#i'm so sorry but this has been on my mind for so long!!!

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

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

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

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

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

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

You know, a Lemurian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do my neck too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you wanted to see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked better, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once he began to create, however...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

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

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Receptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently they had.

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

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

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

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

Which was dry.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

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

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

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

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, this man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

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

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

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

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

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

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

It was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not until you.

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep going like this.

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

And you had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So adorable. So endearing.)

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

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

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

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

“…Rafayel?”

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

He could… He could skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a weak man.

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep being like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Focus.)

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

And then. The tug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

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

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

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

His robe.

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

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

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

He felt a push at his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you bit him.

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? Now?

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

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

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

More than this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a homecoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

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

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

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

“Or, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was that easy to change his mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just returning to the original plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth wide open.

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

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

"Pffft!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel.”

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

“Rafayel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke first.

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

Then you yanked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a reward for that?”

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

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission to talk?”

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

“Go ahead, handsome.”

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

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

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

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

"Are you really asking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Just how pent-up was he?

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

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

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

"Rafa—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was beyond insatiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, did he listen well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel just smiled.

[gyaruhana]

HEYHEYYYYYY!!! I know requests are closed, buuuut... my mind has been going crazy thinking about a yandere Min su. Ik he's a cutie patootie but, UGHHH. Am I the only one who sees him as having yan potential?? Idk, but I NEED him as a yan. 😭

Min-Su/Player 125 - Yandere!Min-Su Headcannons

Synopsis: minsu as a yandere..

A/N: i hear you and i see you. he could so be a yan ugh !!

Warnings: yandere content, smut content, kinda short..

➠ Min-Su is sort of like a stray puppy honestly..

➠ he stalks follows you around constantly but never gets too close

➠ he's more on the quiet side so he doesn't really think about going up to you and talking to you

➠ he instead opts for the much creepier move which involves watching you every single day and night

➠ you'll see him everywhere but he's careful enough to make it look like a coincidence so you'll never suspect anything more

➠ he might be a bit of a push over but do NOT mistake that for him being weak..

➠ he's not afraid to get his hands dirty if he knows he can get away with it

➠ he's very much driven by the fear of losing you to someone else and fear makes him do a lot of bad things

➠ If he's able to, he'll kill whoever poses a threat to his chances with you and then burn the body

➠ However, if he can't, he won't hesitate to kidnap you instead

➠ he's so sloppy when he tries to kidnap you because he's doing it out of sheer panic he might lose you

➠ takes three tries before he successfully does it and takes you to his place

➠ he's nervous when you first wake up tied to his chair and tries to be very gentle so you'll like him more but quite quickly gives that up when he realizes you won't change your opinion now that he's kidnapped you

➠ he's still nice.. he loves you and doesn't want to hurt you but he will get upset if you annoy him too much

➠ he will keep you tied to a chair but he'll tie you to his bed at some point for cuddles (he's clingy)

➠ like i said, he's so stray puppy core

➠ he always wants to please you and keep you happy because you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen and he's so hopelessly in love with you

➠ he won't let you leave the house though

➠ On the bright side, he will feed you amazingly !!

➠ 5 star meals all the time and he will not settle for anything less for you

➠ he wants to reward you all the time for being perfect

➠ he also wants to be rewarded with physical touch like head pats

➠ on a more sexual note..

➠ he will top but he is still submissive

➠ he's just on top because he gets nervous you'll try run if he unties you

➠ he's quiet for the most part but he whines every now and again

➠ so so sensitive he literally can't handle teasing

➠ and yet he overstimulates himself every time anyway

➠ he also cries easily

➠ I feel like it's important to mention he'd wait for you to come to him for sex

➠ he's patient and isn't super eager for sex.

➠ as long as he gets cuddles, he's happy

➠ overall, really gentle yandere but does get his hands dirty

"I'm really sorry but I couldn't let him take you from me," Min-Su spoke as he gently caressed your cheek with his thumb. Min-Su never meant if for it to happen like this. He'd rather be on a date with you instead of having you tied up to a chair in his house. However, that guy he saw you with last sunday looked like he was about to sweep you off your feet and Min-Su just couldn't have that. Ideally, he would've just killed the guy like he did the last few that risked his chances of stealing your heart. Unfortunately, Min-Su knew he'd be no match for that guy so he had to do the next best thing; kidnap you. Even if his heart ached at your tears of fear, he knew this was for the better. You were all his now. "Don't cry, please. It's alright. I won't hurt you - not when you're mine,"

[starglitterz]

♡ YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME!

what was meant to be a simple heist goes awry when you're interrupted by a shockingly cute security guard & a couple of rival art thieves. did you mention that one of them is kind of your ex?

