after time.”

Your throat tightens. “What does it mean?”

His voice is hoarse. “It means your soul remembers mine. It means I never stopped carrying you. And now, you’re carrying me again.”

Your eyes sting.

“I can’t breathe,” you whisper.

He looks up at you then, eyes burning with that same ancient ache, and says— “I’ll hold you through it. I swear.”

You grip his hand tighter. Your pulse thunders against his. And beneath it all—the mark glows brighter.

The fire he gave up Lemuria for, burning again in the space between your ribs. And still, he holds you. Because this time, he’s not letting go.

You don’t know how long you sit like that. Hands entwined. Breath shallow. Skin flushed with something deeper than heat. His forehead rests against your hand, and your fingers press into his like you’ll drown without him.

The mark on his chest glows brighter now—like molten gold spilling beneath his skin, threading through his veins. It pulses with the slow, aching rhythm of something that never truly died.

And you feel it.

It starts in your fingertips, where his touch meets yours. A subtle warmth that spreads—up your arms, across your chest, down your spine. Your body tenses, not in fear, but in stunned surrender. Like your soul is unfolding, opening ancient doors it didn’t know it still carried.

You inhale sharply.

“Rafayel…” Your voice is barely audible.

He looks up—eyes shining, wide, and for the first time, afraid.

Not of you. But of what this means. Because the bond is awake now.

Fully.

And you feel it. So does he.

You lean forward without thinking. Just enough that your knees touch, your hands still laced together between you. Your foreheads meet—like they did once, long ago beneath the sea.

The air shivers.

You feel it—his soul brushing against yours.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Literally.

It’s like something inside you—something buried so deep it became myth—rises with a gasp and rushes to meet him. And his soul? It surges forward like the tide, like fire drawn to air, like it’s been starving for this for eight hundred years.

You both freeze. The moment stretches thin.

And then— It clicks.

Like two halves of a lock finally twisting together. You both exhale at the same time—ragged, quiet, trembling. You press your forehead harder to his, your breath mingling, and your voice breaks.

“I feel you.”

His hands tremble as they rise—fingers brushing your face, your jaw, the side of your neck.

“And I feel you,” he whispers. “Like I never stopped.”

It’s too much. But neither of you lets go. Because it’s not your bodies craving closeness now. It’s your souls. Colliding. Merging. Grasping onto each other like they will die if they’re pulled apart again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulls you in with a sound that’s almost broken—relief and disbelief and hunger, all tangled together.

And there, in the silence of his studio, surrounded by memories and broken time and fire reborn— You hold each other like the world already ended once.

And this time, you refuse to let it happen again.

You sit wrapped in his arms, the mark on his chest pulsing against you like a second heartbeat. One you know now. One your soul aches for. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say, and none of it would be enough.

So you stay like this.

Breathing each other in. Holding the weight of eight centuries between your ribs. Letting the silence crack open everything that once went unsaid.

You feel it all.

The ache in him—that deep, hollow grief buried beneath every teasing smile he ever gave you. The longing in you, echoing back from the dreams and the fragments and the salt still crusted on your soul. The fear that it could happen again. The desperate hope that it might not.

And somehow, love—tangled and broken and real—fills the air between you like light in water.

You shift slightly, just enough to look up. He feels it and pulls back a little too—but not far. Just enough so your faces are inches apart again.

You stare into his eyes. And they’re not violet now.

They’re blue.

Lemurian blue. The glow from centuries ago, lit from within, as if his soul is rising to the surface and showing itself to you, fully—not hiding, not shielding, not afraid anymore.

Your breath catches. You don’t realize your hand is on his cheek until he leans into it, closing his eyes for one long, shuddering moment.

And when they open again, you whisper—broken, honest, whole. “I want to kiss you.”

His breath stumbles. You shake your head, just slightly. “Not because of the bond. Not because of then.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek, and your voice trembles.

“Because I’m drowning again. And this time… I want you to save me.”

His lips part. But he doesn’t speak. Instead—slowly, reverently—he leans in. No ceremony. No ritual. Just him.

And when your mouths meet, there’s no fire. No crashing waves. Just stillness. Warmth. The kind of kiss that quiets the world around it.

That tells your soul: You’re home.

His lips meet yours like a breath caught between lifetimes.

At first, it’s gentle—tender. The kind of kiss that trembles with restraint, with awe, with the weight of finally.

But the moment stretches. And the bond stirs again.

Not quiet this time.

It tugs.

You feel it low in your chest, deep in your belly, under your skin—like a thread catching fire. His soul brushes yours again, not tentative this time, but seeking. And you both feel it: want, sharp and full, no longer content to stay beneath the surface.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand moves to the back of your neck, firm now, grounding you as he deepens the kiss—lips parting, breath shared. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies touch, chest to chest, and that mark between you flares.

You gasp against his mouth—stunned by how much you feel. Every beat of his heart, every tremble in his fingers, every shattered breath.

And he groans low in his throat, like he’s been starving for this, like your kiss is the first breath after centuries underwater.

Your hands slide up, one to his shoulder, the other to his jaw, tilting him closer, needing him closer. The kiss turns needy, like the bond has teeth, like it hurts to be apart even by inches.

You shift into his lap on the floor without thinking, knees on either side of him, your bodies pressing together like a tide rising. The heat between you builds—slow, consuming. His hands find your back, your hips, steady and worshipful and claiming.

But still careful. Still him.

Because even now—he’s holding the storm back for you.

Your foreheads touch again, both of you breathless, lips barely apart. His voice is rough, reverent, shaking. “I’ve wanted you for so long…”

You whisper, “Then have me. Now. This time.”

He exhales, eyes closing—like your words are both mercy and temptation.

But still, he rests his forehead against yours, and for one long moment, the kiss slows again—returning to where it began.

Not just want.

But knowing.

That this time, you came back.

His breath fans against your lips. Your bodies press together, heart to heart, soul to soul—and still, it’s not enough.

His hands slide up your sides, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing a map he already knows by heart. You feel his touch like heat, like electricity, but it’s gentle. Not rushed. As if he’s asking permission with every inch.

And you give it. Freely. Because you trust him. Because you always did.

Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing along the high bones of his cheeks. His eyes are still glowing—soft, pulsing with that same sea-blue light that once illuminated the depths of Lemuria. You can’t stop looking at him. He’s beauty and ruin and tenderness all at once.

“Let me see you,” he breathes, voice low and raw.

You nod.

His fingers move to your shirt, slow and trembling. He peels it over your head inch by inch, gaze never leaving your face. His eyes darken as more of you is revealed, not with lust, but with a reverent kind of ache. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

You’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling, pulse fluttering beneath your skin.

He doesn’t touch yet.

He looks.

And the way he looks at you?

It’s not hunger.

It’s worship.

Like you’re the only thing in the universe that ever made sense.

When his hands do move, they’re light, like seafoam brushing the shore. Palms skimming over your ribs, your waist, up to the curve of your shoulders. You shiver, not from cold—but from being seen.

From being known.

“Every time I dreamed,” he whispers, voice shaking, “this is where it ended. I always woke up before I could touch you like this.”

You reach for the hem of his shirt, voice soft. “Then let’s stay awake.”

He unbuttones it slowly—and there it is. The mark.

Alive with golden light. Spiraling and shifting with every breath he takes. You lift your hand and lay your palm over it, and he gasps, eyes fluttering closed.

“Gods—” he murmurs. “You feel like fire.”

“And you feel like the sea,” you whisper, leaning in.

Your mouths find each other again, deeper this time. Slower. The kiss rolls like a tide—soft waves turning into something stronger. His hands cradle your waist, yours slide into his hair, anchoring each other as your hips begin to move, instinctual, finding rhythm in closeness.

You’re bare from the waist up, his palms warm on your skin, your body pressed into his lap, straddling him. The heat between you isn’t sudden—it’s steady, like something alive and rising with every breath.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs stroking along your sides, and your arms loop around his shoulders like instinct. You roll your hips forward, slow and searching.

He breathes out against your jaw—a sound, soft and sharp and undone.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

You won’t. You can’t.

The bond pulls at both of you now—familiar and foreign all at once. A string tugging from somewhere deeper than the body, deeper than desire.

You grind again, and he shudders beneath you.

Your mouths find each other once more, this kiss less gentle—still reverent, still him, but now laced with hunger, with need. Your hips keep moving, slow and steady, pressing into him in long waves that make your pulse trip and your breath stutter.

His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing your spine, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to give.

You break the kiss first—just enough to breathe, to look at him.

He’s glowing again. Eyes bright, chest marked with light, jaw tense with restraint. But it’s his expression that stills you.

It’s not lust. It’s longing. The kind that never died. The kind that waited. You whisper, breathless, “You’re shaking.”

“I’ve never had you like this,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Not like this. Not when we could’ve had forever.”

You stroke his cheek. “Then take it now.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You feel it too… don’t you? Not just the bond. The way it’s pulling. Tighter. Deeper.”

You nod.

“It’s like it’s begging for more,” you whisper.

“Or warning us.”

You pause—hips stilling—but his hands slide to your lower back, guiding you again.

“Don’t stop,” he says, voice quiet but rough. “We’ve already passed the line. I’d rather drown in you than float in a world where you’re not mine.”

Your heart cracks open at that.

“I don’t know where you end and I begin anymore,” you admit.

“You never did,” he says. “Not really.”

And the bond tugs again.

Like it agrees.

Your hips begin to move again, slowly, rhythmically—dragging over the hard line of him beneath you through the fabric that still separates you. Each motion sends heat curling deeper into your belly, and you feel it—the way his breath hitches every time your bodies align just right.

