#i remember liking this so much when i first finished it!!

[wishingstarworld]

“Until all vampires are dead,” I replied simply and dropped my sack onto the floor, a small cloud of dust billowing around it. I glanced around the small, one-room cabin that had once been my home, now simply a house covered with a thick layer of dust. I briefly considered cleaning but decided against it. There was no point. I’d only be here a few days at most anyway.

Varren shorted, leaning back against the wall, “So forever then?”

I shot him a look and cast a small fire spell on the old logs of wood in the fireplace I’d put there pre-emptively a month ago, setting them alight, and pulled over a chair. After brushing off the dust, I plopped down and groaned in relief as the heat washed over me. Hopefully, it wouldn��t take long for my clothes to dry from the rain.

Varren sighed and for a moment looked like the three-centuries-old being he truly was, “You push yourself too hard. This is the third month-long hunt you’ve undertaken without rest, something you desperately need if those bags under your eyes are anything to go by. It wouldn’t kill you to take a break and—”

“No,” I snapped, glaring at him hard enough that he shut his mouth, “It wouldn’t kill me. But it would kill the next innocent one of those blood-sucking scum takes while I kick my feet up while sipping tea. It would deprive a mother of her child, a husband of his wife, a friend of someone they hold dear. And all because I wasn’t there to steak the bloody bastard because I was too busy sitting on my ass. So no, Varren, I will not ‘take a break.’ I won’t let anyone suffer through that kind of pain! Not like I…I…”

All the indignation and anger washed away the moment memories of that night flashed through my mind. It was all still so clear. Mother’s cries, Father’s shouting. And the blood…gods, I could still smell it after all these years…

I shuttered out a breath and sighed, running my fingers through my hair, “Sorry.” I turned my attention to my sore feet and unlaced my boots. As I started to pull them off, I winced as I felt resistance from what I could only imagine would be blisters. I gritted my teeth and yanked the boot hard, almost biting through my lip from the pain. I eased the boot off, shook out the rainwater and blood, and tossed it by the fireplace, resting my foot on my knee to get a better look.

Yep. Blisters. Over the entire bottom of my foot. Wonderful.

I sighed and repeated the process with my other boot, discovering more blisters. After my second boot joined the first, I reached for my bag to grab some rags only for it to be pulled out of my reach. I watched as Varren wordlessly opened my bag and pulled out the rags and some bandages. He discarded my bag back onto the floor and pulled over another chair in front of me. He snapped his fingers, a bowl of clean water appearing midair, and patted his leg.

I briefly considered protesting but remembered Varren’s stubbornness and relented, gingerly resting my foot in his lap. He soaked one of the rags and carefully began cleaning the dirt and dried blood from my foot, being extra careful when wiping over a blister and caressing my ankle whenever I winced.

I studied Varren as he carefully but securely bandaged my foot before beginning the process anew with the other. Stories my father had told me as a child about vampires flew through my head. The ultimate predator, monsters with human faces, beings whose only desire was blood, a desire that only grew as their souls aged yet their bodies did not. Watching Varren discard the bloody rags without so much as a second thought, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the old tales were simply that. How many vampires were like Varren, disgusted with their monstrous nature and desperately clinging onto what remained of their humanity?

Or would things have been different—would he have been different—if we had met even a century from now.

“Answer me one thing,” Varren said softly as he finished bandaging my foot, drawing patterns almost absentmindedly across my shin, “When you have achieved that which you desire, when all vampires are gone and dust…what will you do? What will we do?”

He looked at me with those blood-red eyes and I met his gaze with my equally red ones, “We will finally rest.”

After a one-month long hunt, the vampire hunter returns home with a body full of hastily treated wounds and dark circles under the eyes. Yet, they are already preparing to embark on another hunt. Standing beside them, a vampire speaks up: "How long do you plan to live this way?"

[zaynessbeloved]

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.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.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

[chrisstvrns]

blurb of chris loving his girl so much, he would do anything for her forgiveness.

warnings: light angst, fluff in the end

word count: 876

chris knew he had fucked up.  

and not in the way where he could flash that lopsided grin, mumble out some half-assed "my bad," and wrap his arms around you until you begrudgingly accepted his apology. no, this was the kind of fuck-up that left his phone void of your name, your texts, your voice. it had been three days. three days of silence, three days of you ignoring his texts, leaving his calls to ring out, and worst of all, three days since you had stormed out of his house with fire in your eyes and venom in your words.  

matt and nick had given him shit for it. repeatedly. but chris didn’t care about their ribbing—he cared that he hadn't been able to fix it yet.  

so, in an act of desperation, he did something he never thought he'd do: he sat down with an actual pen and paper and wrote you a letter. no texting, no notes app draft, no voice memo where he rambled until he hoped he made sense. just ink and regret spilled onto three long pages.  

chris folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and, with a determined heart, drove over to your place. he carefully placed the letter into your mailbox, texted a simple “i left something for you,” and prayed you’d read it.  

you did.  

and not only did you read it, but you also grabbed a red pen and went absolutely feral on it.  

when chris found the same envelope in his mailbox the next morning, his heart leapt in hope—until he pulled out the letter and saw your handwriting scribbled all over it, ruthlessly correcting his grammar, circling misspelled words, and writing snarky little comments in the margins.  

“you don’t blame me? then why did you fight me on it?”  

“you should’ve listened to me? damn right. make this a thesis statement instead of burying the lead.”  

“good, this part actually sounds like you mean it. keep going.”  

and the kicker, written at the very bottom in bold, underlined letters:  

“if you can rewrite this and turn it in by tomorrow, i’ll unblock you.”  

chris stared at the letter, torn between laughing and groaning in frustration. only you would take his heartfelt apology and turn it into a goddamn english assignment.  

he grinned.  

challenge accepted.  

chris spent the rest of the day hunched over his desk, muttering to himself as he scribbled out a new draft. he had never put so much effort into writing anything in his life, not even the one essay he actually cared about in high school. he read and reread your comments, taking them seriously, and making sure that this time, every word counted.  

he started over twice. the first draft felt too stiff, too formal - like he was writing a resignation letter instead of an apology. the second had too much rambling, and you’d already told him not to bury the lead. so, for the third attempt, he took a deep breath and wrote like he was talking to you. like you were right in front of him, arms crossed, waiting for him to say something real.  

by the time he finished, his hand was cramping, his desk was covered in discarded drafts, and the clock read 2:14 am. but for the first time in three days, he felt like he had a shot at fixing things.  

chris sealed the new letter in an envelope, drove to your place, and left it in your mailbox, yet again. this time, he didn’t text you - just knocked once and walked away, leaving it in your hands.  

the next morning, his phone buzzed.  

a text from you.  

chris’s heart jumped as he unlocked his phone and read the text.  

“you passed. barely. but i’ll allow it.”  

before he could even think of a reply, another message popped up.  

“come over.”   

chris didn’t waste time. he was out the door in minutes, barely remembering to grab his keys. the drive to your place felt longer than ever, anticipation and nerves tangling in his chest.  

when you opened the door, he barely had a second to register the look on your face before you were pulling him inside, your arms crossing over your chest like you were still debating whether or not to be mad at him.  

“well?” you prompted.  

chris ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath. “i meant every word.”  

you eyed him for a moment before unfolding the letter and holding it up. “this was good,” you admitted, tapping the paper. “and better yet, you actually listened.”  

his lips twitched. “had to. i was being graded.”  

your glare was half-hearted at best. “i don’t think you understand how close you were to failing.”  

chris grinned. “guess that makes this an extra credit assignment,” he said, closing the space between you.  

you rolled your eyes, but when he hesitated, waiting for permission, your expression softened. finally, you sighed, tilting your head up just enough to meet him halfway.  

“i hate that you’re kinda good at this,” you muttered.  

chris smirked. “oh, i’m great at this.”  

and when his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, you didn’t pull away.

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a/n: this was made based off of this post by @muwapsturniolo !! finally out of my writers slump (???) i kinda hate this sooo ?

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

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[auraisereigh]

"A Tale of Ink and Desire"

oneshot

Garrick Tavis x Scribe reader Request: "Coul you write Garrick Tavis x Scribe!Reader oneshot, please? 😍🙏" wc: 5.7k letter count ☆ no specific spoilers. Uses pronouns: she/her. A/N: don't feel like its the best piece i've made but i still hope you will enjoy it.

Masterlist ☆ Dragon guide ☆ Star's story ☆ Empyrean guide ☆ Support me

Being a scribe at Aretia is different from Basgiath—yet somehow, it's the same.

The air here feels calmer, fresher. There isn't as much tension here as there was in the archives, yet the quiet hum of work remains familiar.

I go through my routine, the same one I’ve built since arriving a few weeks ago.

Mornings start with coffee from the mess hall, then straight to the Riorson House library. A list of book requests usually waits for me—sometimes for riders, sometimes for the assembly. I gather the needed texts and place them in the study before sorting the returns. Some days, we even receive deliveries of completely new books.

Weirdly, that makes me so happy.

Today is one of those days.

I’m carefully shelving returned books when the soft chime of the library’s entrance bell rings. I glance up to see Garrick and Bodhi stepping inside, a cart stacked high with boxes between them.

I offer a polite smile to both men, but my gaze lingers on Garrick—the man who has spent countless late nights with me, whether here among the shelves or outside on the quiet grass field, bringing me food and drinks when I was too lost in my work to remember to eat.

“Good morning,” I greet them as they stop in front of the desk.

“Morning,” they echo back, setting down the boxes.

The moment the first one is placed on the desk, I can’t help myself—I’m already pulling it open, eager to see what’s inside. Garrick chuckles softly at my enthusiasm. I shoot him a small, sheepish grin before turning back to my treasure trove.

Most are just extra copies of textbooks for the cadets. But then, two new ones catch my eye—ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.

The Tyrrish Rebellion: A Forbidden History by Colonel Gerault and Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh.

And Tyrrendor’s Dragon Guide, written by the same Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh.

I quickly unpack them, stacking them neatly. By the time I’m finished, the desk is surrounded by orderly piles and the remaining boxes are off to the side.

“Thank you,” I say, glancing between Bodhi and Garrick.

Bodhi offers me one of his usual soft smiles, but Garrick’s gaze stays fixed on mine. Something knowing flickers in Bodhi’s expression as he looks between us, and I feel heat creep up my neck.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Bodhi remarks, grinning as he claps Garrick on the shoulder before walking off.

Garrick barely reacts, only rolling his shoulders as he watches me. Then, lazily, he laces his fingers behind his head and smirks.

“When are you finished?” he asks casually.

I smile but focus on opening another box. “Sundown.”

A moment later, I feel the warmth of his hand settle lightly against my back. I freeze for just a breath before turning to face him. He’s close—so close I can feel his body heat, his breath mingling with mine.

“I’ll pick you up,” he murmurs, his lips a whisper away from mine.

My breath catches. Judging by the smirk that tugs at his mouth, he notices.

♤

The rest of the day crawls by unbearably slow.

It always does whenever Garrick tells me in advance that he’ll be waiting for me.

I’ve spent the last hour at my desk, all my tasks finished, absorbed in one of the newly arrived books. My robe’s hood is pulled up, an attempt to cocoon myself in solitude. It almost works—until the sound of someone clearing their throat pulls me from my trance.

I glance up—and regret it instantly.

Garrick leans against the desk, looking unfairly good. He always does, but something about seeing him in a short-sleeved black shirt nearly undoes me. The way the fabric stretches over his arms, the dark relic curling along his skin...

“You wanna keep staring, or are we leaving?” His voice is laced with amusement.

I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Everyone stares at his arms, right?

“Is there an option for both?” I muse, still very much admiring his muscles.

He chuckles, extending his arm. I sigh, shut the book neatly, and stand—smoothing out my robe before slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.

The walk through Riorson House is peaceful.

I grew up in Morraine province, never imagining I’d one day walk through halls like these. Tyrrendor’s history, its culture—so much of it was erased, forbidden. But here, it lingers in the smallest details. I see it in the carvings along the walls, the woven tapestries, the symbols etched into stone.

We step outside into the open field, where the grass is still a brilliant green, flowers blooming vibrantly under the golden evening light. Butterflies drift lazily through the air, undisturbed by the world beyond this quiet pocket of peace.

We settle on the grass, and Garrick pulls a few food containers from his bag—fresh fruits, vegetables, pastries, and, to my delight, chocolate cookies. This is becoming our routine. Sitting together, eating in comfortable silence. He sharpens his daggers; I read. Occasionally, I let myself ramble about a book I’m excited about.

Speaking of which—

I dig into my bag and pull out a book with a soft pink cover, the illustration of a fox and an archer adorning the front.

“I found this while reshelving,” I say, handing it to him before popping a strawberry into my mouth.

Garrick’s fingers skim over the cover. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a fairytale. A girl who was turned into a fox. Her lover is cursed to hunt her down, but they find a way to break the curse.”

His gaze flickers back to mine. “How does it end?”

I shrug, smiling. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

Garrick sets the book aside and leans in, his breath warm against my lips. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling gently in my hair.

“It’s been too long since I’ve had you,” he murmurs.

My breath catches. “I know,” I whisper.

His lips brush against mine, soft and teasing at first. It never stays that way.

His hands find my hips, pulling me into his lap with practiced ease. I shift slightly, tugging my hood back up to shield us from wandering eyes. He huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t deter him.

“I read the tagged parts in your romance novels,” he murmurs.

I stiffen. My heart skips a beat. “You did?” I barely breathe out.

He grins—a knowing, wicked grin. “Mmh. Perhaps we should recreate some of those scenes?”

Heat floods my face.

“We definitely should if it makes you blush like that,” he teases.

I don’t reply, just meet his gaze, my silence all the answer he needs.

His grin widens, his grip on me tightening just slightly.

Something tells me it’s going to be a very long night.

♤

[channieschaoscorner]

Tipping Point - Stray Kids x female!9th member reader

Pairing: ot8!Skz x 9th member reader

Summary: You and Chan had worked together for so long, it’s only natural that you have your arguments.