✧ feat ; ayato, childe, diluc, scaramouche x gn!reader (3.6k words)

✧ warnings ; highly suggestive, thief + cop au, robbery, weapons, reader is a tease, one (1) ginger insult, reader loves bullying men (as they should)

✧ a/n ; be gay do crime that's all i have to say! jk HJSDSJD this has been rotting in my drafts for almost THREE years. i reread it and the writing style was so unserious that i suddenly got motivated to continue it and then i finished it in a night. Yeah. anyways this is my #grandcomeback and also first post of 2025! i really hope you all enjoy this :> if it flops i will cry myself to sleep /j btw this was proofread by the loml @musings-of-miss-j who has a SUPERB harbingers series that u should totally check out 🙂‍↕️😋

please reblog with comments ! it helps a lot :)

"hey! you there!" a baritone voice behind you yells, shattering the midnight peace of the museum and jolting you out of your reverie. tightening your grip around the gleaming purple gnosis you came here for, you slip it into your pocket quickly before turning around with a smile that would assure anybody of your innocence. "who? little old me?" you bat your eyes, blinking slowly at the man. your eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, so even with his similarly coloured outfit you're able to pick out the faded gold badge at his chest reading 'diluc'. "what are you doing back here?" his tone doesn't change in the slightest as he flicks his flashlight over to you, the beam practically blinding against the dark surroundings. 

"it appears that i've gotten lost," you laugh awkwardly, doing your best to feign being a naive tourist, "i was told that there were late tours offered at the teyvat museum." diluc still looks exceedingly suspicious, and as his gaze travels behind you your mind snaps into overdrive so he doesn't notice the missing artifact. suddenly bursting into tears, you run forward and bury your face in his shirt, "i! was! so! scared!" you punctuate each word with an even louder wail and he freezes beneath you, the close contact entirely unexpected. "there, there…" he pats your back with the enthusiasm and warmth of a polar ice cap, and with your face hidden in the fabric you permit yourself a triumphant smile - you've managed to divert his attention for now, at least.

"i am so terribly sorry about this," you begin to apologise profusely before looking up at him with teary eyes, "but would you mind walking me to the exit? i'm afraid i'll get lost again." at his hesitant expression you sniffle loudly, exaggerating it as much as possible until he caves, "fine. but stay close, there's been rumours floating around about artifact thieves lately." when he starts marching away, you hurry to catch up and ask curiously as if you aren't one of them, "artifact thieves?!" "yes. the type to steal priceless elements of history and sell them on the black market," he spits with disgust in his eyes. "oh, how terrible! i can't understand why anyone would do that instead of leaving them here for the public to enjoy," you gush, "surely there are other ways to make money." 

yeah, you could become an art thief instead. not that you haven't tried that; you just found it too tedious to craft a believable enough fake and ensure the painting wasn't damaged while sneaking it out. diluc doesn't deign to reply besides a single nod of his head, and you try to start up another conversation, "i suppose you're not the type to befriend random visitors, huh?" the corner of his lips tug up into a barely perceptible smile, "only the ones who appear after closing hours." "can't you make an exception for me?" you wink, though you doubt he can even see it through the darkness blanketing the museum. "hmph," is the only answer you receive, and your chit-chat ends with a dramatic sigh from your end.

to be frank, you couldn't care less whether this ‘diluc’ likes you or not. it's just in your best interests for him to remember you as some flirty ditz who'd leave their head at home if it wasn't screwed on and not a calculating, manipulative burglar. this heist is one to remember for sure though, you don't think you've ever escaped with the goods in your pocket while talking to the security guard on duty. you've knocked them out beforehand and slept with them after, but never during the job, so tonight marks a first for you. 

through your eyelashes, you glance at diluc, absorbing every detail about him in a split second; it's a trick you've learned from years of living on the street where figuring out who's going to hurt you and who won't is crucial for survival. he's pretty enough that you wouldn't mind spending the night with him, with fiery red locks tied neatly into a high ponytail and crimson eyes which sparkle like rubies. perhaps you could make this a double heist and steal his heart too!

your train of thought is interrupted as diluc comes to a halt without warning and you bump into his back (which you note is surprisingly toned). "what-" you start to complain, but he holds a hand up which silences you immediately. "i heard something," he whispers, practically inaudible, and you instantly start to babble, "what?! are they artifact thieves?! are we going to die?!" diluc groans before grabbing you and hiding behind a wall, pulling you flush against his torso as one of his gloved hands covers your mouth, "shut up." 