Rafayel groans softly, hands gripping your waist tighter now, grounding himself in your skin. His thumbs draw slow circles over your hips, encouraging, urging.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You tilt your head, gasping as his mouth trails lower—your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone—kissing like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with his lips.

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And you do. Because it’s happening to you, too.

The bond hums beneath your skin, alive and urgent, responding to every grind, every breath, every place where your bare skin meets his. The mark on his chest pulses between you, the light from it casting a golden sheen over your joined bodies.

You reach between you, fingers slipping down to the waistband of his pants. He shudders as you touch him through the fabric, and his head falls to your shoulder with a low, aching groan.

“Careful,” he breathes. “You’ll break me.”

You smile against his temple, even as your heart races. “No. I’m just… putting you back together.”

He lifts his head at that—eyes burning, jaw clenched, chest rising with a breath that trembles.

And then his hands are on you again, one sliding up to your breast, cupping it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple in a slow, deliberate stroke. You gasp—your hips stuttering against him—and his free hand grips your waist harder, steadying you.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips trailing along your throat. “You’ve always been. Even when I had you, I never really had you like this.”

“You do now,” you whisper. “You have all of me.”

His mouth returns to yours, more urgent now, lips parting, tongues brushing—hungry and deep, but still slow. Still intentional. Every movement between you feels like a vow being rewritten into the present.

You grind down again, and this time, his hips push up into yours, seeking friction, needing it.

“Rafayel—” you gasp.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight. “You feel that?” he murmurs against your lips. “That pull? That ache?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I feel everything.”

“Then don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Your hips move in long, grinding strokes, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up to meet every motion with slow, devastating precision. The press of him against you—hard, insistent, still clothed but unbearable now—makes your breath stutter and your fingers clench where they rest against his jaw.

You slide one hand down his neck, over his chest—feeling the thrum of the bond-mark still glowing beneath your palm—and lower, down the tight lines of his abdomen. His muscles tense under your touch, his breath catching as your fingers trail the edge of his waistband.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. His head tilts back slightly, exposing his throat, as if surrendering to you completely.

“You feel so good,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss along his neck, tasting salt and heat, your lips brushing over the pounding pulse there. “It’s like… like my body’s always known yours.”

He groans, deep and rough, his hands sliding up from your hips to your chest again, palms warm, thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending sparks jolting through your core.

“It has,” he says, voice gravel and sea. “It has. Even before we had names for it. Even when we didn’t know why, we fit.”

Your bodies move together, perfectly aligned, grinding harder now—friction building, fabric doing nothing to dull the throbbing ache between your legs. You’re both lost in it—moaning quietly, panting, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without the other’s mouth, hands, heat.

His lips find yours again and the kiss is messier now, hungrier—tongues meeting, teeth grazing, breathless and needy. He presses deeper against you, rolling his hips up in a slow, punishing grind that makes you cry out softly into his mouth.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, fingers digging into the muscles along his stomach.

His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up so he can look at you—really look.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “I never stopped. Not once. Not through fire or time or death.”

The bond pulses.

And your soul sings.

You grind down harder, chasing more of him, needing him inside now, and you whisper— “Then show me. Be mine again. Fully.”

And gods, the way he looks at you then—like he’s about to fall apart and fall together all at once.

Like he’s already yours.

You can barely breathe— Not because you’re overwhelmed, But because you’ve never felt this full of him.

Of feeling.

Of need.

And he’s still so close, mouth at your jaw, hips grinding slowly up into you in time with yours. It’s not frantic. It’s not fast. But it’s deep—slow waves crashing again and again, steady and building and unbearable in the best way.

You cling to him tighter, fingers curling against the hard lines of his stomach, memorizing him with your touch. He watches you like he’s watching the sky change color—awed, reverent, and just a little broken with it.

And then your voice, soft, trembling, spilling between kisses. “I want you to have all of me.”

His breath catches—he feels that. You know he does. Because the bond pulses again, stronger, your souls tightening like a drawn bowstring.

“You already gave it to me,” he says, voice rough against your throat. “Every time you came to me. Every time you dreamed. Every time you said my name in silence.”

“I didn’t remember,” you whisper, “but something in me always did.”

You feel him shiver beneath you, his hands sliding slowly down your sides, to your hips again. Then lower. Fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt.

“Then let me remember you too,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. “Now. Like this.”

Your breath hitches, and you nod.

He shifts.

One arm slips beneath your thighs, the other around your back—and before you can ask, he’s lifting you into his arms, holding you like you’re weightless. Like he could carry you across oceans if you asked.

He doesn’t take you far—just to the side room of the studio, through a half-open door, where a soft couch and scattered blankets wait. You remember this space from before. Where he showed you your statue. Where he first watched you see yourself through his eyes.

Now, he lowers you there gently—kneeling with you, kissing you again before pulling back just far enough to push your skirt higher, exposing your thighs. His gaze darkens, not with possession—but with hunger softened by awe.

“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. “Say you’re mine.”

Your breath shakes. “I’m yours.”

His eyes close. And then he kisses down your chest, slow and reverent—like prayer. Like each inch of you is holy, and he’s not worthy, but he’ll worship anyway.

His lips trail lower, soft and deliberate.From the curve of your breast, down the center of your sternum, his breath fans against your skin as his hands part your thighs gently, like he’s opening a gift he waited centuries to touch again.

Your skirt is bunched at your hips now, your underwear the last thing between you and him. He pauses there—hovering, just above, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There’s fire in them. But there’s also restraint. Still asking. Always asking.

You nod.

And his fingers curl under the waistband, dragging the thin fabric down your legs. Slowly. Carefully. Watching every inch of you become bare to him.

When you're naked before him, he exhales. It’s not a groan. Not a curse.

It’s worship.

Like your body is art and memory and something he forgot how to breathe around. “Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His hands slide up your thighs, parting them further, and when he settles between them, you gasp—not from the touch, but the closeness.

His mouth returns to your skin, kissing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, over and over. And when he finally reaches the center of you—he doesn’t rush. He kisses you there first. Soft. Gentle. Claiming.

And then his tongue moves—slow, deep, every stroke deliberate. Every flick of him against you feels like poetry, like remembering. His hands hold your hips down as your body begins to tremble, as you arch into him, a breathless cry slipping from your throat.

The bond flares again—harder now.

It’s not just sensation. It’s feeling.

You can feel what he feels—his hunger, his reverence, his need to give this to you. To please you. To undo you with nothing but his mouth and the bond that glows golden between you.

“Rafayel—” you moan, your fingers finding his hair, threading through, holding him to you.

He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. His pace quickens just slightly, lips and tongue moving in rhythm, matched to the rise and fall of your hips, the way your legs tighten around his shoulders.

“I can’t—” you breathe, voice shaking. “It’s too much—”

“No,” he says against you, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His mouth is wet. His pupils blown wide. “You can. You were always meant to feel like this.”

And then he takes you again, deeper, firmer—his tongue moving with purpose, with knowing. One of his hands rises, fingers pressing against you where you need it most, rubbing soft, slow circles in time with his mouth.

You fall apart. Shattering.

But it’s not destruction. It’s a return. To him. To yourself. To the bond.

Your soul snaps tight to his, and in that moment, you know—nothing will ever break it again. Not time. Not death. Not gods.

Just you and him.

Forever.

Your body trembles in the aftershock—waves still rolling through your limbs as you try to find your breath again. Your heart pounds like it’s never known stillness, your skin tingles, warm and wet beneath the cool air of the studio. The bond pulses softly now—slower, but still aching, still alive.

Rafayel is still there, between your thighs, his hands smoothing along your skin as if trying to soothe every inch he just set ablaze. His lips brush your inner thigh once more before he lifts his head, gaze locking with yours.

You’re glowing.

Not just the bond. You.

Your cheeks. Your chest. Your soul. He sees it. You know he does. His breath catches like he’s looking at something divine.

And you are. Because you’re his.

And now—your body knows it too.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re… gods, you’re beautiful.”

You smile softly, still trying to speak, to breathe. But the words won’t come—not yet.

So instead, you reach for him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his open shirt—what little remains of it—and tug. A silent come here.

The bond pulses again, responding to your touch. To your need.

Because you need him now. Closer. Inside. Where he belongs.

He rises without hesitation, crawling up over you, his body settling between your legs, the weight of him grounding you instantly. You feel him—hard, aching, still trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Still holding back.

Still waiting for you.

Your hands trail down his chest, over the glowing mark, down to his waistband.

His voice shakes. “You’re sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more.”

Your fingers make quick work of the button, the zipper, the soft fabric pushed down until he’s bare before you—every inch of him sculpted, wanting. His length rests heavy between your bodies, and you feel the full heat of him now, throbbing against your thigh.

Your hands slide to his hips. “Come to me,” you whisper. “Let me feel all of you.”

His eyes flutter closed for one long, trembling breath. And when they open again, they burn like starlit oceans.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he says, voice cracking on the promise. “Not even if the world asks me to.”

He hovers above you, breath shallow, chest glowing where the bond pulses like a second heartbeat. The weight of him is heat and pressure and promise—but still, he waits. His gaze roams your face, your lips, your eyes, and then his hands are on you again—palms sliding down your sides, fingers tracing your curves like he can’t decide what part of you to worship first.

You arch into him, skin burning for more, and he gives it. His touch becomes more deliberate—fingers trailing over your breasts, circling your nipples in soft, teasing strokes that make you gasp and clutch at his back. Then lower—down your ribs, your hips—until one hand slips between your legs again.

You're still slick, still trembling.