Genre: Angst, fluff at the end, slight reader x chan if you squint hard enough, choreographer reader and producer Chan go head to head but we still love them, bad language and insults in an argument

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love on my first imagine! I have a few ideas for some more 9th member fics but please message if you have any ideas or anything you would like to see!!!!! Also apologies if there’s any typos, I do proof read my work but I’m not perfect lol

────୨ৎ────

The music blaring out of the speakers bordered on obscene, it didn’t matter though. It was late enough that barely anyone was left in the building, and if they were then they were far too preoccupied with their own work to care about what others were doing. Your phone blinked in the corner with unread messages and calls, ignoring them as you could guess who they were room all you did was check the time. It was late but you were still too wound up to even think about heading home, that and you still had far too much work to do on this choreography. It was nowhere near what you needed it to be, but then again if it was what you needed then you wouldn’t even be here. You’d be at home either in bed or tucked up on the sofa with the TV on being piled on by the boys (Felix, it was always Felix.)

You groaned and hit play on the song again, listening to the starting beats and tried to visualise where the boys could be standing. The vocals started and you checked over your notes, trying to come up with the positions on who needed to be centre and who would be coming forward at that specific time. Ideally you’d have another person here that you could place and work around, another choreographer, Minho, even a backup dancer. You’d take anyone at this point if it meant you could get more than 4 hours sleep tonight.

You rewound the song back to the first chorus and stood up, mentally thanking yourself that you’d remembered your tripod so at least you could film what you’d come up with properly and didn’t have to balance your phone against your water bottle just to watch it inevitably fall down as you were in the middle of dancing, like it had done so many times before.

“And 5, 6, 7, 8.” You counted yourself in out loud in an attempt to get used to the counts for when you’d have to teach the boys tomorrow or technically in the morning as it was well past midnight at this stage. This wasn’t the first time you’d had to come up with choreography the night before you had to teach it but you didn’t enjoy doing it. It wasn’t your fault, not that you’d ever tell. You’d only got the song a few hours ago from Chan, who’d held onto it for far longer than promised. You knew it wasn’t done out of malice, he was always so worried about new music that he wanted to keep it for as long as possible until he was sure it was perfect.

Unfortunately for you though this meant your deadline was fast approaching and you hadn’t even heard the finished song. Fast forward through plenty of excuses to staff about trying to perfect the dance and politely asking Chan about the song, you’d run out of time. Which then resulted in the blow out at dinner.

You winced thinking back to the harsh words exchanged and swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling in your chest before hitting play and record one more time.

────୨ৎ────

*Earlier that day*

The dorm was loud, it was on a normal day but today was particularly boisterous. You bit back a laugh as Minho swatted and shooed Felix and Seungmin away from the stove with threats of an air fryer that left Hyunjin thankful he hadn’t offered to help. You hopped up and sat on an empty piece of counter space to watch the chaos unfold in front of you. The screams that came from the other room made you wonder how setting a table could cause them but you chose not to investigate, effectively leaving Han to fend for himself. It was rare over the past few weeks that you’d all been able to sit down and eat together, between so many different schedules you’d become too used to eating at random times and running past each other in the dorm. Hence why Chan had suggested tonight as a day for you all to cook and sit down to eat together.

“It’s been too long since we ate together like a family, we’ll have dinner, movies, snacks. It’ll be good for us after how busy things have been.” He suggested. It was a good suggestion, you’d all agreed quickly to it. There was just one problem.

Chan was nowhere to be seen.

You’d noticed his absence earlier but said nothing, hoping that he was just caught talking to someone and would appear through the doorway, laughing about never being able to leave the building on time.

No such luck.

The boys stood silently around the table as you helped Minho carry in dinner.

“We can hang on a few more minutes, I’m sure he’ll be here soon” Relief flooded in the boys features as they didn’t want to eat without their leader, neither did you if you were being honest and you weren’t looking forward to making the call about when to eat. Eat now whilst dinner was warm and miss Chan which would hurt his feelings or risk waiting for him, possibly all night, and have the dinner they worked so hard on go to waste?

Time to introduce yourself to a rock and a hard place.

“I can try ringing him?”

“Good idea Innie.” You didn’t mention the plethora of texts and missed calls he already had off you that were either sitting unseen or being ignored. For his sake, you hopped it was the first option.

Changbin sidled up to you, “I left him working on that song again, he said he was only going to be 30 minutes and he’d leave straight away.”

You sighed, not surprised that he was working late again. You loved him but being a workaholic and a perfectionist was a combination that sometimes left the rest of you in the firing line. You lifted up your glasses to rub your eyes, already feeling a stress headache start up.

“No answer but I left him a message, maybe he’s just caught up with someone” Jeongin tried halfheartedly.

You had to make a decision, “Ok guys, go put a show on. We can leave this covered up for a bit and it’ll stay warm and we can wait a bit longer for him.”

They filtered in front of TV, slotting into their regular positions which to any outside was a mess of legs, blankets, and insults before everyone got comfortable.

“You don’t think he’s coming do you?” Changbin hadn’t left your side.

“For his sake, I hope he does.”

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t happy to put it mildly.

“Come on guys, let’s eat.” You prolonged this as long as you could but you couldn’t tune out the sound of their stomachs and you weren’t about to let their hard work go to waste. They followed you back to the table and sat down as you held your hands out for their bowls. You worked with Minho going round the table to serve up the food, leaving yourself last.

“Ok, who has news? I want to hear about all of your weeks, I feel like I haven’t seen you all in so long. Tell me everything.” You tried to keep your tone light but you could feel the disappointment hovering around the table like a shadow.

Hyunjin caught your eye, “Well, last week I-”

The door slamming shut cut him off.

“Sorry I’m late, I got caught up with some stuff.” Chan walked in looking frazzled, his eyes taking in the table of food. “You weren’t gonna wait?”

Silence.

“We’ve been waiting Chan.” Your tone was short. “We’ve been waiting so long the foods nearly gone cold, you’d know that if you checked your phone.”

“No need to take my head off, I got caught up working on a song”

“Don’t get annoyed with me, you’re the one who wanted us to have dinner together.”

“And I’m here now so let’s eat. Let it go.”

You ground your teeth, biting back an answer in an effort to follow his words and ‘let it go’.

“Did you at least get the song finished?”

He nodded.

“Great, can you send it over to me? I still need to sort the choreography out and-”

“Jesus Y/N, I just got in. Can you wait 5 minutes before you start nagging at me again?”

Your jaw dropped, “Nagging you?”

“Channie hyung maybe you-” Changbin tried to interject but it was no use.

“I’ve just got in and you want the song right now?”

“I don’t want it right now but I need it. I needed the song last week if I’m being honest, you’ve held onto it for so long that I’m making excuses for why the choreography isn’t done.”

Chan waved you off, “You’ll get it done, it won’t take you long.”

You scoffed at his words, “I love your confidence in my ability to choreograph a full song for not only us but the backup dancers too in one night but I could do with a bit longer than that Chan.”

“Fine you want the song? I’ll send it to you right now.” He dropped his chopsticks on the table and stormed off.

You clenched your fists and groaned.

“Do you want one of us to go or?”

“No Binnie, it’s ok I’ll go.”

You followed Chan into his room and shut the door behind yourself. “Don’t storm away from the table like that.”

He didn’t even turn around, “I’m not a child, don’t chastise me.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

He spun around, “Me speak to you like that? I walked in through the door and you were already pissed at me.”

“Because you missed dinner, they’ve been cooking all afternoon and you were late. No text or call, we had to guess when you were going to show up. You let them down, they were excited to do this. I let them out of dance practice early and everything today.”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes now.

“Well for that and because I still don’t a song to teach them.”

“Oh for god’s sake, I’m sending you the fucking song now.”

“Don’t fucking swear at me!”

“Don’t be such a bitch then.” He slammed his laptop closed and pushed back out past you into the hallway.

You followed him shouting, which made the rest of the boys jump when they heard the loud voices. You were arguing in English now but they could pick up on enough words to know this wasn’t a happy conversation.

“If it’s such a panic for you then start working on it now, shouting at me about it won’t make the dance for you.”

“Oh you are such a-”

Chan got a look in his eyes, almost daring you to finish your sentence. “Such a what?”

“A cunt.”

Felix choked on his water resulting in Hyunjin slapping him on the back.

You didn’t wait around for his reply, you all but ran to your room to grab your dance bag and flung clothes into it along with headphones, a tripod and your notebook. You had to get out of here before this got even worse. You needed out of the dorm and the practice room was your solace. You went back to see the boys staring at you, still at the table not one of them daring to move and that made your chest ache. The food was sitting untouched and you took a deep breath.

“Eat as much as you want to, box up what you don’t. Leave the dishes in the sink, I’ll deal with them later. Please go to sleep at a reasonable time, I’ll be back later.”

You made for the door, ignoring the conversations behind you.

“Y/N wait!” Felix chased you, holding something delicately in his hands. The smell hit you first, he’d boxed you up dinner to bring with you. “You didn’t eat.”

The uncomfortable feeling in your chest shifted slightly. “Thank you.” You took the container off him to put at the top of your bag.

“Do you know when you’ll be back?”

“Not yet.”

“Well don’t walk back on your own if it’s late, ring me or get a taxi. It’s not safe walking around so late on your own.”

You nodded and gave him a hug. “Go back in Felix, you still need to eat.”

He hugged you back and turned around, ready to join the others back at the table.

“Felix? Don’t tell Chan where I am, I’m in no mood for him.”

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was unnaturally quiet now, a startling comparison to earlier on. The table had been cleared and kitchen was spotless as the boys washed, dried and put all the dishes away. You’d told them you would deal with it later but it didn’t feel right to them to leave a mess behind for you to clean up, especially knowing you wouldn’t get in until the early hours of the morning if you past behaviour was any example to go by.

Chan stood silently watching them clean up, he contemplated leaving without saying anything but couldn’t ignore the fact that you weren’t with them.

“Where is she?”

No one answered.

“It’s late, if she’s out on her own then you need to tell me.”

“She’s not out, she’s fine.” Felix answered.

“So then where is she?”

“She doesn’t want you to know.”

“What?” Chan faltered, he’d known you for years and you’d had disagreements before but you’d never been so annoyed that you actively hid where you were from him.

Felix debated his next words before deciding to say them, “You were an ass to her earlier.”

“I know but-”

“But nothing, she’s been making excuses for weeks now about not having any choreography to show just to give you more time on the song and it’s not the first time. If she doesn’t want to see you now then it’s because she’s under pressure to make the dance and figure out a way to teach it to us before she gets into real trouble over this without dropping you in it and because you hurt her feelings over this. You need to apologise to her.”

With that, Felix left Chan in the kitchen alone as when he left the others followed him. No one felt the need to add anything else, Felix had pretty much covered everyone’s opinion. Felix was right, Chan needed to apologise to you and based on what Felix had said and how well he already knew you, he had a pretty good guess at where you were right now.

────୨ৎ────

*Present*

You flung your notebook in the direction of your bag, too annoyed by the spacing to carry on. You were calling it, there was no way you could figure out this part of the dance without someone else here with you. You had a rough idea of what needed to be done but there was only so much spacing and marking you could do with your water bottle and hoodie, until you got another dancer to help you then you’d need to finish it here. At least you’d got a good amount done, you could teach the chorus at least and parts of the verses tomorrow, and then you could grab Minho and Hyunjin to help you mark out the spacing if they had time in the afternoon.

You were coming up with a plan as you left the practice room, feeling considerably calmer than when you arrived. You newfound peace though was instantly disturbed when you saw who was waiting for you in the lobby.

“Hi.” Chan waved.

You stopped and stared at him.

“Felix didn’t tell me where you were, I guessed.” He was desperately trying to fill the silence, and your staring was starting to make him nervous. “And I was right. I mean, obviously I was right. You’re here and I’m here.”

“I don’t have the energy for you right now.” You spun on your heel and headed straight back to the practice room.

You could hear him following but chose not to acknowledge him, you weren’t lying when you said that you didn’t have the energy for him. You knew he wouldn’t just let you walk home without talking about what had happened so returning to the practice room was the next best thing. He respected your time enough that if he thought you were working, he wouldn’t interrupt you.

So, despite wanting nothing more than to head home and crawl into bed before your alarm was due to go off in a few hours, you set your phone back up with the speaker and pulled your notebook out again. If you were going to be forced into staying here to avoid speaking to him then you might as well be productive.

Chan slid in through the door and took a seat at the back of the room, you stared at him when he did but said nothing. It was a win in his book that you didn’t instantly kick him out when he came through the door. It was technically Stray Kids official practice room but between the two of you, he’d known it as your practice room for years. Memories of the two of you as trainees being the last people in the building were circling around his head, he thought back to meeting you for the first time and it looked something very much like this. Stumbling upon the room, wondering who was still here at 3am and hearing the music blaring out a speaker, finding you in the centre of it, sweaty and worn out but still had enough energy to smile and introduce yourself to him.

The guilt was creeping up from his chest and attempting to claw itself out as he sat and watched you. He lost count of how many times you consulted your notes, started and restarted the song at different parts, recorded what you were doing, tried to figure out placements. He knew what went into choreographing obviously but seeing you burnt out when you should’ve had this done weeks ago made his stomach clench. How many times had you had to do this? Felix had said this wasn’t the first time, how many times had you covered for him and pulled an all nighter just to get a dance finished so he could have more time on a song?

“What?” You asked, without realising he’d been staring at you.

His mouth opened and closed, words failed to find him. An apology didn’t feel like enough, how could he start an apology about this without acknowledging all the pressure you’d been taking for him.

“If you’re not planning on leaving you might as well come here.” You directed him to a space on the floor that your hoodie currently held. You kicked it to the wall, and moved him slightly into position. “Don’t move too much, I need to figure out if something works. Just move on the spot like you’re singing.”

He waited until you hit play and counted him in, he did exactly what you asked, moving slightly on the spot to give the impression of singing as you moved around him. You repeated this a few more times in different positions, clearly trying to figure out if it could work as a group. Chan waited for more instructions and followed your prompts as you moved him around the room and back again deciding against that.

“Does it normally take you this long?” He asked quietly as you crossed something out that you’d wrote earlier.

You shrugged. “It depends on the song or how I feel. Some stuff is quicker to figure out but the spacing and background move when someone is singing is harder. Or if it works whilst you’re singing. It just depends. Can you stand here?”