now this is close contact; you can feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, his racing heartbeat, and his every muscle tensing in preparation for a fight. if you weren't so preoccupied with the fact that this is delaying your getaway, you'd probably make a stupid quip. actually scratch that, you're going to do it anyway, "at least take me on a date first," you mumble as you shrug away his hand, and he looks at you with the most disbelieving expression, "you can still make idiotic comments in a situation like this? you've either got nerves of steel or you're a total dumbass." "depends on your type," you smile, and he drags a palm down his face exasperatedly, "i- you know what, never mind."

"ow!" "shut the fuck up, idiot. it's bad enough that i had to get paired with you, but if you get us caught i'm going to kill you." "rude. you could just ask nicely." "i have no interest in talking to you." "yet here we are." "can you seriously keep quiet? i'm telling the tsaritsa never to put me in a team with you again." "aw, stop, you'll hurt my feelings." "do you even have any of those left?" "hey! i'll have you know i am a very emotional person." "that's like me saying i'm an upstanding member of society."

you freeze in diluc's arms, running through every curse word in every language you know in your mind. you'd recognise those two voices anywhere. out of all the nights the fatui could have been planning a robbery, it had to be tonight?! archons, your luck is awful. "okay, this has been fun and all, but i've got to go," you start wriggling out of his embrace, planning to smash a window and escape because you'd honestly risk getting caught by the cops instead of the fatui. "what?! are you insane?! there are obviously two robbers there," diluc whisper-shouts, brows furrowing in a peculiar mix of confusion and worry. "and i'd prefer not to die, so i'm going to leave before they come here!" you retort, continuing to slide out of his arms. however, he doesn't relax his grip and you roll your eyes before elbowing him in the stomach. the sudden attack surprises him and he lets go with a groan, which is more than enough time for you to make a break for it.

unfortunately, diluc delayed you long enough that you end up running right into the two fatui members' line of vision. "wait, who are you?!" one of them asks, and the other one continues, "turn around, or i'll shoot you right now." fuck, is all you can think as you slowly rotate to face them with a sheepish smile, perhaps they wouldn't recognise you. "hey, aren't you y/n?!" well, there goes that plan. "no…? who's that?" "nah, you definitely are," the ginger walks towards you slowly before tilting your chin up to face him with his index finger. the game's up, so you sigh, "hey, childe... it's been a while." 

"i knew it was you! i'd know that pretty face of yours anywhere," he beams gleefully, and you smirk, "you still find me pretty? never knew you had a thing for criminals." "i do, it's my fatal flaw," he frowns before continuing, "except when they steal my money, in which case they become my enemies instead." double fuck. he still remembers that. "it wasn't that much! just about ten million mora or so, i know you've got tons left where that came from," you hurry to defend yourself. "that's not the point! the point is that you stole my money after i oh-so-kindly let you stay in my house!" childe says, and you're not taking this one lying down, "liar! you invited me over after you saw me at the bar!"

"can you both shut up? i'm losing braincells just listening to this shit," scaramouche cuts in, rolling his eyes so far back you swear they're going to get stuck that way. "really? because when you opened your mouth i think my iq just dropped by 10 points," you retort. scaramouche gapes at you for a second, clearly not used to someone talking back to him. "take a picture, it'll last longer," you wink, feeling the situation slide itself back into your grasp once more; you aren't planning on going down without a fight. "i don't have a kamera, and anyway who wants photos of dead people?" he fumbles for a reply and childe snickers, "cat got your tongue, scara?" "more like y/n's got your wallet," the balladeer jabs back, a smug grin curving his lips at the witty reply. childe's eyes widen at the insult, "hey! i'll have you know that i gave it to them willingly-"

taking advantage of the argument between the two of them, you unhook a rope from your waist and toss it up to the skylight. you're in the common center area of the museum, which has a square gap up to the roof and offers you a perfect shot for your hook to sail upwards and catch at the ledge. the instant you press a button the cord retracts, pulling you up with it. "and now y/n's getting away! so long, suckers!" you cheer as you zip upwards. "isn't that my line?!" you hear scaramouche yell as they scramble to find a way after you. seconds before you slam into the window like an unfortunate bug, you pull out a gun and shoot the glass, watching with glee as a spiderweb of cracks forms across it. thanks to the momentum of you gliding through the air, your boots easily smash through it when you kick harshly as you reach it, and you land with a loud thud on the roof. "ouch," you groan, "that's going to leave a bruise tomorrow." glancing at your surroundings, you inhale the fresh night air stained with the smog from all the polluting factories and listen to the buzz of the highways, busy even past midnight, "nothing like the city."