His fingers slide through the heat of you, and he groans against your shoulder. “You’re drenched.”

“You did that to me,” you breathe, kissing his jaw, his throat. “So do something about it.”

He huffs a laugh—wrecked and reverent—and kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make when his fingers return to your entrance, circling, pressing, stroking you until your legs tighten around his waist.

But it’s not enough.

You reach down, sliding your hand between your bodies, and wrap your fingers around him—bare, hard, heavy in your palm. His entire body tenses at your touch, a low groan rumbling from his throat like thunder under water.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re going to destroy me.”

You smile softly. “Then I guess we’ll go down together.” Guiding him now—your hand between your legs, tip brushing against your entrance, slick and pulsing—you both freeze for a moment.

The bond tugs hard. It burns—not pain, but pressure. Desire. Connection. Like your souls are screaming for the rest of it.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He does—eyes glowing blue, wide, undone.

And then you pull him forward.

He pushes in—slow. The head of him parts you, stretching you with exquisite heat, your breath hitching as your body gives way to his, little by little.

And gods, the way he groans—deep and guttural and devastated—as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. “You feel…” His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. “You feel like home.”

You gasp, holding onto his shoulders as he presses all the way inside—your walls stretching to take him fully, your body shaking with the sheer depth of it.

Like waves crashing into rock.

Slow. Relentless. Inevitable.

Your arms wind around his neck, your hips rising to meet his, and for a breathless moment—you both freeze.

Connected. Finally.

The bond bursts between you—hot, glowing, searing through your cores like golden light, your marks burning where your bodies meet. And your soul recognizes his again—not just remembered, but claimed.

You whisper, broken, into his ear, “I was made for you.”

He begins to move—slow at first, the thick press of him dragging out of you only to roll back in, deep and steady. Your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him, and your breath leaves you in a quiet, wrecked moan.

He’s so deep, it borders on unbearable. But it’s not pain. It’s completion.

Like your body has always known the shape of him. Like your soul carved out space centuries ago—and it never faded.

The bond pulses with every thrust, hot and insistent, like a second heartbeat thudding between your bodies. You feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your spine, down to your fingertips curling into his back.

“You’re so tight,” he groans against your neck, his voice raw. “I can’t—gods, I can’t hold back when you feel like this.”

You gasp as he thrusts again, a little harder, the rhythm finding its pulse now—you, wrapped around him, hips moving in time, chasing every roll of his body with your own.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “I want all of you. Give me all of you.”

That breaks something in him. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek, eyes blazing—glowing. Not with fire. Not just the bond.

With divinity.

“You have me,” he says, fierce and shaking. “Every life. Every death. Every version of me belongs to you.”

And then he thrusts again—deeper, harder now, the pace picking up. Your back arches, a cry slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips in that perfect rhythm, steady and consuming. The couch creaks beneath you, your bodies moving together like waves in a storm—unstoppable.

Each push forward presses his soul deeper into yours.

Each drag out pulls a piece of your breath with it.

And the bond is blazing now—no longer just a tether, but a firestorm. You feel him in every corner of your being.

You cling to him, whispering, gasping his name over and over like a prayer.

“Rafayel… Rafayel…”

He groans, thrusting harder, faster now, his body shaking above yours. “Say it again—gods, say it.”

“Rafayel,” you moan, clutching him tighter. “I love you.”

His eyes flutter shut.

And he kisses you—deep and open and hungry, swallowing your moans as his pace slams into you, slick and perfect, pushing you toward that edge again.

“You’re mine,” he says against your lips, hips slamming into yours. “And I’m yours. This time, we finish together.”

You nod, eyes blurring, breath breaking. “Together.”

And as the rhythm deepens, as the bond tightens, as your bodies crash and rise like a divine tide— You both feel it. This was always meant to be.

Your bodies move in perfect rhythm—skin slick, muscles straining, hearts pounding in tandem. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to etch himself into the very core of you. And you let him.

You welcome him.

The couch creaks beneath the steady roll of your bodies. The bond between you pulses hotter and hotter, gold light flickering where your chest meets his, your mark answering his with every grind, every cry, every gasped breath.

He’s buried inside you to the hilt, his hips snapping forward again and again, slow but hard, like he wants to feel your soul clench around him. Your lips brush his cheek, your breath stuttering. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He groans at that, his pace faltering just slightly—thrusts shallowing, but deeper somehow, grinding with purpose.

“I was,” he breathes. “Every part of me belongs here. Inside you.”

You whimper, hips rising to meet his, hands dragging down his back, anchoring him to you like you’ll die if he pulls away.

“You’re everything,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know what was missing—until you.”

He kisses you then, slow and trembling—so soft, it breaks your heart.

“I never stopped dreaming of this,” he says, voice shaking. “Even when I thought I’d never see you again. Even when I hated myself for letting you die.”

You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, even as your body tightens, your climax rising fast behind your ribs.

“You didn’t let me die,” you say, breathless. “You loved me through it.”

He chokes on a sound—like he might break. And the bond flares white-hot. It pulls, hard, like it wants to drag both of you over the edge.

And finally—you let it.

Your bodies begin to tremble with every thrust now—harder, faster, the rhythm deepening into something desperate, something final. Rafayel drives into you with growing urgency, the sound of your skin meeting, your breathless cries, his ragged moans echoing in the warm space around you.

The mark between you burns—golden fire where your chests meet, pulsing in time with every deep roll of his hips.

You feel it in your belly first—the pressure curling tight, heat rising fast, coiling deep in your core like something ancient coming undone.

“I can’t—” you gasp, clinging to him, your nails dragging along his spine. “Rafayel—I’m—”

He kisses your jaw, your throat, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Come with me.”

Your walls flutter around him, body tightening, and he groans—loud, wrecked—his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming wild, erratic, desperate.

And then— You break.

Your climax rips through you like a wave crashing against stone, stealing your breath, your voice, your entire self. You cry out his name as your back arches, legs locking tight around his hips. The bond erupts—golden fire spilling through your chest, your spine, everywhere.

And in that same instant— Rafayel shudders above you with a groan so guttural it sounds like it’s torn from his soul.

He thrusts deep—once, twice—then holds, buried to the hilt inside you as he comes, body trembling, hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He gasps your name like a prayer, like an apology, like he’s finally home.

His seed spills hot and deep inside you, and the bond explodes in white-hot light, burning so bright behind your eyes you forget where the world ends and he begins.

Your souls collide. Intertwine. And for one perfect, shattering moment— There is no time. No grief. No loss.

Only you. Only him. Only this.

The world is still.

Not in the way it pauses for fear or doubt—but in the way it hushes for something sacred.

Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat and heat, hearts pounding in tandem. His chest is pressed to yours, his weight settled over you like a blanket you never knew you needed—heavy, warm, safe.

Rafayel’s breath stutters against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he exhales. Long. Shaky.

Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

Your fingers stroke the back of his neck slowly, slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and your other hand rests over his heart—right where the mark still pulses, dimmer now, but alive.

You don’t speak at first.

You just breathe.

Together.

The rise and fall of your chests in rhythm. The soft, broken hum he makes when you shift under him and your skin brushes in a new way. The way he presses the barest kiss to your collarbone without lifting his head.

And then—Very softly— “I thought I’d never feel this again.”

His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. You turn your head, brushing your lips against his temple. “What? The bond?”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “You. Like this. Us.”

You breathe him in—salt, sweat, something darker beneath it. Something eternal. “You were never alone,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t remember.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. There’s something raw in them still. Something softer now, too. Not fear. Not pain.

Peace.

“I remembered enough for both of us,” he whispers. “Every time I touched the sea, it brought me back to you.”

Your throat tightens, and you cup his face, your thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw.

“I’m here now,” you say. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Good. Because if you vanish again, I’m following you into the next life. And the one after.”

You laugh, breathless, your smile pressed against his as he kisses you again—slow, lingering, gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate.

Just yours.

You lie like that for a long time—his body pressed against yours, your limbs tangled, the bond still humming softly between your chests like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to just one of you.

It’s warm now. Comforting. No longer pulling. Just there.

Like it always should’ve been.

Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing idle patterns over your waist—thoughtless, gentle, reverent. You match his touch, your hand brushing along the lines of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the dip of his shoulder blades.

“I used to wake up,” you whisper, “heart racing, not knowing why. I’d look at the ocean and feel like something was missing. Like I was looking for someone I couldn’t name.”

He closes his eyes. “I’d see you in strangers,” he says. “Hear your laugh in dreams. I tried to forget for a while. I really did. But it never worked. I always ended up painting you again. Drawing you. Sculpting pieces of you like I was trying to remember something my hands already knew.”

You exhale, your fingers moving up to rest over the bond-mark glowing faintly beneath his skin. “And all this time, you were just… waiting?”

His lips brush yours, soft and aching. “Not waiting. Surviving.”

You’re quiet for a moment. And then, so soft you almost don’t mean to say it— “I’m sorry I left you.”

His eyes open again, glowing just a little in the dark. “You didn’t,” he murmurs. You look up at him, and he leans in to kiss you—sweet and sure. “And now,” he whispers between kisses, “you came back. That’s what matters.”

You pull him closer, fingers threading through his hair, lips brushing over his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Rafayel.”

He smiles then. Really smiles. The kind that doesn’t hide behind flirtation or pain.

“Good. Because if the world ends again, I want to be holding you when it does.”

Later—much later—after the fire in your bodies fades into warmth, you lie together in a nest of tangled limbs and quiet breath. His arms are around you. Your head rests against his chest, the glow of the mark soft and slow now, like candlelight instead of flame.