He nodded and moved to where you were pointing.

“I’m sorry.”

You glanced up at him.

“I didn’t realise how much pressure I put you under by giving you the track so late.”

You shrugged again. “It is what it is Chan, you get put under pressure by us and the company all the time. Giving me the track a few days late isn’t a big deal.”

He caught your arm as you stepped past him, “It is to me, especially when you’re here until 5am because of it.”

“Us being here until 5am is nothing new.”

“This is different.” He insisted.

You kept your eyes on his hand that was still wrapped around your arm, the skin was burning under it and your face was burning under his gaze.

“Chan I don’t care if you hand me a song on the day it’s due and I have to come up with a choreography on the spot. I can live with that, I can live with pulling an all nighter if it gives you more time and you need it. What I don’t want is for you to throw it in my face like it’s no big deal or that what I’m doing means nothing. I like what I do and I know I’m good at it, we both know it’s the main thing you brought me into the group for, I just want to be appreciated for what I do.”

“I do appreciate what you do. I could never stay here all night trying to figure out who dances in what bit and steps where and moves when. I’d go insane.”

You cracked a smile, “And that’s why you produce and I choreograph.”

He let go of your arm and wrapped his arms around your shoulders and pulled you close. “Are we good?”

“We’re good.” You mumbled into his chest. “And I’m sorry I called you a cunt.”

He laughed properly at that.

“It’s fine, just don’t say it again in front of the others. I don’t need them learning that one and accidentally dropping it in an interview. That’s the last thing I want to make an apology for.”

You both decided to call it a night then despite knowing you had a few hours before you needed to come back, Chan picked your bag up and slung it over one shoulder.

“You still need to make it up to the others as well, they really wanted to have dinner together.”

“I know I will.”

“Thank you.”

Chan decided to ring for a car to get you back to the dorms quicker. The quicker you got back then the quicker you were able to get into bed and sleep. You didn’t make it that far though, once you settled into the back of the car and tiredness hit you, it was all you could do to stumble into the dorms and collapse on the sofa.

That was how you were found by Felix anyway, who had woke up to his own alarm that he’d set the night before knowing you’d be in too late to be responsible getting the rest of them up. He smiled at the sight of the two of you draped over each other, knowing someone was definitely going to wake up with pins and needles. He settled though for taking a photo of the two of you (kept to himself though so he could use it for his own gain on another day) and did what you always did first and turned on the coffee machine, knowing the noise would wake you up and he wouldn’t have to. He’d save the embarrassment of finding the two of you snuggled up for a moment when he really needed it.

[viasdreams]

Nightwalker ཐི❤︎ཋྀ ~ after route: mortality

My Hyuck,

Hello my love, how are you? I hope with all my soul that you're well, but if not, just blame all your feelings on Jaemin, just like when we first met. I know these days the two of you are close but he did try to basically kill me once remember?

I would say I hope Mark got this letter to you, but I know he did. He's very reliable like that, that's exactly why I trusted him with this. I feel so at peace knowing you have people like him surrounding you. Please thank him for me.

Okay, I have to write out all my sappy feelings now so I'll try my best to be serious, even though we both know that was never my strong suit. Pardon me if I crack a few jokes in this. I'll try to keep them actually funny, don't worry. How embarrassing would it be if I was unfunny from beyond the grave?

Over the years, you asked me a few times if I wanted you to turn me. I only ever responded with a shake of the head and never gave you an explanation, not that you ever asked for one. To be honest, even now I don't really have a reason for not wanting to. It just never felt right for me. I always waited for my doubts to leave me, but they never did. I tried so hard to want it Hyuck, I really did. Sometimes I wish I just did it. I mean, I wouldn't have to write this if I turned. But, that wouldn't be fair to either of us.

Thank you for staying with me through everything. I searched for reservations in your eyes as time went on, but I never found any. Even as our public-facing relationship changed from a young couple going out to lunch to a nice young man helping an old lady cross the street, there was never a hint of regret or disappointment toward me in your gaze. Only love. So much love.

If I were given the choice to go back to any point in my life, I would go to that night by the deli so I could relive every moment with you. Every ounce of pain, physical or emotional, that I went through to be with you was worth it. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. That's something I have no doubts about.

Don't you dare read this and get all mopey okay? I know that's what you're going to want to do, but don't. Receiving this letter doesn't signify that the world ending, it's just the world changing, and that's okay. Everything's okay. You're okay.

You're the most amazing person I've ever met and I know you're going to continue to live an amazing life. Please continue living Hyuck. This is not the end. You have so much left to do, don't let my absence stop you. If not for yourself, live because I need something more entertaining to watch than Renjun and Jeno arguing in the nursing home.

I know I'm asking a lot for someone not there, but please look after Jisung for me. It hasn't happened yet, but I worry that Chenle is going to dull that boy's sparkle with his "Chenleness", so I need you to prevent that for me.

Writing this is making me reflect on my life and all my memories are overwhelmingly warm. It's not because I lived through intense global warming, although that definitely made my memories a lot sweatier. It's because of you. For such a physically cold man, you brought so much warmth into my life. My life was so happy because of you.

I love you so much Hyuck. My body might not be, but my love for you is immortal.

Thank you for experiencing life with me.

Thank you for loving me.

I love you.

Eternally,

Yn

hyuck finished reading your, now-framed, letter for the billionth time and slipped it back into his bag, careful not to crush the flowers he brought.

the weather, like it was every time he came to visit you, was sunny, making it hard for him to see his screen as he typed out a thank you text to mark. mark told him years ago that it wasn't necessary for hyuck to thank him after every readthrough of your letter, but you asked him to thank mark so that's what he was going to do. at this point, at least fifty percent of his and mark's text conversation consisted of thank yous.

with the text sent, hyuck made his way to his usual seat next to your headstone. he'd sat there so many times that the dirt had a permanent indent in the shape of his butt. he never dared fix it because he knew it would have made you laugh, if anything he tried his best to worsen the damage.

"hey beautiful," he greeted, "i got these for you."

he pulled the, slightly damaged, flowers out of his bag and switched out the ones from the last time he was there.

"i have so much to tell you, i don't even know where to start. oh let me tell you about the shit i saw jisung do-"

hyuck began, as he had done since the first time he read your letter, to tell you about how he was living his life.

masterlist ~ route two: immortality

a/n: i cried, you crew, we all crode T_T lowkey felt like i was actually on my deathbed writing to my lover </3 ALSO this isn't a bad ending at all 🙂‍↔️ sad does NAWT equal bad!! my bbys lived full happy lives, its just that now one is living for two <3

taglist (open): @miyawwn @nanaxwi @mystverse @mmoonlee @dudekiss3r @honeynanamin @haefelt @nneteyamss @iamsimplyasimp @roseangelxfuma @haechsworld @hyuck-me @catpjimin @toyoongg @sthwaaberry @kim-seungmins-gf @sunghoonsgfreal @sunflowerhae @galacticnct @slayhaechan @multifandomania @jasluvsjae @injunnie-lemon @swanyvess @hahaechans @aerivrs @kirbrary @akunoeyebrows @snowyseungs @keeryverse @alethea-moon @flaminghotyourmom @elsbunny @introvertatitsfinest @ypoom151999 @1starqi @emptynote @wonswondrland @smilefordongil @onlyforyoukook @gomdoleemyson @jaehyunandonly @kukkurookkoo @lampcults @nightcat101 @hyuckna25 @yanagisprettygf

(if the tag doesn’t go through, plz check your privacy settings ☺️)

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Glitch

Pairing: Javier Peña x Steve's Little Sister Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: "We were supposed to be just friends." Warnings: smut, infidelity, secret relationship, jealous javi watching you touch yourself, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m), fuckin' in steve's bathroom yet again, cum eating, panties used as a pocket square, washington d.c. Words: 6,800

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for the past week and well, it's time to let these two start figuring things out. My thanks, as always, to @devineconjuring for her dot eating and telling me this is some of the hottest smut I've written. 🙂‍↕️

Suburban Sparks Masterlist Masterlist

—-

In the month following Nomad’s opening night and your reunion with Javier, the two of you find a balance that works. Friends.

Indeed, Javier Peña–the heartthrob of your late-teenage dreams, the man who made every other person pale in comparison—is now your friend.

A friend who has been to four of your performances, always sitting in the same seat in the back. A friend you call every night to say goodnight, waking him just so he can hear your voice. A friend you travel thirty minutes on the subway to visit on the very few nights you’re free from rehearsals or performances, no matter how tired you are. A friend you kiss hello and goodbye, your lips sometimes lingering against his longer. 

Yes, a friend. A friend who you lie to your boyfriend about. Poor Elliott doesn’t even know Javier exists or about your feelings for him.

Tonight, your friend is visiting your apartment for the first time. You straighten up your tiny place as much as you can–tucking away your pile of to-be-finished crafts, dusting off your hardly used entertainment console, hiding the pile of newspapers you kept from those months of you and Javi reading the news. You double-check to make sure the ripped photo of him is well hidden in an old book on your bookcase. You chuckle at the selection—Persuasion by Jane Austen. You’re fine with Javi thinking you’re an eclectic hipster, but not an eclectic stalker hipster.

You recognize the quick succession of knocks at your door. Your nervous hands smooth down the wrinkles on your dress as you hop up from the couch and open the door.

Your friend Javi strides in with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers. Friends, right?

“You don’t have any sort of doorman or buzzer?” he asks, his voice low and tinged with concern.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Did you even check to make sure it was me?”

“Well, no, but I recognized the knocks.”

He grumbles, his shoulders shrugging in exasperation. “You live in the middle of Washington, DC. Anybody can just walk up the stairs and knock on your door—or do even worse.”

“Wow, you do know my brother, huh?”

“S-sorry, I just—I don’t like the idea of you being so vulnerable.”

“I’ll use the peephole next time.”

“And that needs to be covered, too."

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

He sighs, holding out the wine and bouquet to you. “And these are for you… as long as you cover your peephole right now.”

“I’ll grab a Post-It.”

—-

Two glasses of wine sit amongst crumpled napkins and scattered foil wrappers. Javi’s dark leather jacket is draped over the back of your tattered lounge chair while he relaxes on your couch, an arm stretched out and resting on its back. His side is warm against yours as your knees are tucked to the side, your head resting against his chest.

You’re not paying attention to the newscaster’s voice as they drone on and on about stock markets and the UN. All you can focus on is the feel of Javi’s fingers, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder. You sure are sitting mighty close for a friend.

“I told you those tacos would be better than anything you had in Laredo,” you tease, angling your head to look at him.

“It’s just like I remember it,” he says, thick eyebrows lifting high when he realizes what he just said.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you lean back. “Like you remember it?”

His eyes dart away, a hint of red coloring the apples of his cheeks. He shifts slightly beneath you.

“I, uh, went there.”

"You did? When?"

“A couple months ago. Before that impressionist exhibit left the Smithsonian. I wanted to feel like I was closer. To you.”

“Jav…” you breathe out, your heart skipping a beat at his confession. You can’t bear to think of him wandering your neighborhood, trying to feel closer to you.

“I missed you, and I was thinking that maybe if I could just see the places you go, eat the food you love, walk the streets you walk, it would somehow make me feel closer to you again. I was a goddamn fool, thinking that would be enough.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a stray lock falling against his forehead. “I understand why you moved on. And right now, I’m trying. I’m trying so hard,” he sighs, his head briefly tilting back before his eyes meet yours. He reaches his hand out, gently brushing his fingers against your cheek. “But… I can’t just be your friend.”

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you savor the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the honesty in his voice.

“I know,” you whisper. “I tried to move on with Elliott. But whenever he said my name, touched me, anything, all I could think about was you.”

The confessions settle heavily in the air between you, drawing you together. He kisses you tenderly, strong arms encasing you as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, soft curls slipping through your fingers.

His tongue glides along the seam of your lips, inviting you to part them. You open for him, a soft moan escaping. His tongue slips inside, exploring your mouth, a low groan sent from Javier’s throat vibrating through you when your tongue meets his.

There’s a steady thrum from his heart pulsing against your palm when it settles against his chest. The same heart you wondered if you ever had, let alone will ever have again.

A trail of kisses travels from your lips to your chin, his lips dragging along the contour of your jaw and down your neck. The sharp point of his nose nuzzles against your neck when he kisses you there. His hands roam your body slowly and reverently, finally able to take his time and not have to hide.

He’s been so patient, letting you take the lead, never rushing you, always holding himself back. Allowing you to stay with Elliott, though he knows you only ache for him. The month of barely restrained longing that lingered between you is erased as his fingers slip under the hem of your dress, running a trail up and down your thigh.

"Jav," you breathe.

He hums against your skin, long and low, growling when he inches higher, tracing the hem of your panties resting against your hips.

This is why you missed Javier. Elliott would touch you, but it felt so different compared to this. A pang of guilt flashes through your overwhelmed heart and brain. Sweet, patient Elliott, who always tried so hard to please you. You’d made excuses: you were tired, had a headache, needed to memorize lines. But the truth was, his touch was never Javier’s. Ever since those pillowy lips met yours in your brother’s dark kitchen, you knew there would never be anybody else.

You clutch at the fabric of Javi’s shirt, pulling him back to your lips, kissing him with need. Your fingers cradle his jaw, feeling the stubble and sharp lines of his face, so unlike Elliott’s smooth, soft skin.

“Baby,” he groans against your lips, pulling you onto his lap, strong hands planted against your back, fingers spreading wide and pulling you tight against him.

“I missed you,” you admit in between kisses.

Javi stands, surprising you when he lifts you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the small apartment to your bedroom.

He gently lays you down on your bed before standing at its edge. He’s made of golden, domineering shadows when you stretch over to turn your bedside lamp on. He’s so gorgeous it makes you breathless. You ached to feel his touch, prayed to see him again, and now… he’s here, broad chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths that betray his barely contained desire for you.

“Is this the same bed?” he asks, his voice low.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, arching an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

A finger trails along the edge of the mattress. “Where you’d think about me,” his eyes lock on yours. “Where you’d touch yourself and imagine it was my hands on you instead?”