just then, you hear a thump behind you, and then a deep voice that sounds strangely familiar, "you'll be admiring it from a prison window after this." you spin around sharply, and the sight nearly makes you fall off the edge of the building with surprise, "diluc?!" at this, he freezes, and it's evident that he thought his disguise would be more than enough to conceal his identity. with a cough, he says, "no, i'm the darknight hero." "no, you're clearly diluc. i just met you like fifteen minutes ago and even i can recognise your hair in that stupid suit, it practically glows," you fold your arms over your chest, making idle conversation while your mind races to come up with an idea to save yourself. "my suit isn't stupid," diluc can't stop himself from defending his outfit, just because he had barely any sewing skills did not give you the right to insult the piece of clothing. "it's literally a mask and a black coat." 

"back to the matter at hand," diluc- sorry, the darknight hero, clears his throat loudly, clearly eager to change the topic, "you're under arrest." "oh yeah? since when are you a cop?" "i'm not." "then you obviously don't have the power to arrest me, idiot." smarting from yet another insult, diluc tries his best to maintain his composure, "i meant that i'm going to take you in to the police station and then you'll be under arrest." "should have just said that," you shrug, and you can almost see diluc fighting to rein his temper in - this is too easy.

"okay, well, this actually hasn't been fun at all, so i'm leaving," you turn around again and stroll away, hoping that there'll be a ladder on the edge of the roof. you don't really see a diluc as a threat, because to be honest he seems more like a kid playing dress-up. what kind of self-respecting adult who cared as much for the law as he did would choose to be a vigilante? maybe if he got a better costume you could take him seriously. and that turned out to be a huge mistake on your part, because the next moment, a lasso whizzes through the air and loops around your ankles, quickly pulling into a deadknot that would take you ages to untie. 

you want to throw a tantrum, crying and stomping your feet at diluc, but what good would that do when this issue sprung from your own cockiness? "listen, how much do you want? i'll give it to you, any amount. i know how much security guards make, and trust me, it'll be nothing compared to what i could give you," the words spill out of your mouth in a jumble, and you seem to take on the role of a confident salesman selling a product you know is worthless. it's embarrassing how much this sounds like a plea. "i don't want money. i want the streets and artifacts of teyvat to be safe from people like you," diluc ignores your further attempts at bribing him, although he does give you a strange look when you offer up a kiss, as if he's genuinely considering it. does this man actually get no bitches?

“ah, a kiss, hm? is that what you want?” you lean forward almost desperately, grinning at him like a maniac, “c’mon, mr darknight hero! i promise i’m a really good kisser~” you lick your lips as if to prove your point, and your smirk deepens when his ruby gaze follows the motion. “just give me a second to touch up my lipstick, ‘kay?” while he’s still stunned from your offer, you fumble in your pocket and pull out a taser. diluc only snaps back into action when he sees the weapon clutched in your hands, and though he dodges, you manage to stumble forward without your bound ankles and ram the buzzing probes into his chest. 

a strange noise, a mixture of a whimper and a groan escapes his throat as he falls to his knees in front of you, body twitching like a dying bug. rummaging in his pockets, you find a knife and giggle as you slice through the ties on your legs, “see? this is why it’s always great to have men on their knees for you. i forgot my knife today, so i hope you’ll be okay with me borrowing this.” as he glares at you through blurry vision, a mockingly pitiful smile curves your lips and you pat his head like you’re petting an overzealous guard dog, “now be a good boy and stay here, okay, diluc? ah, sorry, i mean mr darknight hero!” dipping your head, you press a fleeting kiss to his cheek, relishing in his flustered gasp, “i’ll give you a proper kiss next time~” you burst into laughter and skip off, leaving him tied up and blushing with the same restraints he had used on you. 

“why is this stupid place so big?!” you mutter to yourself as you whiz across the rooftop. the museum is under renovation, so a lot of the walls of the rear wing are covered in scaffolding and tarp that only serve to slow you down as you try to escape. you’re seriously regretting being a cheapskate earlier and not parking at the official parking lot, instead you had hid your getaway car almost a kilometre away from the location just to avoid a parking fee. don’t judge! things like this are how rich people stay rich. but just as you’re skidding across the glass-roofed observatory, you hear a familiar voice behind you. 