And for the first time in eight hundred years, you fall asleep in each other’s arms, not with grief between you— but peace.

The bond stays lit, even in dreams.

And this time, it does not fade.

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

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

#love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #love and deep space #love and deepspace rafayel #loveanddeepspace #lads #rafayel lemurian #god of tides rafayel #student rafayel #god of sea rafayel

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hello-sweetheart · 1 month ago

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Eddie and his False King- steddie ficlet

“Tell me something about you that Robin doesn’t know.”

They’re lying on the floor of Steve’s apartment staring up at the ceiling reeling from an over indulgence of Chinese take-out. Steve is chewing on the end of a wooden chopstick after trying to teach Eddie how to use them (and failing). Eddie can feel Steve turn to look at him and pretends to be invested in the fortune cookie he’s fidgeting with.

Truth is, Eddie loves Robin—of course he does, Eddie wouldn’t have Steve without Robin. His Steve. Bright, funny, carefree Steve. He’s heard from the group how Steve struggled before he found a friend in Robin. He never met the Steve before Robin, not officially, but he remembers the dark cloud that had followed him throughout his junior and senior year, followed him all the way across the stage at graduation.

And then one day, he stumbled across the guy once more looking softer in way he never had. A lack of ego that was replaced by something tender. Somber eyes alight once more, not with the cruelty of before, but a steady happiness.

“Why?”

Eddie shrugged, “I mean, there’s gotta be something.”

Eddie loves Robin, but sometimes… sometimes it’s hard to share Steve with her.

Each time Steve tells a story, confesses something buried deep, or shares a secret, he knows Robin heard it first.

Whenever he wonders where Steve is when he’s not with Eddie, he knows it’s with Robin.

When Steve gave him a spare key to his apartment, he knows Robin already had a copy.

Hell, Robin probably knows all about their sex life. It’s easy to imagine Steve, naive and new to men, red in the face stumbling through his story of their first time together. Robin at his side reassuring him and easing his insecurities, even though Eddie already had.

Her words probably soothed him easier than Eddie’s ever could.

It’s not that Robin has ever invaded their time together, not unless it was an emergency, but still. Eddie is selfish. And.

Eddie is jealous of how close they are, he’ll admit it. He just wants a part of Steve that he doesn’t have to share with Robin.

“There’s one thing, but..”

“But?”

“You can’t make fun of me for it.” Eddie’s lip curled. “Promise!”

“Alright, alright.” He turned to his side to properly give him his attention. Steve’s eyes were sleepy from their large meal, impending food coma underway.

Eddie loves him so much it hurt.

“You know how people called me King Steve in high school?”

“Yeah…”

“And you know how it was Tommy that started it?”

“Sure.”

“Well, Tommy only ever called me that because when we were kids and our parents would take us out to eat, each time it was my turn to chose where, I’d always pick Burger King.” He admitted this with a sheepish grin.

“King Steve?” Eddie repeated in disbelief. The nickname now held a different weight on his tongue.

Steve groaned, “Yeah, King Steve. It was Tommy’s nickname for me. I was like 6 and obsessed with the chicken fingers. I’d wear the paper crown and everything—cried if they forgot the crown. Well, sometime around freshman year I had scored a winning basket and Tommy started shouting “King Steve! King Steve!” Before I knew it, others started shouting it back. It caught on and never really went away.”

“Wow…”

“Mm, I doubt it ever would have stuck if they knew why Tommy called me that in the first place. That’s why after, well, after, I know that it hurt him so much when I left. Cuz he would look at me and call me King Steve, not to mock the fact that fell on the food chain, but to mock how I ended 10 years of friendship over a girl.”

“But it wasn’t really over a girl.”

“Nah, he was just a shit person. Dont think he ever realized that. I hope he has. Besides, I like who I found after.”

“Robin?” Steve’s eyes soften but his gaze was focused and intense.

“Yeah, her too.” Oh.

“Come on, sweetheart. We’ll clean up tomorrow, but I for one, would like to nap on the bed instead of your carpet. God knows when the last time this was properly cleaned.” Steve squawked.

“I clean this carpet weekly! Properly!”

He really does. Eddie knows this. Steve is his own brand of freak with how neat and tidy he keeps things.

Eddie falls asleep with his nose buried in Steve’s neck, belly full love and grease. In his mind there now exists a new image, one of Steve tiny and slightly chubby with baby fat, legs swinging in brightly colored booth as he chews happily on a chicken nugget, fingers sticky with ketchup. And a paper crown skewed on a bed of chestnut hair.

#Eddie eventually opens up about his insecurity don’t you worry #relationship insecurities #steddie #steddie headcanon #steddie prompt #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #bee speaks #platonic stobin

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lion-writer · 4 months ago

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I’ve seen a lot of headcanons and fics where Viago disapproves of Rook getting together with Lucanis. And ones that focus on how an alliance with the De Rivas benefits House Dellamorte, which is definitely true, and i fucking love them, but consider Viago probably couldn’t possibly ask for a better partner for Rook.

Though to be fair I am obsessed with Viago and his belief that he could restore the royal power of Treviso and that “He will not be satisfied until he sits upon a throne.”

While as a talon, he’s definitely more powerful than the king, and he could probably easily overthrow his father and take the throne. But that's probably not his biggest issue, because as my old history teacher used to say, “Power cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred”, so by restoring the power of the royal family, he’d be taking power away from the merchant princes and the other talons. Which, it’s probably safe to assume they wouldn't be happy about”. (Also as a side note, the quote “It’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you” is applicable here. Viago is a man planning to make A Lot of enemies)

And remember, this man is still the 5th talon, and while he’s allied with Teia, she’s also only the 7th talon. (Though they definitely should have gotten a promotion after the events of 8 little talons). So he’s not really in any position to actually make any power play, not unless he wants to piss off 6 of the other houses.

Thankfully, depending on the choices you make, by the end of Veilguard, he’s almost certainly up there among the most powerful people in Antiva, given that he was a key player in ending the occupation of a major city by the Antaam, not to mention the killing of a Literal Evil God. The only Antivans that could be more influential than him at this moment is Teia, who he’s dating and let's be honest, will eventually marry, Rook, who’s his protege,

Among those people, Lucanis is probably the most politically powerful, given that he’s done everything Viago has, in addition to the fact that he actually killed a god, and is now The First Talon. While I feel that he would support Viago in the bid for the throne, he’s also the only one who Viago doesn’t have any sort of formal alliance with. And considering Viago’s general distrust towards basically everyone, he wouldn’t place that much trust in the bonds of friendship, (especially if you believe that he thinks that Lucanis’s attempt at flirting was a threat).

But given the general political upheaval Antiva is probably already in right now, because It’s highly doubtful that Governor Ivenci was the only guy to make deals with the Antaam or Venatori for power, there’s no better time for Viago to make a play for power. With everything so recent it would be so easy for him to step forwards as a figure for people to rally behind, I mean he exposed corruption in the government, he freed Treviso, he trained a god killer, and he’s the son of the king. But If he waits, he kinda does risk somebody else stepping forth.

But after Ivenci’s attempt at getting rid of the crows and the whole Illario debacle, the other Talons would be very suspicious of anyone trying to take power, and while Viago is a Crow, he’s also an infamous curmudgeon who doesn’t really get along with the others.

Luckily, Lucanis is head over heels for Rook, which cements an alliance with House Dellamorte. And well, there’s quite a historical precedent, especially in Antiva, for alliances and weddings to go hand in hand. Not to mention the message it would send to the other talons for Viago to give away Rook, his protege for whom he has already demonstrated a soft spot for, to The First Talon, arguably The Face of the Crows. In addition, a grand high profile Wedding between two heroes who just saved the world, is the perfect thing for the general public to associate Viago with after everything.

I mean I’m pretty sure he would still grumble about it and he’d definitely let Lucanis know that if he ever dared to hurt Rook, Lucanis would wish he was still trapped in the Ossuary. But once he’s certain that they’re serious about each other, Teia and him would be the first people to start bugging them about marriage.

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jellykyunnie · 1 year ago

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˗ˏˋ Yandere! Sung Jinwoo x Player! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 025 ✦ ┆・

‼️[ TW: stalking, obsession, yandere Jinwoo au ]

┈➤ ❝ [ Ｌ　ｏ　ａ　ｄ　ｉ　ｎ　ｇ. . . ] ¡! ❞

You never really thought about it, you just downloaded Solo Leveling's new game out of excitement to want to see your precious Jinwoo on screen. Perhaps you're here to re-experience the story, or maybe you want to help him grow better. Or just watch him entirely.

After all, you played this game to see him.

Leveling him up as much as you can, getting frustrated when you run out of keys, gold and materials to max him out— You became obsessed with this game just as fast you became with the main protagonist,...

Not knowing that he could feel your drilling gaze on him.

Jinwoo really doesn't know how this happened. He just had a good hot shower after finishing a high ranked gate and sprawled on his bed like a starfish the moment he was done with his nightly routine.

Then all of the sudden, he awakened in the body of his pathetic self. The him he hated so much. He wanted to thrash around, feel his face, or even speak. But in the end, he is somehow stuck on making mundane things. Saying cheesy lines that internally makes him wretch.

Jinwoo felt so disgusted when he sees himself in the reflection on the puddles of water. Unkept hair that looks like it hasn't been brushed for days. His small stature lacking any muscles, he's built like a twig and Jinwoo cant help but feel a huge douse of fury washing over him.

He even tries to make contact with his old friends. He cant say or control his body, but he could atleast control the movement of his eyes. He tried staring at Ju-hee's face even. But he soon realized that she's not really there. it's like she's a hollow machine spatting out whatever.