Your body heats at his words. Memories of lonely nights spent on the phone until the early hours, aching for him, come rushing back. Nights where you’d close your eyes and picture his strong hands on you again, his lips trailing kisses across your body, his deep voice gritting out your name.

“Yes,” you admit softly.

“Show me.”

You inhale at his request, nodding and holding his gaze as your fingers trail down the buttons of your dress. Slowly, you unfasten each one, the fabric parting to reveal more of your skin. His eyes follow your every movement, fists clenched against his sides like he’s feening to touch you.

Your dress falls open, leaving you exposed in your delicate lace bra and matching panties. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t put them on in hopes Javier would see them. A sly smile tugs at your lips as you watch Javi’s eyes turn from brown to black with desire.

You ghost your fingers over the sheer fabric of your bra, breath hitching when you tease your nipples through the thin lace. Goosebumps follow the trail as you glide your fingertips down your body to your ribcage and across your stomach.

When you reach the waistband of your panties, you pause, running your fingers along the thin band. Javi’s jaw is clenched, a muscle in his cheek ticking with tension.

A surge of confidence lights you from within when you see the outline of arousal straining against his jeans. Capturing your bottom lip between your teeth and sliding your hand lower, you spread your legs wide for Javier to see the soaked gusset of your panties. A soft gasp escapes your lips when you cup yourself through the thin lace of your panties, hips lifting slightly off the bed as you stare into Javi’s dark eyes.

“Is this what you’d imagine?” you ask breathlessly. “My hands pretending to be yours?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

Pulling your panties down and gently kicking them away with your foot, you’re fully exposed. Your hand slips between your slit, and you gasp as your fingers graze your pussy, puffy and dripping with need. You’re so wet your fingers easily glide across your clit down to your entrance.

"I'd picture your hands," you pant, your hips rocking against your touch. "Your mouth. The way you'd look at me like you're looking at me right now."

“Would you think about me while with him?” Javi asks, his whole body taut with restraint.

Him… Elliott. Your hand pauses, and a surge of guilt meets your arousal as it pangs against your heart at the thought that Javier would ever think you could move on.

“No, don’t stop,” he rasps. “Tell me.”

You swallow hard, your fingers slowly petting yourself. “Yes,” you whisper. “I’d try to imagine it was you touching me, not him. But it never felt right.”

“Did he ever make you feel as good as I did? Even just on the phone?”

You shake your head. “No. His hands were too soft and hesitant. I wanted… I needed…”

“What did you need, cariño?”

"You," you breathe out.

His jaw clenches tighter. "Did he make you cum?"

You nod your head. “But we barely did anything. He was very respectful, but when we did, I-I was always thinking of you.”

A low growl escapes Javi's throat when he climbs on the bed, stalking towards you, stopping right in front of your cunt that’s aching with need. His hot breath fans across you, eyes locked on yours as he leans in, the tip of his nose deliciously bumping against your clit. A slow, deliberate line is licked up your pussy, and you gasp at finally feeling Javier where you’ve been craving him; you’ve thought about how good his pouty lips felt against your cunt since the first lick against it. His eyes flutter closed as he tastes you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Just as you’re about to reach down and pull him closer to you, he pulls away.

“Does Elliott’s tongue feel as good as mine?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“No,” you pant. “No one can make me feel like you do.”

Brown eyes search yours before he nods, lowering his head and sealing his mouth over you. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in his thick locks as he licks and sucks at your clit, drawing patterns that have you writhing and moaning. He grips your thighs, holding you open as he devours you like you’re all he’s ever craved.

He slips a thick finger inside you, groaning as you whimper his name. He slowly pumps it in and out, his tongue swirling on your clit. Heat coils low in your belly, spreading warmth between your thighs. You’re so close, teetering right on the edge—until another finger enters you, curling inside, running along the velvet spot that makes your legs tremble.

He works you, pulling his fingers out, tracing your hole slowly before diving back in. His tongue flicks against your clit as he seals his mouth around your sensitive bud and sucks.

“Oh god,” you moan, your hips rocking against his face.

He hums against you, your hands tightening in his hair as the pressure inside you builds.

You’ve missed him so much. Ever since you had him in that guest room, his touch is all you’ve dreamed about. You thought you’d lost it forever, until now–right now–as he swipes his tongue against your clit and thrusts his fingers into your pussy.

Javi’s eyes lift to meet yours, dark brown looking almost black with desire. The sight of him between your thighs–mustache glistening with your arousal, nose resting against your lips, brows furrowed in concentration as he makes you cum–seems like it’s right out of every single dream you wished to have.

You shout his name, back arching off the bed, toes curling, pulling at his hair as your orgasm lights through you.

He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re too sensitive and tears are pricking at your eyes. Only then does he pull his mouth away, his fingers still buried inside you.

His eyes stay locked on your cunt, his fingers slowly pumping, watching intently as your pussy pulses for him, your walls still clenching him.

Your chest heaves as you come down from your high.

He looks up at you reverently. “God, I missed you,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh as he pulls his soaked fingers out.

You reach for him, pulling him up your body until his face is level with yours. You kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue, relishing in the taste of your desire for him.

As you kiss, your hands roam over Javi's broad shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles melt under your touch. You tug at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

He breaks the kiss and sits back on his heels, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his golden skin. You instantly reach out, feeling the smattering of hair on his chest beneath your palms before moving down to his belt buckle.

He helps you undo his belt and jeans. He kicks them off, along with his shoes and socks, until he's left only in his briefs. You unhook your bra, tossing it aside as Javi's eyes roam over your now-naked form.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

It’s hard to believe this is only the third time he’s touched you like this.

"Javi," you whisper, sliding your hands down his chest to the waistband of his briefs. With a swift tug, you pull the fabric down, freeing his cock. What a sight. You haven’t been allowed to take all of him in like this–he stands long, thick, and hard, jutting from the thick nest of dark hair at the base. You trace the vein up to his head, glistening with a pearl of precum. He’s gorgeous.

He watches you, dark eyes never leaving your face as you wrap your hand around him. You give him a slow, languid stroke, savoring the feel of him. Warm, soft, hard. A hiss escapes his lips, his hips bucking slightly.

You lean forward, pressing a tender kiss to his chest, right over his heart. You stay there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat against your lips.

“I need you,” you confess against him. “I’ve needed you for so long.”

He cups the back of your head, gently pulling you up for a kiss. His lips move against yours, your tongues tangling against one another.

He pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m here,” he promises, breathing against your mouth. “I’m here now.”

You pull him down with you as you lay back against the sheets. He hovers above you, his weight supported by his forearms caging your head. The weight of him warms you as he settles heavily between your thighs. He’s so hot and hard against your core as you shift your hips up, trying to make contact.

“Javi,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reaches between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance. He watches you, his eyes locked on yours, as he slowly sinks inside. Oh, the stretching sting of him makes you lose your breath.

“Fuck,” he groans, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before snapping open again, watching every emotion cross your face as you adjust to the size of him. He moans low in his chest as he fills you completely. Finally, you feel complete, the months of longing dissolving away as he slowly begins to move inside you.

He rocks in and out, long and slow. His head tilts down, watching himself move, cock sliding in and out, disappearing with every deep thrust. The sight of him so focused on watching himself fuck you is too much—his lips slightly parted, his thick brows furrowed, the sharp slope of his nose. You can’t resist. You lean up and kiss the top of his nose.

He looks back up at you, a slight smile lifting his lips as he still drives into you. “What was that for?” he asks, panting against your lips.

“I don’t know,” you gasp as he fucks you harder. “You’re gorgeous.”

His mouth crashes to yours, kissing you harder and deeper as his hips snap against yours faster. He moans into your mouth, swallowing the sounds you gift him as he slams into you, your headboard clanging against the drywall.

You’re slick and wet from the ache of wanting him all this time, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body.

“Oh god, Javi,” you moan, your nails biting into his shoulders as you cling to him.

He pushes deeper and harder, arms trembling, his face tight with concentration. “Say my name,” he grits. “Say it again.”

You obey, loudly crying out his name as your orgasm swells inside your body, sparking you from within. Your cunt clenches Javi’s cock–you’re so tight around him that his pace stutters, his hands clasping the sheets as he braces himself. He swallows your gasps and moans as your orgasm consumes you, his hips faltering and getting sloppier as he nears his own release.

Your fingernails claw against his back, leaving thin red marks against his golden skin as you fall apart around him. Your name is moaned out as your tight cunt pulses and squeezes his cock. His thumb begins sweeping tight, firm circles against your clit as you force your eyes open, staring into his brown eyes as your second orgasm shatters you.

“Javi,” you breathe. His lips find yours as his hips stutter to a halt, buried as deep as they can as your pussy milks him. He pulses inside you, spilling himself in warm, thick shots that fill your accepting cunt. He moans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck as he kisses across your heated skin.

He slowly collapses, pliant and heavy on top of you, his lips leaving a gentle kiss against your chin. Neither of you move, both of you content basking in the sensation of finally feeling each other’s skin and heat after months of distance and heartbreak.

The last thing you hear before falling asleep that night is a contented sigh from Javier as you rest your head on his bare chest.

Definitely friends.

—-

Definitely friends. Friends who have sleepy morning sex after the alarm on Javier’s watch wakes both of you up at 6 AM. Friends who shower together, kissing as you both wash each other. Friends who stare longingly into each other’s eyes when Javier leaves your apartment, your chin clutched between two fingers before he leans in and kisses you goodbye.

“You’re right. Your place is perfect,” he says, giving you one last kiss before he leaves. “Except for the door situation.”

—-

Elliott notices your distance, but the sweet man allows you it. It’s so hard to even look at him, his big green eyes so honest and kind. You haven’t been the same since Javi left those flowers in your dressing room, but you go through the motions with Elliott as much as you can. What else can you do?

Acting is your one true love, so the whole living a double life thing works for you as you think of Javi’s touch when Elliott’s fingers brush against yours, or when you tell Elliott you’re exhausted as he offers to take you out.

You feel terrible whenever he sends you a tender smile or a sweet compliment.

“You’re quiet again,” Elliott notes one night after a performance, grabbing your hand.

You force a smile you don’t feel. “Just tired.”

You’re sure he doesn’t believe you, but he won’t push it. He never does.

Maybe he knows you’re untethering yourself from him, just waiting for the play to end… or maybe he’s just too good of a guy to call you out on it.

You still have a month left of performances, but that still doesn’t stop you from waiting for everything to blow up.

—-

A pretty tablecloth–embroidered with flowers that bloom throughout it–covers the table; fancy-looking dishes and wine glasses are set atop. Candles and vases filled with white and pink roses are set along the length of the table. You smooth down the shiny fabric of your dress; it’s also covered in flowers, making you feel like you match the tablecloth.

“Kid,” Connie catches your attention. She nods towards the house, signaling you to follow her. You know what this is going to be about. Damnit.

You follow her in, softly shutting the door behind you.

She leans against the counter–the same one Javi pushed you up against the first night you met him. “I’m sure you know Javier’s going to be here.”

“I do.”

“And Elliott’s coming too?”

“He is.”

“Damnit, Kid,” Connie sighs. “You and Javier know to behave?”

“We do.”

You need to tell him, you know that?”

“Who? Steve? I know.”

"No, Elliott. Hun, I've seen the way you and Peña look at each other," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "Elliott’s a good guy, and he’s going to see it.”

“And Steve?”

“Look, Steve is still oblivious, but the longer this goes on, the more and more likely it’ll be that he’s going to see something.”

“I know. I just… don’t know how to tell him.”

Connie sighs a long, drawn-out exhale. “I’m not happy keeping this secret from my husband. I’m sure you’re not happy keeping it from Elliott. But it feels wrong to hide and lie about something… so important.”

You nod, the guilt quietly gnawing at your insides.

“I know.”

“But,” her serious tone turns lighter. “I did seat you across the table from Javier, so you’re welcome.”

Damn Connie, she can never deny a good love story.

—-

Steve and Connie’s parties are always legendary, especially when they’re celebrating their wedding anniversary. A full bar sits stocked with specialty cocktails and drinks, a mixed CD curated by Steve–featuring his and Connie’s favorite songs–plays on the stereo he lugged outside earlier this afternoon, and torches and lanterns glow across the expansive yard. Your parties are much more… chill–a bunch of ashtrays laid across your various watermarked table tops, one of your friends lightly strumming the old guitar your ex-boyfriend left you, maybe a cheap case of beer or a jug of Carlo Rossi wine if you’re feeling fancy.

You’re midway through your second glass of wine, with Elliott’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You wonder if he feels the way your spine stiffens when you first spot Javier walk out of the French doors to the patio.

He looks so gorgeous and broad in his light brown jacket over a crisp white button-down shirt with the top two buttons hanging open. Good god, his shoulders look even broader.

His eyes scan the crowd, no doubt searching for you. He spots you across the crowded yard and gives you a small, secret smile that makes your heart flutter.

Connie walks over to him, hugging him hello before you see her tell him something, his eyes glancing towards you before he nods. 

Javi makes his way through the crowd, stopping to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with familiar faces. As he passes you, his hand brushes against your back ever so slightly, making you choke on your drink.

“You alright?” Elliott asks in your ear. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” you stutter, trying to smile through the sparks lighting through your body at Javier’s touch. 

It’s torture, constantly watching Javi as you try to pay attention to Elliott and the other party-goers. This was a bad idea.

—-

You splash water on your face, trying to cool down your skin, overheated from the warm summer night and Javier’s presence. Jesus, it’s not even dinner time yet, and you’re already praying this damn party is almost over.

knock knock

You knew it.

You smirk at your reflection in the mirror before gently opening the bathroom door.

Javier slips inside the bathroom, gently closing the door and locking it. Then, his body is immediately pressed against yours.

Same white tile bathroom, same feel of the countertop edge pushing against your skin. It feels just like that morning all those months ago.

He kisses you, his needy mouth all over yours.

“I've been wanting to do this all night," he whispers.

Your hands slide up his chest to rest on his broad shoulders. “Javi, we can’t. Not here. Everyone’s outside. Dinner’s soon.”

But even as you protest, you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

"Just a minute. Give me just one minute with you."

You could never deny him, even if it risks getting caught. You whimper softly. “One minute.”