He tried to summon his shadows who were thankfully still with him, but he could tell that his children are all asleep despite him trying his best to wake them up telepathically.

But most of all, he could feel your eyes on him. He could hear your taps against something. It took Jinwoo a bit of time to realize that he himself— Is actually in a game and you are the player, the player that is controlling him like a damn puppet.

He hated it at first really, he could hear your excited squeals and his head even spins when you toss your phone around when he does something remotely basic. When you spin him around he craves to reach his hand out and shake you as punishment for making him go around and around like some sort of carousel.

Jinwoo had no choice but to be patient with you.

Even as he wants to sigh in defeat whenever you level up the wrong stats, even as you prioritize the wrong things, even as you skip reading important tutorials, even as you level up the wrong artifacts when they have the shittiest substats ever.

Really, sometimes, he just internally begs for you to stop playing the game and let him go. Maybe if you stop, he would wake up and go back to his mundane everyday life.

Though to his dismay, you kept playing everyday ceaselessly. Leveling him up, getting excited over events, feeling victorious whenever you win even with your ridiculously poorly built weapons and artifacts or pulling something good in the gacha system.

At least you're trying to take good care of him in a way, he appreciates that somehow.

But the more time spent, the more Jinwoo is learning.

While you're oblivious to everything and just blindly charging head-first in the game. Jinwoo spends that time learning about you.

He knows at least that he isn't someone real in your world, and he is nothing more than a figment of someone's imagination.

And most importantly, he is apparently your favourite character.

The thought of it made him shudder with cringe honestly.

Like come on, seriously?

Choose better you dimwit.

Of course, that sent him in a whole spiral of existential dread. Even as he isn't in a mood for anything. He cant really voice it out or do anything about it since you are technically his master and he is depresisngly bound to do whatever you wish.

Ah, but who is he again? Jinwoo.

Sung Jinwoo, The Shadow Monarch.

Just like before, Jinwoo will swallow the system. But this time, he's not just going to hack the game code— He will swallow your entire phone system.

Take it as a revenge for making him live through his E-ranked days again.

... At least that's what he plans but instead he craved to wash his eyes out with soap.

The amount of edits you have of him in your phone, the many many screenshots of him you have in your gallery— God, he just wanted to die actually.

Then again, he died a number of times and still woke up again so he's just pulling his leg here.

As frustrating it is, Jinwoo wa slowly finding himself getting attached to you.

From dreading your daily log-ins to actually looking forward to the time you log-in. He even memorized the exact time you usually open the game.

With his little tinkering here and there, he started helping you out with your gacha luck. From usually hitting hard pity to get something good to suddenly frequently having red appear despite being at low pity.

He cant really intervene with the system blindly since you will get suspicious so he starts manipulating the codes into making you have better artifacts and substats. You're not that stupid to keep the shitty ones anyway so he's thankful for that.

Slowly, slowly, Jinwoo's mind deteriorated from simple endearment to outright obsession in a span of a few days or weeks— He can't really tell when he started to become attached to you, his dearly beautiful master.

It never really sunk in how much he adored you until you opened another game you've stopped playing because of him. Jinwoo was so infuriated he almost made your phone shut down since he was in charge of it's system now.

He badly wanted to destroy your account in that game but refrained from doing so since he didn't want you to become upset.

Through hovering around in the code like a boogeyman, he could see that you display signs of attachment to these insignificant characters.

These damn fools aren't even aware of your affections and are just hollow dolls made up of codes. They're nothing more than fools just doing whatever the fuck they were programmed to do.

Jinwoo gets increasingly pissed off when you grind someone else's materials, when you giggle and kick around whenever you hear and read a line from them. Veins would pop angrily from Jinwoo's jaw, almost as if they could burst any moment.

But he had to keep his cool.

He had to endure them since atleast they're making you happy even if he entirely hates the premise of something else stealing your smiles away from him.

Jinwoo behaved relatively well until you decided to abandon him just to grind for another goddamn character you're pining to get.

Jinoo prayed it'll only be for one day, but soon lost his mind when you decided to ignore him for a total of 2 weeks just to get that fucking bastard home. He found it so disgusting that someone else dared to be the apple of your eye. That fucker made you hit hard pity when he in comparison just gives you whatever you want. It fucking pissed him off on another level.

Of course, you decided to pop right back in the moment you get that character from another game.

But Solo Leveling suddenly felt weird.

The game wasn't really buggy or anything, it looked normal but somehow— Somehow, you could feel a pair of eyes watching you the whole time. it was an eerie feeling but you just shrugged it off as you having a weird sense of gut feeling.

But ah, it started to make you feel horrified whenever you play the game.

You try to move to another game, but somehow you cant get them to open. You tried to reinstall and install again but it wont budge. Even as you moved to another device it wont work.

All your games wouldn't work except for Solo Leveling itself.

Left with no other choice, you start grinding him again.

You often forget that weird feeling you have stirring in the pit of your stomach.

However, sometimes, you could catch a glimpse of Jinwoo's eyes— Glancing right back at you even when you didn't manipulate the screen into making it that way.

You shrug it off as a weird bug in the game or your eyes just casually playing tricks on you.

But one day when you left your screen hanging for a few minutes since you had to do some chores, you go back just to see Jinwoo's grey eyes staring at you.

Even as you try to move around, his pupils would follow your movement like a hawk.

Back turned, a form straight and poise— You are sure that he really is looking at you.

Attempting to exit the game was to no avail, since your screen would freeze.

Turning off the button served no purpose either.

And finally, Jinwoo would move on his own, his tailcoat swishing around as he finally turns to meet your gaze with purple orbs glowing so eeriely like the devil reincarnated.

His mouth would move, mouthing so sweetly with his deep voice vibrating through your whole body "You really should have just stayed put, otherwise, I wouldn't have resorted to this."

A hand would suddenly burst from your screen a strong hand firmly holding your wrist. Long and elegant digits were on your skin now, the grip so firm it made you shudder. You weren't given any time to panic or scream for help as you were suddenly yanked in roughly but also gently.

Your eyes would be shut tight, your body shivering from fright as the strong hold on your wrist still stayed.

Then, an arm would find it's way around your waist— Making your orbs shot wide open as they now once again meets with another's gaze.

The gaze you have been staring for so long, the slanted deep eyes the were seemingly carved out of the finest gemstones, eyebrows steady and straight as if it were drawn by the most talented artist, his nose and jawline perfectly angled that felt like it was god himself who carved this divine appearance so that no man could ever match against his unflawed features.

Jinwoo.

Sung Jinwoo

"Locking you out of your other accounts worked at first, but then it started to rub me wrong," Jinwoo starts, his deep voice seeming to echo inside your eardrums as he shifts your hand to his chest where you can feel two distinctive heartbeats drumming against his ribcage. "Maybe I'm guilty for making you frustrated, after all, you tried your best to get into them just to see those pesky imbeciles."

He then continues, "Of course, I could always lift the binds that I placed down. But even the idea of your pretty eyes looking at something else set me off"

"So instead of making you suffer with bullshit you shouldn't, I decided it's high time I bring you home with me. After all, you've always been begging for me, I'll grant your wish."

With a firm grasp around your chin now, he pulled you close, his lips crashign against yours for a heated kiss. Your heart would leap out of your chest, each flick of Jinwoo's tongue tickling and swirling against yours making your inside itch to burst. As you both floated in the dark abyss, your thoughts are put into a screeching halt as Jinwoo continues his assault on you.

Each rub of his slender fingers made you shudder, one arm still firmly around your waist while the other tangled itself in your locks to gently massage your scalp in order to make you melt into his embrace once more.

The more he kissed you so lovingly and possessively— The more the light behind him grew stronger.

And as it engulfed the both of you in it's cold embrace— Your conciousness was eaten away.

The next thing you knew, you are awake in Jinwoo's bed with the hunter himself cradling you in his arms while on his phone.

He had wrapped you in his blanket in a cozy way, one hand still playing with the back of your head as he kept it resting on his shoulder like a pillow.

"You're awake," Jinwoo cooes, tossing his phone down lazily as he presses his lips against your forehead sweetly. "It's still early in the morning, go back to sleep, we'll talk later about your new life and some... Rules you're going to be living with now. But you'll be good and follow them for me, right?"

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

#∞ ₒ ˚ ° 📎— kyunnya speaks #sung jinwoo #solo leveling #sung jin woo #only i level up #solo leveling headcanons #solo leveling x reader #jinwoo sung x you #sung jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo headcanons #yandere sung jinwoo #‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆— kyunnie's writings

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tokkiwrites · 5 months ago

Text

"Summer nights like this had a way of unfolding secrets. The kind of nights when the air hung heavy with pine and smoke, the moon glinting like a shy voyeur against the rippling surface of the lake. This wasn’t your first time at the Washington family cabin, but it was the first time that everything felt different. No parents. No rules. And, worst of all, no escape from the fact that Josh Washington was here, and he wasn’t yours."

summary: Your best friend invites you to their annual summer trip to the family cabin in the mountains—something you've done before. But this year is different: no parents. After years of secretly harboring feelings for your best friend’s brother, Josh, you decide this is the perfect chance to finally confess.

tags: best friend's brother!joshua washington x f!reader, childhood crush, both josh and reader like each other but act oblivious (josh more than reader), reader is low key obsessed with josh, minor age gap, alternative universe where Hannah and Beth are still alive, some angst, p in v (protected), virginity loss (reader), kind of fluff, josh talks you through it (yummy!!), fingering (f receiving), idiots in love 🫶🏻

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ tokkis note 𑁯 ✿ hey... how yall doing... the rami malek fever is so real i had to write something. so i did. 6,45k words to be more exact, teehee! i dont quite know what this is, but i had fun writing it, like it got me giggling and shit so yeah 💀 if you see any typos close your eyes, forget you saw anything. enjoy!

7th grade. That was when you stopped thinking of Josh Washington as just Hannah’s annoying older brother. Between the way he stayed behind after soccer practice to teach you how to kick a penalty and the smirk he threw over his shoulder, like he knew you were watching him. The first time when you actually considered Josh not being a jerk like other boys. In 9th grade, he became the hottest guy you had ever met. or maybe you just got so used to his face that you didn't want to look at other boys. Fast forward to now, you're starting college in one month, and things have changed in a way. maybe for the worstㅡ because he's all you can think about.

“You’re staring again.” Hannah’s voice snaps you out of your daze. She’s grinning, nudging your ribs as the two of you sit on the couch in the cabin. “You’re so obvious.” You blink and turn toward her, cheeks heating. “I—I wasn’t staring!”

“Oh, you were,” she teases, popping a chip into her mouth. “What is it this time? The hair? The jawline? Or did you finally notice his arms? I mean, have you seen him chop firewood? That’s peak Josh.”

“Hannah!” You hiss, smacking her arm. She only laughs, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. But she’s not wrong. Somewhere between your senior year of high school and now, Josh had gone from the boy who made stupid puns to the man who could take your breath away just by walking into a room. Unfortunately, it seems like he doesn’t notice.

“Still no move, huh?” Hannah says, lowering her voice. “You’re not seriously going to spend another summer in silent agony, are you?” You sigh. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Josh, remember me? The girl who used to wear braces and cried when I lost my retainer? Cool. Wanna make out?’” Hannah snorts so loudly that Beth, sitting nearby with her book, looks over with a frown. “What are you two laughing about now?”

“Nothing,” you and Hannah say in unison, though she’s still stifling giggles. Beth looks at you both, arching a brow. “Sure,” she says, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t push. She returns to her book, leaving you free to squirm under Hannah’s knowing gaze.

Josh doesn’t stick around to witness your humiliation. He’s already disappeared into the kitchen, and the sound of the fridge opening and the clinking of bottles is the only thing tethering you to the moment. “Do something this trip,” Hannah murmurs, leaning close so Beth doesn’t overhear. “Seriously. You’ve been mooning over him since forever. And now—” she waves a hand at the open windows, the twilight stretching wide like a stage—“this is your moment.”

“Hannah, it’s not like that,” you say, but even you don’t believe it. Not when your heart skips every time Josh is within ten feet of you. “It’s exactly like that,” she shoots back, voice low but insistent. “He likes you, too, you know.” You look at her sharply. “What?”

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” Hannah says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s just... Josh. Oblivious as hell.”

You’re about to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, that there’s no way Joshua Washington— carefree, clever, confident Josh, could ever see you like that. But before you can, his voice carries from the kitchen. “You two plotting something?” Your breath hitches, and Hannah, ever the instigator, grins. “Maybe,” she calls back. Josh reappears, beer in hand, and leans against the doorway. His green eyes flick between the two of you, and for a moment, you swear they linger on you. “Well, don’t blow up the cabin,” he says with a crooked smile before heading out onto the porch.

That night, the cabin settled into quiet. Beth retires early, Hannah tucked away in the room you’re sharing, and yet you can’t sleep. Your thoughts swirl—images of Josh’s hands, the way his eyes looked into yours, his voice, smooth and teasing, the way his smile felt like a hook tugging you somewhere you shouldn’t want to go.

The room feels suffocating, the summer heat pressing against your skin. You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, grabbing a towel and slipping into your swimsuit. The lake isn’t far. You’ve been there a hundred times before, but tonight, it feels like it’s waiting just for you. The water is cold when you first step in, but it’s a welcome relief, a shock that clears your head. You wade in deeper, letting the towel drop onto the shore, and soon, the swimsuit feels like too much. You hesitate, glancing back toward the cabin, but it’s silent and still. “Just you and the lake,” you whisper to yourself. The swimsuit peels away, and the water envelops you like a second skin. You float, staring up at the sky, letting the cool liquid carry the weight of your thoughts.

But then a voice shatters the stillness.

“Didn’t take you for a midnight swimmer.”

You jolt, water sloshing as you whirl toward the shore. Josh is standing there, hands in his pockets, his head cocked in that infuriatingly casual way he always manages. “Josh!” You shriek, sinking deeper into the water. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, stepping closer to the water’s edge. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” you mutter, your cheeks burning even as the water cools your skin. His eyes sweep over the lake, lingering just long enough to make your heart race. “You always were full of surprises,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me, or are you joining?” you ask before you can think better of it. The question hangs in the air, bold and daring, and for a moment, you think you’ve scared him off. But then he grins.

“Alright.”

You watch, half in awe, as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the toned lines of his chest and the faint trail of scars along his ribs. He doesn’t stop there, shucking off his jeans until he’s left in his boxers.

The water ripples as he drops in, and suddenly, he’s closer than you expected, the space between you charged with something you can’t quite name. “This is nice,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. You nod, the words caught in your throat. “Do you ever feel like...” He trails off, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Like there’s something just out of reach? Like you want to grab it, but you’re scared of what happens if you do?”

Your heart thuds. “All the time.” His gaze shifts to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something—something that will change everything. Instead, he leans back, letting himself float. “Good thing we’ve got the whole summer,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. But one thing is clear: you’ll spend every moment of this summer trying to pull him closer.

The next morning, the cabin feels alive with the quiet rustle of summer. Birds trill in the trees, and sunlight pours through the open windows, a golden invitation to start the day. Hannah is already on the deck with a cup of coffee, scrolling on her phone when you step out. “You’re up early,” she says, not looking up. You shrug, trying to hide how restless you’d been all night after what happened at the lake. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She raises a brow but doesn’t press. “Josh is down at the dock,” she says, nodding toward the lake. “Probably sulking. You know how he gets.”

You hesitate. “Why’s he sulking?”

She snorts. “Because the rest of the group isn’t getting here until tomorrow. You’d think one day without his entourage wouldn’t kill him.” You glance toward the lake. the memory of last night. Josh’s quiet words, the way the moonlight danced in his eyes, it's still fresh in your mind. “You should go,” Hannah says, smirking now. “Cheer him up. Or stare at him some more. Whatever works.”

“Hannah!” But she’s already gone, slipping back into the cabin and leaving you with no choice but to head toward the dock.

Josh is sitting on the edge of the wooden dock, his feet dangling in the water. The air smells like cedar and the faint tang of sunscreen. for a moment, you almost turn back. But then he glances over his shoulder and sees you. “Morning,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Hey,” you say, stepping onto the dock and sitting a few feet away. For a while, neither of you speak. The lake stretches out before you, endless and still, and it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.

“Big day ahead of us,” Josh says eventually, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Yeah,” you reply, matching his smile. “So many exciting activities. Staring at trees. Staring at water. Staring at each other.” He laughs, and the sound is warm and unexpected. “Careful. I might think you’re obsessed with me.” Your stomach flips, but you keep your voice light. “Who says I’m not?”

Josh looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve said too much. But instead of teasing, his expression softens. “I don’t get you sometimes,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean?” He shrugs, kicking at the water. “You’re just...different. Not like everyone else.” oh boy. “Good different or bad different?” you ask, your heart in your throat. Josh doesn’t answer right away. His gaze shifts to the endless forest, and when he finally speaks, his voice pangs through you.

“Good,” he says. "Definitely good.”

The rest of the day is a blur of lazy activities—helping Beth organize the kitchen, listening to Hannah’s playlist on the deck, and avoiding Josh just enough to keep your heart from imploding. By sunset, the air is thick with the anticipation of the group’s arrival tomorrow. Hannah flops onto the couch beside you, phone in hand. “Sam says they’re leaving first thing in the morning,” she says. “So, enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

“Quiet?” Beth calls from the kitchen, laughing. “Have you met us?” Hannah rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Tomorrow it’s going to be chaos. Jess and Emily bickering, Chris and Ashley pretending they’re not totally in love, Matt trying to keep the peace...and then there’s Josh.”

“What about Josh?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Hannah gives you a look. “You tell me.”

That night, you find yourself back at the lake, drawn by the same restless energy that kept you up the night before. You don’t plan on skinny dipping again—it feels too risky with everyone around—but the water calls to you anyway, soothing and eternal.

And maybe, just maybe, Josh feels the same right now.

You’re sitting on the shore, toes dipping into the cool water when you hear footsteps behind you. “Couldn’t sleep again?” You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. “I could say the same to you,” you reply, glancing back. Josh sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, and the warmth of him is enough to set your skin buzzing. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” he says after a while.

“What is?”

“Being back here. Without... you know. Adults. Rules.” You nod, the weight of his words settling over you. “Feels different.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Makes you think about stuff.”

“Like what?” you ask, heart pounding.

Josh doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up a stone and skips it across the water. One, two, three perfect skips before it sinks. “Like what happens next,” he says finally. “For all of us. Feels like everything’s about to change.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So, instead, you reach for your own stone, throwing it as hard as you can. It skips once before plunking into the water. “Guess I’ll just have to stick around and figure it out,” you say, keeping your voice light.

Josh looks at you, his eyes shadowed and searching, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something. what you want to hear, maybe. something important. But instead, he smiles, that same lopsided grin that’s been haunting your dreams for years. “Good,” he says.

“I’d miss you otherwise.”