All this secret running around is getting to be ridiculous, but before you can worry about it, his hands roam down your body, bunching your dress up and running his fingers along the gusset of your panties before slipping them to the side. “Jesus baby, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

He just touched you like this a few mornings ago before he left your apartment in the same suit he wore the day before, borrowing an old tie you had thrifted to keep up appearances. 

You want to protest. You want to tell him he needs to leave. Steve and Elliott could easily catch you. But you stay silent, your head falling back, your teeth biting into your lip to stifle a moan as his fingers explore your slick folds.

He turns you around, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

"You can't expect me not to want to fuck you when you show up looking like this, can you?" he growls, his hands gripping your hips.

Before you can respond, he bends you over, your hands instinctively clutching the edge of the countertop.

Javi lifts your dress, bunching the fabric around your waist.

“Fuck, I-I can’t wait any longer,” he growls. He reaches down, unzipping and freeing his cock.

He grabs your panties and tears them off easily. Damn lace.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”

Javi runs the head of his cock through your wet folds, coating himself in the wet you’ve gushed out for him since he stepped into the backyard. He thrusts inside you, his eyes staying on you through the mirror as he begins to move. Your teeth dig into your lip to stifle a moan as he drags his cock in and out of you.

Slow and deep. Slow and deep. Slow and deep. He’s driving you crazy. You push back against him, silently begging for more.

Javi’s hands grip your hips tighter as he begins moving in you faster.

If you listen close enough, you can faintly hear the party outside over the sound of your quiet gasps and the light slap of Javi’s hips against your ass.

His rhythm quickens, his hips snapping against you with more urgency. Your fingers grip the counter’s edge tighter as you struggle to stay quiet. The mirror begins to fog slightly from your panting breaths.

“Look at me,” Javi growls softly.

You look up, a moan escaping your mouth when you see the intensity in his eyes. One of his hands slides up your back, tangling in your hair. He tugs gently, arching your back as he drives deeper into you.

You’re close, brought on by the way he’s looking at you, the way his cock stretches you, and the risk of somebody coming up the stairs.

“I’m close,” you grunt, barely above a whisper.

His hand snakes around to rub your clit. “Cum for me, baby. Nice and quiet now.”

Your walls clench around his cock as you silently orgasm, eyes wide staring at him as he grits his teeth and chases his own release.

“Fuck, I’m cloooose,” he growls as he pulls out, gripping his cock. “Suck me, baby.”

You move quickly, turning and kneeling down on the cool, tile floor.

You wrap your lips around Javi's thick cock, taking him deep into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his shaft as you bob your head. He groans softly, his plush bottom lip captured between his teeth, his fingers tangling in your hair.

“That’s it baby, you looks so good.”

Javi’s hips start to thrust slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth. Your throat relaxes, letting him slide in deeper.

You look up at him through your lashes, holding eye contact as he hits the back of your throat. He watches intently as his cock disappears between your lips.

Your hand comes up to gently massage his balls as you hollow your cheeks and suck him harder.

“Fuck, gonna cum,” he grunts, his grip tightening in your hair.

You double your efforts, sucking harder and faster. Your free hand strokes what doesn't fit in your mouth, twisting slightly as you move up and down his shaft.

Javi's breathing grows ragged, his thighs tensing beneath your fingers. With a low groan, he begins to pulse in your mouth. Hot spurts of cum hit the back of your throat as he finds his release. You keep sucking, swallowing around him as he empties himself.

His fingers gently stroke through your hair as the last aftershocks roll through him. He cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"Swallow it all, baby.”

You stare into his dark eyes as you swallow every drop of him.

Javi's thumb traces over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop and pushing it into your mouth.

"Good girl," he praises softly.

You rise on slightly shaky legs, smoothing down your dress. Javi tucks himself away and helps straighten your dress.

He reaches under your dress, his rough palm sliding over your bare skin. He grabs your ass, squeezing gently as he pulls you flush against him.

"Be careful out there," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "You don't have any underwear on now."

“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” you slap his arm.

"You're so beautiful,” he whispers as he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. His eyes roam over your face, drinking you in before he leans in and kisses you.

“Go on ahead, baby,” he whispers.

You reluctantly pull away and slip out of the bathroom to rejoin the party, your little secret tucked away for now.

—-

Connie calls everyone for dinner underneath the roof of their large gazebo. It’s one of your brother’s pride and joys. The perfect place for his wife to set up a beautiful table full of vases, candles, and little framed placeholders.

Elliott pulls out your chair as you take your seat at the table, the absence of your underwear making you acutely aware of every movement.

Javier takes his place across from you, his eyes meeting yours briefly with a knowing glint.

Everyone ooh’s and ahh’s as Steve brings over a large chunk of prime rib on a fancy platter. You sigh, already preparing yourself for a plate full of salad and rolls.

Steve stands at the head of the table, raising his glass. "I'd like to propose a toast," he announces. "To my beautiful wife. You’ve stayed by my side through thick and thin, Colombia and beyond. I couldn't ask for a better partner in life. And to our friends gathered here tonight, thank you for being part of our family." Steve raises his glass higher. "Speaking of family, to my little sister, who just finished her first ever lead role. I can’t believe how talented you are. I’m so proud of you.” Steve’s voice falters as he chokes up in pride. Elliott places a soothing hand on your back as your breath catches at your big brother’s support. “Anyways, to good food, good friends, good family, and the best wife a man could ask for."

Everyone raises their glasses in agreement. You catch Connie's eye, and she gives you a subtle wink before you look across at Javi. His gaze is heated, his eyes looking right at you as Elliott rubs your back. For the first time, you actually feel like you’d like to know how it feels like to celebrate an anniversary, to look across the table and see the person you love, to spend the rest of your life with someone… just as Elliott leans forward and places a tender kiss against your cheek.

Javi shifts in his seat, his eyes narrowing, until he scratches against his chest pocket, drawing your attention downward. That's when you notice it–a flash of delicate lace peeking out from his pocket. Your eyes widen as you realize what it is. Your panties are folded neatly and tucked into his jacket like an ornate pocket square.

It’s right there at that moment you know you need to let Elliott go. He’ll never be Javier.

—-

You’re exhausted. Nomad only had its last performance last week, and you just got done with the first rehearsal for the director’s next play, Saturn’s Sprites. This time, Elliott did not get cast.

You rest your head on the train window as it buzzes against the tracks, taking you across the Potomac to Arlington.

Last night’s conversation with Elliott still weighs heavily on your heart. You went to bed last night, tossing and turning as you remembered how his face looked when you finally told him you couldn’t stay with him. The confusion, flashing into hurt, then turning to a quiet resignation… somehow, that felt worse than if he shouted at you.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" he'd asked, his voice calm as you sat across from him at that little café you both used to love.

Your silence was answer enough for him.

“It’s the guy from your brother’s parties, the one with the mustache. Isn’t it?”

You looked down at your untouched cup of tea. Another nod.

“He wouldn’t stop looking at you. I could see it. I was just hoping it was one-sided,” he sighed. “I guess I was wrong.”

He didn’t even storm out. He wished you luck and left the money on the table for your order. That’s the kind of man Elliott was, decent to the end.

The subway doors hiss open, and you step out onto the familiar platform. You’ve memorized how many steps it takes to ascend into the more upscale streets of Arlington.

You’re thankful you changed into a light cotton dress when the bright summer sun reflecting off the Potomac hits your skin as you make your way to Javi’s apartment.

You buzz the familiar intercom.

“Yes?” Javier says, always a hint of uncertainty in his voice, even when he’s expecting you.

“It’s me,” you reply.

There’s a pause, then a buzz, and the door unlocks.

You take the elevator, leaning against the shiny wall as it takes you up to his floor. The now familiar ding alerts you that you’ve arrived.

The hallway is cool compared to the heat outside, your sandals tapping softly against its low carpet.

You’re always tempted to pinch yourself whenever Javier Peña answers his door. All broad-shouldered and golden-skinned. His mustache lifts up in a smile, his brown eyes warm when he steps aside and lets you in.

This was something you used to dream about.

“How was work?” you ask before depositing your purse on the table that now has two placemats on top of it.

“Same old bureaucratic bullshit.” He pulls you in close for a hug before kissing your lips. “How was Elliott?”

“He knew. I didn’t tell him about… us, but… he expected it. He took it better than I expected,” you sigh. “I hope he’ll be okay.”

“He won’t,” Javi says matter-of-factly.

“Hm?”

He holds you close, tightening his arms around you. “You’re impossible to get over. Trust me, I’d know.”

You stay held in his arms, relishing in the comfort of Javier and his words. You sigh, trying to cover your yawn.

He pulls away, his brown eyes roaming over your tired features. “Go take a seat. I’ll get you a beer.”

You flop comfortably on his black leather couch, sinking into the coolness. “I’m so tired. The whole Elliott situation, along with finally starting on rehearsals–which have been insane, and the director’s a lowkey maniac.”

Javi nods as he grabs two bottles of beer and hands one to you before he settles on the couch beside you. Without a word, he gently lifts your feet onto his lap, his strong hands beginning to knead your soles.

You breathe out a long, happy sigh, taking a sip of your beer before launching into your tale of woe.

“So, it’s the same dude that directed Nomad, right? God, you wouldn’t believe this guy. He’s got us doing all of these ridiculous exercises. Today, he wanted us to 'encompass’ trees for a warmup. I stood there, silent, acting like a gentle breeze was wooshing past me for like… three minutes.”

You throw your head back against the cushion and sigh.

“How in the hell is that going to to let me understand my character better? I mean, I get it, we’re supposed to be nymphs in this production, but come on…”

He chuckles lowly as his thumbs work small circles into your arches. His eyes flick up to meet yours when you let out a small moan when he hits a particularly tender spot.

“Sounds like you need a distraction.”

“I do.”

In one fluid motion, he grabs your ankle and tugs, pulling you across the smooth leather until you're sprawled in his lap. His strong arms encircle you, one hand splayed across your lower back while the other cups your face.

His thumb brushes softly across your cheekbone.

“This distracting enough?” he whispers, his lips quirking into a small smile.

He kisses you, softly at first, then with growing urgency. Your hands thread through his hair at the nape of his neck, his hand on your back pressing you closer, molding your body to his.

He peppers kisses down to your neck, nuzzling the sharp angle of his nose against your skin.

“Stay tonight,” Javi says, his lips against your collarbone.

As if you could resist.

—-

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[emandemms]

okay so i'm actually sitting down and reading the iliad for the first time (ty emily wilson for your service) and i just finished book five, so here are a few of my favorite moments in no particular order:

- diomedes.

- diomedes in all of book five.

- athena telling diomedes he shouldn't fight any of the gods that may show up on the battlefield, except for aphrodite, because what's she gonna do, fight back?

- athena then lecturing diomedes for NOT fighting ares, and diomedes proceeding to tell her "dude, you literally told me not to fight him, what do you want from me?"

- achilles and his pure hatred for agamemnon. someone give this man a shirt that says "number one agamemnon hater".

- achilles and agamemnon arguing the entire time they're in the vicinity of each other. every time they talk, it's like two kids coming up with every insult under the sun without outwardly cursing each other out.

- agamemnon essentially calling achilles a whiny bitch. kind of iconic.

- a popular favorite but: odysseus going around and beating the men who wanted to leave with a fancy ceremonial stick. it just never gets old.

- odysseus being that one guy who never shuts up about his kid while beating the living shit out of thersites. he very proudly calls himself the "father of telemachus" while verbally and physically abusing this man.

- odysseus once again referring to himself as the "loving father of telemachus" when agamemnon is trying to piss him off so he'll join the battle. i'm pretty sure this is a fairly common thing for odysseus to do, and you got to love him for it.

- another popular favorite: agamemnon mourning his very-much-so-still-alive younger brother after menelaus gets shot by an arrow in the thigh. menelaus quickly realizes he's fine and asks his brother to stop lamenting his "death" because if he keeps it up, he's gonna spook the rest of the men and that's just not what they need right now.

- and then agamemnon immediately being like "oh, word? okay, but you need a doctor- SOMEONE GET THE DOCTOR!"

- athena grabbing achilles' hair during the argument between achilles and agamemnon in book one when achilles is deadass about to just kill agamemnon because he's mad as hell. she then proceeds to tell achilles to call agamemnon names instead and books it.

- helen being the bad bitch she is whenever she's on the page, despite her circumstances. not only does she flat out tell paris she wishes he had been killed, but she basically tells aphrodite to bed paris herself, which is ballsy as fuck and i have nothing but respect for her.

- speaking of paris: hector absolutely TEARING into paris after he flees from fighting menelaus one-on-one. he really just says that paris is only good for looking pretty and he wishes paris had never been born. honestly, good for him.

- priam asking helen to point out the various greek leaders and immediately calling agamemnon handsome. idk why but it made me chuckle just a bit.

- priam also comparing odysseus to a ram, which is such a wonderful visual and i think about it a lot.

- antenor, one of priam's advisors, recognizing odysseus when helen points him out and immediately going: "oh, that motherfucker, i remember him. he looks like an idiot, but man, does he know how to use his words to win over a crowd."

- nestor essentially saying "back in my day-" every time he opens his damn mouth. i love him and he never shuts up once he gets going.

i'm positive i forgot a few but these are the ones that i remember. who knows, maybe i'll add more later.

[fbfh]

𝓗𝓮𝓱....can I request a Leo Valdez x !dense at romance! reader

HEH INDEED TUMBLR USER HIGANYUUU. as an unsocialized and neurodivergent bitch meself I LOVE the dense at romance and oblivious to flirting reader trope. dynamic. concept or whathave you.

with Leo it's even better, because he thinks his feelings for you are TOTALLY one sided. he thinks he's doomed to be forever alone, trapped in a burning maze of his on inescapable feelings. he ends up venting to Piper about this one night when they climbed on top of the roof of one of the cabins to watch the stars (or if you prefer, get a teeny tiny little bit stoned. it's a summer camp for christ's sake. the older campers have weed stashed in a few places. the demeter kids TOTALLY have a hidden little garden where they grow weed and are constantly making breaking bad jokes. in the late 80s Chiron found it but was so stressed about the possibility of nuclear war that he requested a few blunts and made them promise to never speak of it again. see also: Leo lighting up for you with his hands???? heart eyes.) he tells her all about how his crush on you is so much worse than usual. He gets infatuated easily, but gods you aren't just another fleeting crush. he truly believes he is never going to get over you. and part of him doesn't want to.