The cabin feels too small the moment the others arrive. It’s a blur of bodies, laughter, and chaos as the others spill into the space, dragging in bags, cooler boxes, and enough energy to wake the dead. It’s not that you mind them—you’ve known most of Josh’s friends for years, but something about the way the cabin hums now feels different. The tight, intimate bubble you’d shared with Josh, Hannah, and Beth is gone, replaced by noise and the easy rhythm of their group. You feel...adrift, to say the least. And watching Josh slip seamlessly back into his role as the charismatic center of attention only makes it worse.

By the time night falls, the cabin is alive with music, the sharp pop of bottle caps, and the low buzz of conversation. You find yourself perched in a corner of the living room, a half-empty drink in hand, watching the others like a ghost at your own party.

Josh is at the center of it all, as always. He’s standing near the couch, laughing at something Sam said, and the sound is enough to send your stomach twisting into knots. Sam, of course, is radiant—effortlessly pretty in her cropped sweatshirt, her hair catching the light like spun gold. She’s animated, gesturing with her hands, and every time Josh leans closer to hear her, you feel like the room tilts off its axis. “Hey,” Hannah says, sliding in next to you with a knowing look. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, taking a sip of your drink. Hannah snorts. “Subtle.” You glance at her, frowning. “What?”

“You know what,” she says, tilting her head toward Josh and Sam. “Seriously, if you’re going to keep looking at him like that, you might as well do something about it.”

“I’m not looking at him,” you protest weakly. Hannah rolls her eyes. “Sure. And I’m not your best friend.” She pauses, watching you for a moment before her expression softens. “Look, you’re not exactly subtle when it comes to Josh. But for what it’s worth? I think he’s just as clueless about how he feels as you are.” Her words settle into your chest, a mix of hope and frustration, but before you can respond, Jess calls out from the other side of the room.

“Hey! Who’s up for Spin the Bottle?” You couldn’t escape it, let's be honest.

You don’t know how it happens, but somehow, you end up in the circle. Maybe it’s the drinking, or maybe it’s Hannah giving you a pointed nudge as everyone sits on the floor, but before you know it, you’re sandwiched between her and Ashley, your pulse pounding in your ears. Josh is directly across from you, his green eyes bright in the firelight. Sam is to his left, Jess to his right, and the knot in your stomach tightens. “Okay, ground rules,” Jess says, grinning wickedly. “No chickening out. You spin, you kiss. Period.”

There’s a chorus of laughter and a few groans, but no one protests. Chris goes first, spinning the bottle with dramatic flair. It lands on Ashley, who blushes furiously but leans in to kiss him. The group erupts in cheers and wolf whistles, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself.

One by one, the bottle makes its rounds. Jess and Emily kiss, Matt kisses Ashley despite him protesting, and eventually, it’s Josh’s turn. He spins the bottle with a lazy flick of his wrist, the glass neck twirling endlessly before it slows, stops, and lands on Sam.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh, come on,” Jess says, clapping her hands. “This is gonna be good.” Josh raises an eyebrow, glancing at Sam. She shrugs, smiling, and leans forward.

You can’t look away.

Their lips meet in a brief, playful kiss—nothing dramatic, nothing earth-shattering. but it’s enough. Enough to make your chest ache, your fingers tighten around the drink in your hand. When they pull apart, everyone cheers again, and Josh laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your turn,” he says, handing the bottle to Sam. But you don’t care. You’re too busy swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the way your vision blurs at the edges.

Later, when the game ends and the group begins to disperse, you slip outside, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating cabin. The lake stretches out before you, dark and endless, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” The voice startles you, and you turn to see Josh standing there, hands in his pockets. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, brushing at your eyes. He frowns, stepping closer. “You sure? You looked kind of...I don’t know, off.” You force a laugh, crossing your arms. “I’m fine, Josh. Really.” For a moment, he just looks at you, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says softly. The words hit harder than they should, and before you can stop yourself, you snap. “What do you want me to say, Josh? That I didn’t love watching you kiss Sam? That it didn’t suck seeing you two all cozy earlier?” His eyes widen, caught off guard, and for a second, you regret everything. But then his expression shifts—something softer, something almost...guilty.

“I didn’t...” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to...” You shake your head, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. “Forget it. It’s not your fault.” Josh hesitates, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You glance at him, your heart aching at the look in his eyes—conflicted, searching. “I know,” you say quietly. “It’s fine. Really.” But it’s not fine. And as you turn back toward the cabin, leaving Josh standing by the lake, you can’t help but wonder if this summer is going to break you before it’s over.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the cabin in hues of orange and gold. The group was scattered—Jess and Emily were bickering over sunscreen, Chris and Ashley were curled up on the deck talking in low tones, and Sam was by the lake with Hannah, skipping stones. It was all too perfect, too idyllic, except for the hollow ache in your chest.

Josh had been avoiding you all day.

It wasn’t like he was being obvious about it—Josh had a knack for slipping into conversations, filling the room with his sharp wit and charm like nothing was wrong. But you felt it. In the way his eyes would dart past you when you entered a room, the way his laugh seemed just a little louder when you weren’t around.

And maybe you were just as bad, lurking in the corners, pretending not to notice how often he touched Sam’s arm when they talked.

Written across your heart was all of your will to make him see—make him realize there was no in-between. There was either you and him, or the hollow echo of “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And wasn’t that what it felt like already? Like mourning something that never got the chance to live?

But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

For making you want him so much that your heart bled angel tears. For teaching your lips to sing sweet once-upon-a-times about a boy who was all sharp edges and hidden softness, who didn’t realize how much space he took up in your world.

By late afternoon, you found yourself back at the lake. It had become your refuge, the only place where you could breathe without the weight of Josh’s absence pressing against your ribs. Your toes skimmed the water’s edge, the cool ripples kissing your skin. You weren’t thinking about anything in particular—just the endless horizon, the way the light danced on the surface of the lake. But then a voice broke through your thoughts.

“You hiding out here now?” You didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Again.

“Maybe I am,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. Josh sighed, stepping closer. You could feel the heat of him at your back, the way his presence wrapped around you even when you didn’t want it to. “Look,” he said finally, his voice softer. “About the other night...” You turned to face him, cutting him off. “It’s fine, Josh. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Yes, I do.” His eyes—those endless green eyes—searched yours, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “No, you don’t,” you said, forcing a smile. “We’re friends. That’s all we’ve ever been, right?”

Josh flinched, like the word “friends” was a physical blow. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly. For a moment, you believed. But then you shook your head, stepping away. “You didn’t, Josh,” you said. “I’m fine.”

That night, the group decided to make a bonfire by the lake. The air was thick with laughter, the sharp scent of burning wood mingling with the sweetness of roasted marshmallows.

You sat with Hannah and Beth, listening as Chris tried to tell a ghost story that kept getting interrupted by Jess’s sarcastic commentary. Josh was across the fire, sitting next to Sam. He wasn’t touching her, wasn’t even looking at her, but it didn’t matter.

Your hair cascaded like Niagara under the firelight, your lips so soft—even if he had never felt them under his. Josh couldn’t stop looking at you. Your eyes glowed like an eternity, and your voice—when you laughed at something - it was the only antidote he’d ever had for all those sleepless nights.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to reach across the chasm that had opened between you since that stupid game of Spin the Bottle. And maybe it was selfish—maybe it was cruel—but he wanted you to look at him the way you used to. Like he was something worth believing in.

The fire burned low as the group began to drift off, one by one. Eventually, it was just you and Josh, the silence between you heavy and unspoken. “Shouldn’t you be with Sam?” you asked, your tone biting. Josh frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, standing. “I’m going to bed.” But before you could leave, his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Wait,” he said, his voice urgent. You froze, refusing to look at him. “Can we just—” He hesitated, his grip loosening. “Can we talk?” You pulled away, your chest tightening. “Not tonight, Josh.” He didn’t stop you this time, and as you walked back to the cabin, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

Neither of you slept that night.

The stars were muted behind a veil of clouds, the air heavy with the promise of rain. The cabin was quieter now. Days of forced smiles and lingering silences had worn you thin, and tonight, you found yourself outside again, pacing the gravel path that led to the lake.

You didn’t mean to cry.

It started as an ache in your chest, spreading to your throat until the tears came unbidden, hot, and relentless. You wiped at them furiously, hating the way they betrayed you, but the anger only made it worse.

How could he be so blind?

You heard footsteps behind you, familiar and deliberate. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Josh. “Go away,” you said, your voice raw.

He didn’t.

“Hey,” he said softly, his tone careful, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loud. “What’s wrong?” You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the stillness. “You really have to ask?” Josh shifted, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if this is about—”

“It’s not about Sam!” you snapped, whirling to face him. “It’s about you, Josh. It’s always about you.” His brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his green eyes. “What are you talking about?” You threw your hands up, frustration spilling over. “Do you know what it’s like? To feel like you’re screaming into the void, hoping, praying, that someone will hear you? To love someone so much that it hurts, only for them to act like you don’t even exist?” Josh’s expression shifted, the confusion replaced by something deeper, something raw.

“I—”

“You don’t get it,” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “You never have. And maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve said something years ago, but I didn’t, and now... now I can’t even look at you without feeling like I’m suffocating.” The tears came harder now, and you didn’t bother to stop them. Josh took a step closer, his jaw tight, but he didn’t speak. “Say something,” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Anything.”