Piper laughs.

she lets out a loud snorting laugh that she immediately has to apologize for. Leo lets out his own laugh, surprised and incredulous.

"Sorry-" Piper chokes out. Leo places his hands over his heart.

"Ouch," he says, watching her as she keeps trying to apologize and stop laughing. "I'm pouring my heart out here, Pipes..."

"I know, I know," she says, finally getting it under control. "I am not laughing at you. honest." She insists. "it's just... it's kind of funny that you think that, because they're totally into you too."

he blinks at her.

"...seriously?" he asks skeptically. Piper is already nodding intently.

"oh yeah." Leo can tell she's serious, he just doesn't understand how she got from point a to point b yet.

"It's an Aphrodite thing. I can always sense when someone has a crush on someone else." she sighs softly. "the air feels... warmer when you're in love. It smells like... like rose water, and summer rain. but if it's one sided, it's like... it's almost like a heater and an air conditioner blowing at each other."

she lets out a dry, sheepish laugh.

"it took me weeks to find out that we can't use it on ourselves."

he remembers that, when they first came to camp and she was freaking out about if she and Jason actually even liked each other, or if it was just implanted memories and forced proximity.

"feeling love, raw, real love from everyone around you but the person you want it from is..."

he laughs again.

"discouraging." he finishes.

"exactly."

it's quiet for a moment.

"so..." he trails off, wondering if you really like him too. Piper scoffs and turns to look at him.

"it's like two rockets butt to butt. red hot on both ends."

he noticed it after that. he noticed the way you'd glance at him when you thought he wasn't looking, how you'd go out of your way to bump into him, or linger when you didn't have to just to be around him a little more. so he did what he does best.

he started flirting the shit out of you. but only for a day or two. after that it quickly turned into wooing, then straight up sweeping you off your feet.

Leo's attention and affection seem to come at you like a downpour (not that you're complaining). he's suddenly all over you. he's making you little trinkets, pulling stunts just to show off for you, stealing you away for walks through the woods or to show you what he's working on in bunker 9 (which is basically like asking you to marry him. if he's showing you what he's working on in bunker 9 you might as well be married with three kids and twins on the way.)

and you are just so happy to be with him. he makes you so happy, feel so warm and excited, he starts consuming your every thought. his touch lingers, warm and familiar. on your arms, your shoulders, your hands, the small of your back. wherever his hands fall on you, wherever his fingertips playfully poke or brush under the flimsy guise of a leaf getting tangled in your hair, you feel it for days afterwards.

every time he doubles down, you simply... don't pick up on it. he has to go back to Piper at least six more times to confirm you actually do want him like he desperately wants you. she finds your obliviousness so hilarious she makes everyone in the aphrodite cabin promise not to interfere - much to Leo's annoyance - just to watch this play out. whenever you and Leo are alone, you're actually alone with half the aphrodite cabin observing from afar with opera glasses and popcorn.

eventually he just bites the bullet. he takes your pretty face in his hands, he tells you he likes you, he really likes you, he like likes you. you still don't get it. he tells you he has a crush on you. you still think he's being sweet and flirty and playful. he looks you dead in the eyes and says he thinks he's falling in love with you. you're like yeah! so like... falling in love in a.... friend.... way?? he squeezes his eyes closed for a moment trying not to let his pent up feelings and cuteness aggression win. he lets out a breathy laugh and looks at you very seriously and intensely and tells you no, not quite. falling in love with you in a romantic way. and he's gonna kiss you now, okay? not a playful platonic friend kiss, a falling in love with you kiss.

and motherfucker does he deliver. he pulls you so close, his lips are so soft and warm against yours. he doesn't even bother pulling away before he goes in for more. your head is spinning and his lips and his hands are everywhere. he's pulling you into his lap and leaning over you and you're holding onto him for dear life, whining and panting into his mouth. when you both reluctantly, agonizingly have to pull away for air, he keeps his hands on your cheeks, caressing your skin, breathing in the scent of your breath, keeping his forehead pressed to yours where his soft curls tickle your face.

"do... um..." you swallow thickly, struggling to speak as your breath heaves. "d-do you, uh-"

whatever you're trying to ask, he can tell you're nervous.

"'s okay," he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your ear, your jaw. "tell me."

he encourages you so tenderly, so honestly that you feel the rare sensation of your anxiety, your fear of misinterpreting signals or overstepping or being presumptuous melt away.

"I feel like you might have maybe a little crush on me...?" you breathe out.

he freezes, his mouth still sucking hickeys into your neck, and you can feel him smile against your skin, you can feel his laugh vibrating through your body from your throat.

"that... is a huge understatement," he mumbles into your neck. "but yes. I do."

he presses one more lingering kiss right below your ear and pulls back enough to look at you again, stroking your cheek, playing with your hair.

"a really, really big little crush."

you find out later that everyone at camp fully believed you were already dating (and just really bad at soft launching). you also find out the aphrodite cabin had a whole bet pool going on about when you'd finally get together. expect to never hear the end of it.

[lostinlovingrevery]

hi vannnnnn!!

first off how was your day!! i hope it’s been going well

secondly.. any worst!logan headcanons? particularly any filthy ones? (i’m feral 🫣)

a logan for you <3

HIIII CAS

My day HAS been going well, I finished my planter build (minus painting and actually planting it but!!) and I got the fattest, cheesiest pizza for dinner mmmmm

My grandma dropped off some v late christmas gifts and mine was a super cute new bag! A pocket heart charm AND a tiny lil vintage jewelry box with a REAL authentic two dollar bill in it. Pretty sure it belonged to my late grandfather :) <3

and that gif...mmm. yeah

Worst Wolvie headcanons? Don't mind if I do! (nsfw below!)

GENERAL:

I have this thing that he'll go into construction once he's settled in the new universe. It's easy to get a job with construction companies for the most part- and he's hella strong and looks it too, with a potty mouth and likes to drink- he'll fit right in!

SO polite and respectful to Althea. He'd be screaming at Wade one second, and the next be like "you need anything ma'am?" and get her a glass of water and everything else. No he does not support her cocaine habit.

PHEW I have a lot of trouble deciding how Logan would be after the events of D&P. I think he'd be struggling a lot still. He's such a hothead throughout most of the events of the movie, and I think that wouldn't stop being the case. I feel he'd probably simmer down a bit, but he would likely appear tense and awkward to some outsiders. He's not quite used to people being polite to him anymore.

when he meets you though, i think you'll capture his attention like no one else has

FLUFF (and a lil angst):

Oof, this is tricky too.

So I feel he'd be a bit rough around the edges when it comes to a relationship with you- at least in the beginning

He's not sure what to do. He has the capability of being soft, but he spent so long hardening his shell he's not sure how to be soft exactly.

His touches are intended to be gentle, but may feel rough as he tries to learn how to be with someone

His words are the same. I feel like sometimes his affection might come across sounding a lil angry

Once he gets comfortable though he'll be a complete lovebug

Initially put off by physical touch, he won't be able to get enough of it soon. Kisses, hugs, snuggles, booty smacks.

Hes a lil rough with the romance, but he'll try! Flowers brought home, remembers the little things about you- favorite snacks, drinks, etc.

As rough around the edges as he may be, he'll always be honest to you in how he feels. You may not initially feel like the man is heads over heels- but then after a cute and quiet date night he just looks at you all deadpan like "im so in love with you"

VERY protective. like over the top. Doesn't even like to see a man glance in your direction. Gets very nervous about you going out on your own too even if he hides it- he just doesn't want to lose you too :(

I feel in a way that he might be a little more settled down than his past self/variant. Kinda like Origins. More willing to get a nice house in the country, live a quiet peaceful life. He's been through a lot and somehow got you in the end. It's all he needs.

Not sure where to put this exactly, but I said in the past that I think he's a lot meaner than Old Man Logan- who I think is mean in a "i'm tired and sore and cranky" mean, while Worst Logan is mean in a "I don't fucking care about anything anymore " mean.

It comes out, when he's in a bad mood. He acts like he doesn't care but he does, things just hurt too much now and he's gotta shut it down

when it comes to being with you though, he begins to soften a bit more. You're able to listen and support him. His moods are never taken out on you

but you might get a sassy comment here and there

he genuinely loves you, wants things to work out. Will cut back greatly on the drinking.

won't think he deserves you, at all. will say that a lot.

everytime he looks at you it's the same lovesick face that origin logan has

I think im playing up how rough around the edges he is but I honestly think with you he'll still come off as a big sweetheart.

He'll still speak softly around you- even if you aren't together yet.

You'll catch him looking at you, an expression across his face you never seen him carry before. Something that looks like yearning

He'll melt in your arms. Hes like so much bigger than you but no one would realize by the way he just sinks into your embrace

i feel once you get to a certain point of your relationship, he'll be straight up worshipping you like the god/goddess you are

domestic life

cleaning the kitchen with him, late at night. Hes finishing up the dishes while you're wiping the counter down. You come up behind him, your hands untuck his shirt from his jeans, and your wrap your arms around him underneath the shirt, pressing kisses to his back before smushing your cheek against him and waiting for him to finish his dishes

he'll really wonder then, as he looks out into the window above the sink, over the city where your small apartment resides in- how did he get here?

will become a blushy mess when you do sweet things for him, like getting him flowers, or bringing him lunch at work, lil things like that

call him pretty. see what happens. ;)

SMUT:

Back to him being mean :)

BIG on control. He lost control of his life for years, so regaining it is def gonna show up in the bedroom

orgasm denial is a big thing with him

will mock you for begging and crying over it

sex can get really rough with him. He could be a complete sweetheart in the beginning, and the something snaps and he's choking you out with his cock, bruising the back of your throat as he pounds your mouth like a sextoy

Likes to pin you. In every way. likes seeing you squirm and struggle.

Likes to tie you up too

Smacking. Your ass and tits and cunt are going to be SORE.

Fucking into you rough and hard, you can't take it, your eyes rolling back- he smacks your face to get you back into reality. Not hard- more like a lovetap. "You with me bub?"

will give you a big wet kiss after

growling and grunting

very animal like this one

likes to spit in your mouth, feels like he's claiming you in a way

BITER!

You're gonna have bite marks!

The claws come out a lot with this one. All of them do it- but he just doesn't even try to control it, very conscious of where his hands are though

BIG on being praised

you praise him and hes gonna turn into a whimpering puppy

the switch up happens SO FAST

has probably immediately cum a few times the moments you praised him for being so good

if you want to have control for the night, just give him some praise and it's all yours

you can tie him up all you want, tease him, anything and everything long as you call him a good boy, and that you love him and he'll behave nicely as long as you keep going

he'll be a whining mess, thrusting into the air bc he needs you so bad to take care of him. he only ever needs you now.

like literally this man is two sides. fucking evil as hell in bed or the most subby whimpering man you'll ever know

dont worry, he does like praising you too

even if he's being a mean motherfucker he'll still be calling you gorgeous, talking about how good you are, how you're always going to be his

i feel like he can get pretty nasty too. Like remember the scent thing I talked about before? He'll straight up dig his nose in your armpit during sex just to get high off the pheromones and sweat coming off you.

pins your head down with his foot while fucking you (i...may have a request for this in the works....)

now i need to watch deadpool and wolverine....

[1-800-local-slut]

Before and After (Part 1)

The bullet that went through his brain knocked all the part of Rex that sucked clean out of him. But he still existed before that.

Rex 'Splode' Sloan x Black! Alien! Reader

Warnings: really hard pregnancy, vomit, smut mentions, Rex doubts his parenting abilities, also Rex and reader are young parents trying to figure it out, Rex being a cunt but this was before he got his brains blasted out lol, woke!Mark, I tried to make the characters talk like teenagers because I feel like we don't see enough of it in the show, Rex and Eve broke up WAY before he hooked up with reader because man stealing is never the move

Note: you're from a planet called Moraya and your parents sent you to Earth to stay with your uncle due to a disease sweeping the planet. They couldn't leave because your mother is the head of medicine, and your father is a high-ranking member of the government. By the time the crisis was dealt with you were a teenager and had adjusted to life on Earth, your parents understood your choice to stay. Your powers are mostly mental. You can control minds, have telekinesis, take over people's bodies, manipulate people's emotional states, and sometimes see the future in your dreams. Your body functions like a human, so your vulnerable to injures and human deaths but not illnesses (like car accidents, falling and breaking your neck, choking, drowning). You can fly, but not everyone on your planet can. It's more of a recessive gene since overtime your people didn't need to do it as often. That's all y'all!

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

If Rex finished high school, he might've remembered to use a condom that night. Nah. He still wouldn't have done it. He was twenty years old, with a three year old and his nineteen year old fiancé. You two were broke as two jokes. You were trying to get through med school, he was trying to save the world, but you two still found the time to be the best parents possible. He was stressed all the time, a few gray hairs were growing and the bags under his eyes were never leaving.

But Rex hasn't stopped smiling since the moment you agreed to marry him. Not when your baby woke up screaming in the middle of the night, not when your baby threw up on him four times in a day, not when you broke his hand during labor. Not even when he was woken up by you struggling to put on your crocs to go to get food in the middle of the night.

At first, Rex spent so much time wishing he just pulled out. Of course Plan B wasn't enough, you were an alien. But no matter how much you reassured him that it would've worked and that the Plan B just failed, he still didn't believe you. To this day he's ashamed to admit that he didn't want his baby at first.

Even suggested it wasn't his, to which he got a firm slap.

"Pregnant?!"

"I just thought I'd let you know-"

"So what, you like need a ride to the place? Because I kind of don't have my car right now."

Silence settled over the HQ and disgust filled your face.

"No, Rex, I don't need a ride. I just wanted to let you have a choice-"

"What, you wanna keep it?! Listen, you're cool but I'm not gonna have a kid. I mean how do you know its even mine?" Just then Mark came in and let out a soft 'oooo'. Even Invincible, as clueless as he was sometimes knew that was definitely the worst thing to say to you.

You let out an offended gasp before anger replaced disgust.

"Are you calling me a slut?!" The slap that followed honestly left him reeling. To this day he could still feel your handprint on his face sometimes and it's almost been four years since you slapped the taste out of his mouth.

"I was OFFERING you a chance to know it. I have family on my home planet. Seeing as it's your child too I thought you might've wanted a chance to raise it but you've answered the question before I asked. I will be taking it home with me when it's old enough to make the journey with me."

"Oh. Okay, cool. So you aren't asking me for money?"

"I wouldn't wipe my ass with the crumpled two dollars you have in your pocket. Me and MY CHILD will be good without you, trust." Then you were gone, and only Rexsplode and Invincible remained in the room. But Invincible decided to be Mark for a second and talk to his friend.

"Dude...she's having your baby." It was the first thing he said when Rex sat down on his bed as the two teenagers sat down in his room in the Gaurdian's HQ.

"Yeah, I'm doing okay after that slap." He scoffed while he grabbed a shirt that smelt clean off his bed and removed his costume.

"Did you want me to be on your side here...?"

"Okay yeah, maybe I wasn't the most sensitive but what did I really say wrong?"

"Are we being deadass???" Now in his own regular clothes (where he got them from Rex still doesn't know), Mark made a face of disgust. The type of face you make when you're truly questioning your homie.

Rex gave an indignant shrug. He knew but his pride hurt more than his face at that point.

"We'll do a play by play, maybe it'll help you. Okay, she comes in, tells you she's pregnant. This is the same girl who had to leave her home and adjust to living in a strange place and only has one other person on Earth who understands her. She's going through something emotionally heavy, away from her own people who probably have customs that she can't partake in, because she's probably unable to fly back while pregnant.

Also we're teenagers, she's a year younger than us so there's also the fact that she has to kiss young adulthood and the rest of her life goodbye because she's choosing to keep YOUR BABY, and she didn't even just take the kid and dip. I don't know man, maybe you shouldn't have accused her of sleeping around and then instead of being any type of understanding you told her you couldn't even give her a ride to Planned Parenthood."

Awkward silence settled through the room.

"Also why did you call her 'cool' like you haven't known her for years?"

"Don't make me sound like a loser."

"Hey man I hate to break it to you but you're doing that on your own."

"I don't even know it's mine!" Arms thrown out to the side, he grunted in exhaustion. It felt like you knocked a tooth lose, damn.

"We know she isn't sleeping around because she hasn't been in my bed." With a dramatic rub of his hands Mark lifted both of his eyebrows and made a dumbass face. Rex's own face crinkled in disgust and he looked at Mark while he leaned back on his palms.

"What if you're not her type?"

And Mark had the audacity to snort, and motion towards himself.

"Have you SEEN me? I would sleep with me too."

"...Would that count as masturbation or selfcest? Or twincest?"

"No because it's me not a twin."

"What if the other you becomes sentient and wants its own life."

"Yeah but...no...wait."

And as time went by, you went through pregnancy. Alone. You went through four months of what from a distance looked like a horrible experience, and while it tugged at his heart strings you told Eve who told Mark, who told Rex that you would die before you spoke to Rex again. Especially about your baby. It got to the point where you struggled to control your powers and had to fess up to Cecil. Who even expressed his disgust with Rex's behavior in a subtle way.

"You're the first reason I've ever had to figure out maternity leave for a pregnant alien teenager." Was all he said after Rex denied paternity leave.

It took one night for Rex to actually start growing a pair. They fully grew in after he caught a bullet to the cranium.

It was one night after a mission, two weeks before you had to start maternity leave, and the Guardians just returned from a pretty mid battle while Mark was on a little vacation according to Cecil.

While everyone celebrated, Rex left to use the bathroom when he heard it. You cried alone, in your spare bedroom that you sometimes crashed in. You were laying in your bed, attempting to muffle your cries, clutching your stomach and head. A sliver of light from the door widened until you realized Rex was standing in your door way.

You turned, looking over at him and scowled.

"You-" A gag cut you off. Were you trying not to vomit? Boxes of some of your things, you were clearing out for your maternity leave but it looked like you were getting ready to never come back. Then he remembered what you said. When it was old enough, you'd be flying back home with the rugrat.

"You are the last person I want to see. Piss off." And it would've worked better if you didn't immediately throw up in your hand and make a mad dash to the toilet before the rest of your vomit got all over you. He was a dick, not a monster so he followed.

While you threw up the contents of your stomach into the toilet, he couldn't just let the team hear. You'd clearly gone out of your way to avoid them seeing you crying and suffering already. He slid into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

When you finally did stop, you slumped against the bathtub. You sat, staring blankly at the floor before your face crumpled and you buried your face into your hands. You began to sob, with vomit on your shirt and your shoulders shook violently.

After a moment of Rex drowning in guilt you let out a shaky breath and hugged yourself.

"I miss my mom."

You staggered to your feet before you shoved him roughly out of your way into the sink, then left the bathroom. He heard wind from your room, realizing you were flying home and for the first time in a long time Rex began to think. He began to think real long and real hard.

It took the two of you to make it. You chose to keep it. You didn't even try to force him into fatherhood. The least he could do was loan you a hand until it was time for you to go. Without realizing it, he was cleaning the toilet. Everyone else was downstairs partying, celebrating their newfound strength as a team and winning the fight. And Rex was cleaning your vomit off the toilet, because without him you wouldn't be throwing up in the first place.

It wasn't a total 180 from there. He was still Rex, you still didn't even want to talk to him, but he tried. He left little treats he remembered you like only for them to be left untouched completely where he left them. Except for the time you stormed down the metal steps of HQ and threw the box of strawberry waffers at his face.

"Fuck, ow!"

"We didn't need shit from you then. We don't need a fucking thing from you now."

As you turned to storm back up the steps he grabbed your arm and narrowly avoided a swift slap.

"Listen, listen. You're right. You're right to be mad at me. I was being a dick."

"You still are."

Wrestling your arm free, he remembered that fire that attracted him to you in the first place. He caught you by your shoulders before he realized you could just kick him in the balls and settled for just grabbing one of your arms. Your back turned to him, he wasn't even sure if you were listening, but he had to speak now.

"You're uncomfortable, I know you are. And I know it's partially my fault. At least tell me what I can do to ease your discomfort just a little. You hate me, it's my fault. But let me help. Just a little." The tension in your shoulders dropped just a bit.

"...I'm having really strong cravings for hot chocolate."

He didn't start falling in love with you for a while afterwards. You were on maternity leave now, but he climbed through your bedroom window with the bacon wrapped shrimp you had requested when he texted you, he was out if you were hungry. He spun around on your desk chair when he realized. You've been pregnant for a while now. While you devoured the shrimp he noticed.

At six months you didn't look three months from giving birth. You seemed to be enjoying his presence just a bit now. Sure, there where changes but those were more so personality wise. You no longer snatched the food from his hands anymore and sent him away, you even let him sit less than ten feet away from you sometimes. Infact, you had the bump of a three-month pregnancy. Did you just have a small baby growing in there?

"It'll be a big one." You said, wiping your fingers as you watched Annie on your laptop.

"Really? It doesn't look like it."

"I'm not far along yet. But-"

"You're six months pregnant."

"Oh. Because my planet is so far away from my own solar systems Sun, my planet rotates slow. Time is different. Years are longer. I did some math; I'll be pregnant for about a year and a half.

"A YEAR AND A HALF?!"

"Shut the fuck up! Yes Rex, on my planet it wouldn't be so long. But the time is weird here, everything moves so fast." You stifled a yawn as you sipped your milkshake.

"...Do you think it's gonna tear you in two?"

You giggled. And his diversion worked. You spoke about home before, but since you got pregnant it seemed like you were plauged with constant home sickness. It had to be hard for you to be away from home this way. When you were going through something so momentous, and your planet was a weeklong flight. That was if you flew without sleeping and pee breaks.

"I don't want to think about that. I already know the birth is gonna hurt."

As you laughed, the light shifted around you. He noticed things on your face he never noticed before. The way your mouth curved when you smiled, the way you covered your mouth when you laughed, the small crinkles around your eyes. You were hot before, he knew that. It's why he fucked you. But he never noticed that you were more than that. You were beautiful. Genuinely beautiful.

And after that night he tried to fight it. He didn't want to be a parent. But he couldn't date you without being a part of his own kid's life. That would be low even for him. As your stomach grew so did his feelings for you. Infact, when the Lizard League put a hole in his skull, he woke up to keep fighting because he pictured you.

He was being dragged down into death, seeing his life flash before his eyes, and then finally he saw you. But it wasn't a memory. It was a prophecy.

His head laid on your lap, you smiled down at him while you squished his face in your hands. Next to him, a small bundle wrapped in a blanket slept soundly. He heard birds singing sweet songs, the Sun casted warm light on his skin and gave you a radiant glow, and you were brighter than all of it. You leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead, telling him he had to get up and go. There was an emergency. He had to go, he had to fight, had to blow shit up.

He did and from there, the rest was history.

[deadlysoupy]

How many continuities do you ship starbee in?

(to everyone who sent me requests i will get to them trust i'm just going over the asks that are easy to answer first)

despite being a committed starbee fan, i only ship them in a couple of continuities actually! they're very limited and exclusive i feel like, like i said that one time - they either stick together like glue, or they're like fridge magnets, as in they can never make contact ever

my original starbee was in idw, as with many people. i don't really remember how i even came to like them, i vaguely remember reblogging a few arts when i finished some idw issue? and then i was like huh yeah they're kinda gay huh, and then the floodgates OPENED and it was the most insane thing i've gotten into, it literally changed my life, i love you idw starbee forever and ever

now, i like cyberverse as much as the next guy, but starbee in cyberverse is very lowkey to me. i LIKE them, i wish they had more screentime together, and the moments that they DO have are amazing (@/whatwooshkai said once that cbv!starbee are exes and its SO real for their relationship), and the couple of fics i read of them were some of my favourites so yaaaay

and, of course, my king, my queen, my sweet patootie, is earthspark starbee. yes its made up. no i will not back down from my beliefs. look at my blog. you know. its been two years since the tfe!starbee brainworms hit and they aren't going away any time soon (g1 gets an honourable mention for a couple of scenes but eh i can't take the show seriously sometimes so shrugs i like them in concept)

as a side-note i actually consider bee to be aroace or on the spectrum at least so he's very limited to which romances i attribute to him, so starbee is like my roman empire and possibly the only ship i will ever see with bee. its a cosmic-level destiny for them its in the stars. ye

[madsluvsdilfs]

✧.*Jealousy, Jealousy✧.*

Sam Monroe x Reader

Warnings? Slight sexual suggestion at the end

Jealous was an understatement. Sam Monroe doesn't get jealous, no he just gets angry, and oh boy, does he get angry. Sam will hold grudges until neither of you remember why he started in the first place. He will act like a complete drama queen (though he won't admit it because…he has a reputation to uphold remember?), he will give you sass, the cold shoulder and if you've really annoyed him, even refusing to cuddle at night. And Sam loves to cuddle.

And tonight was one of those nights. God, Sam was fuming, you could swear you saw the steam blowing out of his ears. Both of you were on your bed, him laying with his back to you and you sat, trying to get his attention. He had been ignoring you since lunchtime in school and yes, he went to your house despite being mad at you but that was only because he desperately hates being at his house lately. Everyday after school, he came over yours, staying there into the late hours of the night, even staying for the full night if he really felt like it. After all, he loved you, he really did. Normally, the two of you would spend hours wrapped up together, sharing whispered anecdotes about your days and stolen kisses when the other had been talking for too long.

But tonight, Sam had other plans. He laid on the bed, arms crossed, bottom lip jutting out, looking like a child who wasn't allowed to buy a new toy. He would huff every few minutes, wanting to always have your attention but not actually talking to you. After you finally reach your breaking point, you grab his shoulder and pull him so he's now on his back, forcing him to look at you. Once you've asked him what his problem is, all he replies with is “You know what.”

What? What does he mean? Immediately you start asking him and eventually he just bursts. “You were talking to him! Again. Seriously, why don't you just date him already?”

Oh. It finally clicked. That boy. The boy in your and Sam's class. He was nice, you considered him a friendly acquaintance. But he didn't consider you the same way. No, he was in love with you, and it was clear to all. Especially Sam. God, he made Sam insecure. He was everything Sam wasn't, athletic, conventionally handsome with blonde hair and huge biceps. Everytime Sam saw him talking to you, it made his blood boil. He was so sure that one day you would up and leave him for the hot football player.

Your face immediately dropped when you saw the look of pure heartbreak and sadness on his face and you immediately scoop up his larger frame and pull him so his head is resting on your chest. You press your pillowy lips to his forehead, whispering sweet words to try and reassure him. “Baby, I'm not leaving you, not now, not ever. I love you.”

Despite your words, he still shakes his head, not believing you.

“But he's perfect, you're perfect, I don't understand why you're with me, you could do so much better.”

You shush him almost as soon as he finishes talking, telling him how looks aren't everything, how you like him for his personality and not his looks (as cliche as it sounds) and how no matter if your dream guy came along you wouldn't leave him…because Sam is your dream guy.

After a few more minutes of you reassuring him, he finally stops pouting, looking up at you with his pretty face and his glazed over eyes. You lean down, pressing your lips against his surprisingly plump ones and it doesn't take long before his signature smirk finds its place back on his face. He pulls away once the both of you have run out of oxygen, slowly moving down your body, hands following and mouth trailing sloppy kisses wherever they can reach. He finally settles between your thighs, lips pressed against the bare skin there, before he whispers.

“Time to prove how much you really love me, yeah?”

Hi lovelies, just wanted to throw this quick drabble out there as I thought about jealous Sam during school today and couldn't stop thinking about him. Also you know the drill by now, this has not been proofread...But anyway, I hope you all enjoy and my requests should be opened if you have any suggestions for future fics. Anyway, I love you all, stay safe! xx

Tag list (request to be added?): @anakinstwinklebunny @loveamira

[diodellet]

cw: finished this draft thats been rotting in my drive since 2021-2022. established relationship with the affectionate angel 😇💕💕 lots of fluff and sweetness in spite of embarrassment, references to deeper intimacy at the end, but it's just a line. beta'd with my own two eyes and a prayer, all mistakes are mine

simeon wondered if you were angry. no, that didn’t seem likely. not first thing in the morning. “are you alright?” he still asked, concern lacing your name. your hold on his wrist tightened for just a fraction.