He didn’t.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until you shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Of course,” you said, turning away. “Why did I even expect—” But before you could take another step, his hand caught your arm, spinning you back toward him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate, messy, like he was trying to say all the words he couldn’t find through the press of his lips. His hands cradled your face, grounding you even as the world seemed to tilt beneath your feet. For a moment, you froze, too stunned to move. But then your hands found his shirt, clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you feel like this.” Your chest ached, the anger draining from your body as quickly as it had come. “Josh,” you started, but he cut you off, his green eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I know I don’t. But you’re all I think about. You always have been.” The words broke something in you, and the tears came again, but this time, they weren’t born of anger or frustration. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Because I’m a coward,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Because I’m an idiot who didn’t realize what he had until he almost lost it.” You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his hands still framing your face. “I can’t.” You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you did the only thing you could: you kissed him.

This time, it was softer, slower, filled with all the things you couldn’t put into words. And when you pulled back, his lips curved into a small, hesitant smile. “Does this mean you’ll stop avoiding me?” you asked, your voice shaking with a mix of laughter and tears. Josh chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “You'll start wishing I would."

The first low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky as you and Josh lingered, the sound so faint at first that you barely noticed it. But then it came again, louder this time, accompanied by a flash of light on the horizon, pulling you both from your kiss. You glanced up at the clouds gathering above, your chest tightening. Josh followed your gaze, a grin tugging at his lips. “You afraid of a little rain?” Before you could respond, the heavens opened up. The rain came in a sudden, torrential downpour, drenching you both in seconds. You yelped, the cold droplets soaking through your clothes as Josh let out a startled laugh. “Come on!” he shouted over the sound of the rain, grabbing your hand.

He led you up the path, past the cabin and deeper into the woods where a small gazebo stood, tucked beneath a canopy of trees. The structure was simple but charming, with its whitewashed beams and ivy creeping up the sides. Inside was a weathered but cozy couch, draped with soft blankets that someone—Hannah, probably—had left there.

You stumbled under the shelter just as another crack of thunder split the sky. The sound was deafening, but you couldn’t help laughing as you leaned against one of the beams, rainwater dripping from your hair and clothes. Josh stood across from you, his hands on his hips, his shirt clinging to his chest in a way that made your heart race all over again. His hair was a mess, dark strands sticking to his forehead, and yet he looked unfairly good—smiling at you like this was the best night of his life.

“Well,” he said, shaking water from his hair, “so much for staying dry.” You rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around yourself. “You think?” He stepped closer, his grin softening into something warmer. “Here.” He reached for one of the blankets on the couch, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders. His fingers brushed your arms as he adjusted it, and you shivered, though it wasn’t from the rain. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quieter now.

Josh sat beside you on the couch, his arm resting along the back as he leaned into the cushions. The rain pattered against the roof of the gazebo, a rhythmic hum that filled the silence between you. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “I kind of like this.” You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Getting caught in a thunderstorm?”

“No,” he said, chuckling. “Being here. With you.” You looked away, focusing on the rain streaking down the gazebo’s wooden beams. “Josh...” “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now. You felt his hand brush against yours, tentative, like he was testing the waters. “Look at me.” You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. The rain softened the world around you, muting everything except the warmth in his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. It was just the two of you, sitting close on that old couch, the rain falling like a curtain around the gazebo. You could feel it, that familiar warmth creeping up within you, curling in your stomach every time Josh was near. Your heart thuds as his rough palm drags itself up your exposed thigh. Before you could stop yourself, the words rushed out of your mouth. “I’m a virgin!” Your face flushed a deep crimson as soon as the words left your lips, and you immediately covered your face with your hands in embarrassment.

Josh froze for a beat, his hand still resting on your thigh. You could feel his gaze on you, but you didn’t dare look up. And then, to your surprise, you heard him laugh softly, the sound low and warm. “Wait... really?” he asked, his voice filled with amusement but also something softer, something affectionate.

You peeked up at him, still hiding half of your face behind your hands, the flush on your cheeks deepening. “Yeah, really,” you mumbled, not sure whether you were embarrassed or relieved to finally say it out loud. Josh’s grin widened, and there was a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned a little closer. “I gotta admit, that’s a little... surprising.” He paused, his tone teasing but gentle. “But, hey, no rushing." Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of him being your first. You nodded, your eyes searching his face, still unsure whether to be embarrassed or... maybe a little proud?

His hand gently moved from your thigh to rest on your knee, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, reassuring circles. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said quietly, his voice soft. “I'm not trying anything unless you want to.” You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and found only kindness there— no teasing, no judgment, just understanding. And somehow, that made everything feel a little easier. "I do want to... you know.." The words won't come out. “Still,” you muttered, “it’s... kind of awkward, don’t you think?” Josh chuckled, that warm smile never leaving his face. “Don't think so” he said, his voice low and serious now, “if you’re gonna share something like that with anyone, I’m glad it could be me."

You nod, scooting closer to him, palms now flush on his chest. his eyes scan your every inch, and you try to look away, but he captures your lips into another kiss. his lips trail down to your neck with a low "can I?" And you hum, trying your best to stay quiet as you get used to the feeling.

in no time, you're under him, both entangled, half naked and out of breath. he finally pulls off your panties, tossing them to the floor as he spreads your cunt wide open with two of his fingers, and god, you looked so erotic, all shying away as he loomed over, fingers playing with your pussy. "You ever touched yourself like this before?" You nod, bottom lip captive between your teeth. "J-just a little..." Oh, god. "You're so beautiful, fuckㅡ" And he's already losing his mind. Nights of fantasizing couldn’t have prepared him for this.

placing his palm behind your knee, he lifts up your legs, laying light pecks onto the plush of your thighs, thumb now tracing down to your puffy clit. Josh starts slowly, swirling his finger and still kissing your soft flesh. "Thank you for letting me do this." tracing the entrace with his index, he pushes his finger slow and deep inside, and you arch against him. this was it. he was where all of his dreams led him to. you looked like something straight out of a 80's porno. cunningly, josh moved his finger, and before you knew it he added another one. you squeezed perfectly around his digits, the sounds you and your pussy made driving him to the brink. "You hear that?" he asks, curling up his fingers, the wet sounds amplifying. "don't think I've ever had a pussy this wet before..." you whimper ans wrigle under his hold. "Josh.."

"What? It's the truth." he chuckles, speed picking up, his other hand now flush to your lower belly. "Want you to come. Can you do that for me?" he looks up, doe eyes searching for yours, and you can already feel your body convulsing. it didn't take long for you to finally give in and gift him what he asked for, coming just from his fingers. the way you thighs squeezed together, trapping his hand between them, soft pleads dripping from your lips like honeyㅡ he was done for. you were embarrassed, to say the least, hiding your face into his shirt he had taken off long ago. "Stop that, heyㅡ look at me, baby." Baby. did you just come again? "You did great. so good." he leans in over you, pressing a soft kiss on the bridge of your nose. "Do you wanna keep going?" and you say the most eager 'yes' known to man. "i got you." he smiles, eyes tracing every curve of your body. he takes off his pants along with hus briefs, letting his shaft spring free, small pearls of precum already gathered at the tip.

your eyes opened. what the fuck? is that normal? you knew your first would hurt, but seeing what Josh had going on for him you knew it would be the most painful experience for you yet. "Don't worry. I'll go slow." he stumbles a bit back, grabbing a hold of his trousers, palming his pockets before he mutters a soft 'there we go.' and takes out a shiny wrapperㅡ a condom. the opens it and carefully takes it out, lining it with the tip of his aching cock. "If you ever wanna stopㅡ" he starts, whilst rolling the condom down his length. "Tell me. Yeah?" you nod.

taking his length into his fist, Josh pumps it a few times before he aligns it with your entrance that trickled with juices. he lets it slip in, and your eyes close as tears threaten to fall. you claw at his back, but Josh kisses you sweetly as he slides in some more, your walls wrapping perfectly around himㅡ just like it was meant to be. "It's okay, you're okay, baby."

after going in the last couple of inches, he starts to move, gently holding down onto your waist as he lets you adjust. "Doing so good for me."

just a few strokes after, he feels you wrapping your legs around his hips, urging him deeper. "Please.." You plead, the sweetest sounds escaping your plump and swollen lips, and he swears he could come just by that. "Fuck, yeah, okayㅡ" he groans, with the way your teary eyes stared up at him. He starts to move his hips, harder, deeper, each sound you made an encouragement for him to keep going. His palms make their way under your back, pulling you up, almost to sit on his lap. He fucks up into you, your arms lazily draped over his flexed shoulders whilst his lips kiss soft blooms onto your chest. you clench around him. "J-Josh..." he shakes his head, laughing as his fingers dig deep into your flesh where you know bruises will appear later. "Don'tㅡ ha, I'm gonna come if you keep doing that." whines slip past your lips as his speed picks up. "Shit, shitㅡ" he pulls you closer, lips now stuck to your neck like a locket. "Y-you gonna come?" he prys. "Mhm.." you squeal as your eyes roll back. "Go ahead, for me." that's all it took. you come once again, nimbly wrapping around josh like a vine, walls squeezing him so tight. your mind goes blank, only soft moans gripping your throat as Josh pumps into you, finally releasing inside of the condom with a few thrusts.

you both breathe heavily, hearts beating in a sing-song, as you come down from your high. realization sets in as you meet each other's gaze. it was real. it really just happened.

"You okay?" he leans in, pressing a lazy kiss onto your lips. "Yeah... How okay can one be after having sex for the first time..?" and he laughs, playing with the strands of your hair. "Thank god for the rain covering the sound. You were super loud just thenㅡ"

"Josh!"

#josh washington #josh washington smut #josh washington x reader #josh washington x you #joshua washington #until dawn #until dawn fanfics #rami malek #rami malek x reader

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