“….yes,” you responded, albeit hesitantly, head glancing over your shoulder for the barest moment before slowing your brisk walking pace altogether. inhaled, then exhaled. “sorry.” a hint of embarrassment crept into your voice. “didn’t want anyone around.”

the both of you reached a secluded area of the RAD courtyard. "did something happen back at the house of lamentation?" you were not one to be so affected by something as juvenile as teasing. "another sermon from lucifer?" his palm searched for yours, interlacing your fingers together.

"thankfully, not." you let go of him, toying with the drawstrings of your hoodie instead.

"are you feeling ill, perhaps? you shouldn't push yourself too much - "

"no, no, no! it's nothing serious, i promise." you'd have to forgive him for being overbearing, he can't quite read your expression as well since you came to campus in a mask and hoodie. "i'm just…"

"why don't we sit down?" simeon's voice was gentle as he guided you to one of the stone benches. "i'll listen."

"…i already told you," you mumbled, then sighed. "…i guess i'll just show you. please don't laugh."

the realization dawned on him as soon as you tugged down the hood of your jacket. well, it was impossible not to notice the new blemishes dotting the apples of your cheeks. some lighter, others darker than your complexion. constellations on your skin.

a warm mix of embarrassment and affection bubbled up within simeon once you fully pulled down the facemask. "oh. those are - "

"asmo called them 'angel kisses,'" you finished his sentence. the words trailed off into a loud, loud silence.

simeon's smile was met with your lips pulling into a frown - or would it be more apt to describe it as a pout? - your palms reflexively moved to obscure the new marks as best as they could. "they didn't appear until now, does that mean, everything before…us wasn't…?"

"no! no, that's not true." you're drawn into a tight hug. simeon's voice dropped to a decibel low enough for only your ears. "i'm guessing they're only showing now because - "

oh, when you looked at him with those eyes - open and trusting and utterly adorable - his heart was going to burst from the sheer affection he held for you.

" - i want to show you these feelings every time we're together, even if there isn't a special occasion at the moment." angels were created to love humans wholly and unconditionally, but this went beyond his divine programming. encompassed a mere fraction of the free will that deeply belonged to humans. "and i can't control myself that well when we're together, i'm - i'm sorry about that."

your knuckles brushed against his cheek, gentle and soothing. followed by the press of your lips. "don't be, i'm sorry for overthinking."

he'd half a mind to mirror the chaste kiss, but decided better - kissing the top of your head. both a sort of blessing and gesture of love in its purest form. "i should have explained that beforehand," simeon mused. "is there anything else burdening you?"

"nothing, well…" that shy look crept back onto your features. "maybe, anywhere under the collar's fine. like, for when i have to be out the next day?"

"oh. oh!" a bashful laugh slipped from him. simeon had to get used to the burn of mortification alongside the swell of affection. "of course! next time, i'll remember that."

(no wonder his celestial magic always went a little haywire when he was with you.)

[synthetickitsune]

hello kind animalistic creature, kinky teacher the8 x reader pretty please? 🥺🥺🥺

hello little prey, you can have kink teacher hao instead ♡

The8 (SVT) | Discipline suggestive | 0.9k | gn!reader A/N: only labeling as suggestive bcs non-sexual shibari and sub/dom dynamics but nothing sexual happens

Minghao clicks his tongue somewhere above you. It’s hard to pinpoint where the sound is coming from exactly, he’s standing somewhere you can’t see. That is until he’s not and the tip of his shoe roughly nudges your knees wider apart. You press your lips together not to yelp. The faded bruises might have healed already but the area is still tender.

“You never learn,” he sighs, sounding almost disappointed, “I taught you better, didn’t I?”

He did. You want to whine in frustration because although he indeed did, it’s not your fault that he’s so meticulous. At some point it just feels like he’s bullying you - your legs aren’t open enough, your head's not bowed enough, your hands are too high.

“I asked you something.”

Asking questions that feel rhetorical.

“Yes, sir,” you reply meekly. As frustrating as his taunting might be, it makes some of the tension roll off your shoulders. There’s something freeing about this helplessness. 

“Good,” he whispers. As he does, his hand runs through your hair. When he takes a fistful to guide your head to rest against his thigh, he doesn’t pull. You nuzzle against his thigh and purr when he slowly massages your scalp. It feels nice.  

He’s infuriating when he’s had a bad day, but he’s not cruel. Minghao’s always been big on trust. You know he wouldn’t break the bond you’ve built and push beyond what you can take. So he takes a minute to spoil you with affection. It allows him to take a couple of deep breaths too, to center himself. To remind himself that you’re not the reason for his anger and shouldn’t be the target of it either.

“Should I help you remember?” he asks, patting your head one more time. 

“Yes, please,” you barely move in an attempt to keep the desired posture, “Sir.”

“Then stay as you are,” then he hums and after a beat, scoffs, “Just fix your chin.”

You bow your head as he taught you. You had it right the first time - he made you mess up when he pulled you off his thigh.

You listen to him move around the room. You know it like the back of your hand, so you know what he’s probably looking for and it makes your heartbeat speed up. It’s just what you need. He probably knows, probably seeks that relief too.

When he deliberately lets the end of the rope slip from his hands and brush against your skin, you shiver. It’s familiar, the way the threads snake along your body, the press and pull while Minghao adjusts them. You can feel his gaze on you - but not really. His focus is on each individual movement. Where he needs to thread the rope, where the knot has to rest against your body; he won’t hurt you. And knowing that, you let him bind you. Take away the rest of your freedom, the distraction you don’t need right now.

With your torso and arms decorated by his masterpiece, he moves on to your thighs. He’s precise, as he always is. He takes a step back to inspect you first. To check that you kept the desired position he wants you in. Satisfied, he goes back to the ropes. It’s not until he’s finished that he reveals a treat that he had in store for you.

You whine in surprise when you feel something poking into the skin of your thighs, you squirm and feel the something scratch. He only chuckles. Whatever it is, he adds a few more and then does the same on your other leg.

“You should stay still,” he advises. You can hear the smirk in his voice. “It’s just a little motivation to help the lesson stick.”

He doesn’t have to but he shows you anyway, the little thorns he clicks over the rope. They don’t hurt, not much anyway unless you move. So you keep still. You think they might leave bruises in a classic Minghao fashion - somewhere only he will be able to admire them and somewhere you’ll often see them and remember the lesson he taught you.

You’re so thrilled by the prospect of fresh marks on your body that you only notice the collar on your neck when you hear the click and get pulled back by the leash attached.

“Being difficult today?” he scolds. You try to move only to find you don’t have to. If you sit as you’re supposed to, if you hold your head correctly, the leather of the collar doesn’t dig into your skin. It doesn’t choke you.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” you reply, albeit with some effort. While the collar doesn’t cut off your oxygen, you can’t strain too much against it either.

“Of course not,” he says over the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor. Then you hear the chair creak a little, then the sound of a book being opened, pages being turned. All without a single tug at the leash. 

You kneel with bated breath, the rope keeping you still just as he wanted. The thorns press into your skin deliciously. Minghao keeps reading. You lick your lips to speak up but he shushes you before you can.

So you keep kneeling. All the excess tension slowly rolls off your body. Only enough left to keep you in position.

He turns another page.

[pink-ladybugs]

Harvest Moon Ch. 3

Farmhand Abby Anderson x Femme Reader

See ch.1, ch.2

Inspired by:

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Description: Fluff, angst, friends to lovers, time skip. Abby Anderson farmhand AU. Modern AU.

Plot: You and Abby had been best friends since childhood. You basically grew up together in a small town in eastern Washington. However, a vicious fight separates the two of you. Only the most unpredictable circumstance can bring you back together. This is the third installation.

Author’s Note: I just finished my finals and now it’s spring break! I have more time to write now. 😊

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After Dan reluctantly consumed the vegetables and baked salmon you had cooked for him, he retired to his bedroom. He was completely knocked out before his head even hit the pillow, snoring like a bear.

You washed the dishes from dinner (and previously neglected dishes…) in the sink downstairs. You hum a song as you work. Singing parts of the lyrics that you remember.

“I wanna see you dance agai-“ You stop yourself.

You are instantly back in the hot gym of Dry Creek High School. You giggle about how old the song is, dancing awkwardly to the rhythm.

“Who still listens to Neil young?” Says a voice.

Abby’s voice.

You blink and the moment is gone. Now your eyes fixate on the tap water running over the dishes in your hands. You turn the water off and dry your hands on your jeans. The thought of that night doesn’t leave you no matter how hard you try to think of something else.

You step into your childhood bedroom and register the untouched belongings. The ones that used to belong to you. Or, a version of you. Your simple attic bedroom had accumulated dust. You watch dust particles flow through small beams of moonlight that slip through your window. The old lace curtains frame the full moon. Your dark oak bed frame creaks like it always used to as you climb onto the mattress. You pull the layers of quilts over your shoulders and try to get comfortable.

You feel like a little girl all over again. Coming back to this room feels like stepping into it for the very first time. When you were young and scared. Living with your uncle, a man you barely knew after your parents had passed. The thoughts of how much things have changed infest your mind. Every event that occurred in your childhood plays on the inside of your eyelids like a never ending movie.

That night you end up tossing and turning until early morning birds chirp loudly outside of your window.

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Clouds roll over the farm, giving the land that signature grey filter that appears in the awkward stages between the end of Winter and the bloom of Spring. It dulls the vibrant greens of the trees and blues of the sky. The fog covers any sight of the regal mountains. Like a secret kept hidden to those who are patient enough to stay for the beauty of Summer.

The cold stings your face as you walk around the farm. Not much has changed. You notice a few new fences, a stump where a tree had once stood, and more peeled paint on the exterior walls of the stable.

The inside of the stable is warm. Horses grunt at you as you walk by, analyzing them. You recognize some of them, except they were only foals when you last saw them. Before guilt can creep into your heart again, a bark interrupts your thoughts.

“Shep!” You crouch down as the panting golden retriever runs into your arms.

“Hi buddy!” You say running your hands through his fur. When you were little you begged Dan for a puppy. You convinced him that the dog you get could help him on the farm by herding the animals back into their pens. Then came along Shep on Christmas morning. A tiny puppy Dan had brought in after you finished opening the rest of your presents. You quickly realized this dog could barely find his own tail, let alone herd sheep. So instead, he became your loyal sidekick in every adventure you dragged him into as a child.

“I missed you!” You say scratching behind his ears. Shep pants happily as he sits for you, wagging his tail.

His ears suddenly perk up and his head twists towards the entrance of the stable. He quickly leaves your embrace and jogs over to a tall figure leaning against the stable entrance.

First you notice the boots. Then the hat. Then the braid. You stand up and walk towards the figure to make sure you aren’t seeing things.

There stood Abby. Except, it wasn’t the Abby that you knew. Her stance was confident, a stark comparison to the socially inept teenager you had to beg to come with you to school events. Her scrawny limbs were replaced with lean muscle. Her hair was longer, more parts were bleached from being out in the sun too long. And her face, her face had changed too. New freckles that you didn’t recognize litter her cheeks. The soft baby face you once knew was replaced by a hardened expression. One you could no longer read. You gain a small ounce of comfort from the realization that her eyes had stayed the same.

She stands at the entrance of the stable with her arms crossed until Shep approaches her. She crouches down and gives him ear scratches.

“Look Shep, it’s the traitor.” She says in a baby voice. Your nose crinkles. So this is how its gonna go…

“What are you doing here? How did you know I was coming back into town?” You ask. Abby looks around for a stick to throw for Shep, still avoiding your gaze.

“I didn’t.” Abby says picking up a small stick. Her voice was slightly deeper. Your heart pangs as you remember when it used to crack whenever she got nervous. Her country accent somehow got thicker too. Who was this girl?

“Then why are you here?” Your eyebrow quirks.

“I work here.” Abby says nonchalantly as she waves the stick in front of Shep and then throws it a few yards away.

“What? When did you start working here?”

“Couple days ago. Dan officially hired me after his visit with Doc. But I’ve been helping him out here and there for about… hm.. when was it that you left again?” Abby says finally meeting your gaze, arms crossed.

Anger surges through you. How could Dan not tell you about this?

“Oh thats right! Six years. Six years ago when you left everybody to go to your fancy-pants school. I forgot.” Abby says. The words dig into your skin, skin that she knew how to get under all too well.

“Well Im here now alright? And Dan doesn’t need you here because he’s got me. So you can go home and let me take care of it.” You say placing a hand on your hip. Shep comes back with his stick and happily gives it to Abby who throws it again. He is blissfully unaware of the heated conversation as he chases after it.

Abby scoffs. “This farm wouldn’t survive without me. I don’t even know why you came back. Dans got me to take care of him and the crops. This place doesn’t need you.” Abby says harshly. Your brow furrows and your fist clenches.

“That’s funny. I remember you saying the exact opposite before you left me out in the woods to walk home six years ago.” You say, your cheeks burning from the confrontation.

Abby’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think we wanna talk about mistakes that were made six years ago.”

“Well maybe we do, because you seem to care. A lot.” You point out.

Shep comes back with the stick but this time Abby takes it from him and throws it angrily, as far as she can. Her tone turns defensive.

“I don’t care! I could give a horses ass about what happened that night!” She says throwing her hands up into the air.

You meet her energy. “Well good! Because I certainly don’t care about it either!” You shout.

“Im glad.” Abby taunts you.

“Im glad you’re glad!” You yell.

“Well Im glad you’re glad Im glad!” She yells back, realizing the stupidity of her words. It seems like you still knew how to get under her skin too.

Abby pivots away from you in frustration and angrily stomps in the opposite direction of the stable. Shep follows her with his stick.

“Not now Shep!” She yells. Shep whimpers and looks over at you with puppy dog eyes. He then reluctantly turns to follow Abby with droopy ears.

Your heart beats fast. You can barely believe what just happened. You had no idea there would be such an explosion on your second day back in town. You feel like throwing up.

Your queasiness is quickly replaced by anger. Anger towards a certain someone. Not Abby…

Dan.