“not so fast, thief.”

you groan as exaggeratedly as you can, making a big show of how troublesome it is for you to turn around, “hello again, childe. hat guy.” “my name is scaramouche!” he seethes, scowling at you with a glare furious enough to thaw antarctica. “listen, y/n,” childe steps forward, raising both hands in magnanimous surrender, “let’s make a deal.” “not interested.” you stick your tongue out, slowly backing away. childe continues as if he didn’t hear you, but the twitch in his brow is enough to give away his act, “you give us the gnosis, and i’ll forget all about the money you owe me.” “i don’t owe you, genius,” you scoff, “i stole it. i’m obviously not going to repay it.” “you really are an idiot,” scaramouche massages his temples, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than here at this moment.

“well!” childe puffs himself up, pretending that his ego isn’t hurt, “i thought you and i had chemistry, y’know? we could hang out again if you just give me the gnosis.” his voice drops an octave lower to emphasise his last few words, and you feel a familiar shiver up your spine. “childe, we slept together once, and sleeping with a ginger was not one of my proudest moments,” you retort, though you feel a twinge of guilt as childe fusses with his hair, “hey! uncalled for!” to be honest, he’s not wrong. the two of you did have chemistry, and the night you spent together was… well, let’s just say you could barely walk the next day. but dating isn’t your style, especially not when it’s someone who belongs to a rival group in the world of art theft. you  prefer one night stands – it’s easier to keep things simple with no strings attached. 

“just give us the gnosis, and we won’t kill you. is that a better deal?” scaramouche interrupts, evidently tired of childe beating around the bush. “scara! i was this close to getting them to crack!” childe pouts, and scaramouche rolls his eyes heavenward – if there was ever a time for him to believe in the gods, it would be now as he prays for mercy from his partner’s stupidity. “you’re cracked in the head if you think so,” scaramouche drags a palm down his face and sighs, “you only think with your dick.” “what?!” childe’s aghast at this accusation, “that’s not true!” “i think it is.” you helpfully supply, and that draws both men’s attention back to you.

“whatever! just hand us the gnosis, and things won’t get messy.” childe withdraws his blades, and you realise he’s finally getting serious. scaramouche steps closer as well, and you can’t move backwards anymore, you’re already teetering on the ledge. a fall from this height definitely wouldn’t leave you in the best condition. it’s too early for you to die, you haven’t even seen your favourite artist live yet! “fine. you want it?” you pull the gnosis out from your pocket and a wicked smirk graces your features, “then come and get it~!” you toss the item up in the air, letting the way it sparkles in the moonlight speak for itself as you lean backwards and salute, “see you on the other side, losers!” 

with that, you fall off the roof while scaramouche and childe fumble to catch the gnosis.

“hey! that dumbass!” childe rushes to the edge to check on you, only to realise that… you aren’t there?! contrary to what he expected, your bloody corpse isn’t lying there. you’re climbing down the scaffolding like a monkey, weaving in and out of the metal bars until you reach the ground. looking back up at him, childe thinks he can make out a final playful wink before you hop into a black car that’s just pulled up at the back. behind him, scaramouche yells, “childe!” “what is it now, balladeer- what?!” the gnosis is shattered on the stone roof, shards of purple and silver gleaming in a manner that almost seems taunting. “it was a fucking fake!” scaramouche yells, kicking the broken pieces furiously, and childe can’t stop the lovestruck expression that plays across his face, “y/n really is a master thief…” “snap out of it, idiot! what are we going to tell the boss?!”

meanwhile, you’re in the passenger seat of an inconspicuous black car, chuckling to yourself as you toy with the real gnosis. “you’re lucky i told you to bring more than one imitation,” a suave voice sounds from the driver’s seat, “and that i was there to save you.” “thank you, oh great master ayato,” you giggle, pretending to bow, “you’re a lifesaver. literally.” he smirks, gloved fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel, “you could have been in and out. you just like playing too much.” “hey!” you whine dramatically, “it’s not my fault the security guard was so cute!” “hmm…” he reaches out and tilts your chin to face his piercing blue eyes, “don’t say stuff like that or i’ll get jealous, you know?” “s-shut up.” you pout, folding your arms across your chest and turning away to look out the window, “just drive, you blue-haired weirdo.” “that’s no way to talk to your boss now, is it?” he laughs goodnaturedly as the two of you speed away, “i just wish i could be there to see the look on captain wriothesley’s face when he realises it was us again.” 

© starglitterz 2025. do not repost or modify in any way – reblog / follow if you enjoyed !

[bigification]

Hey there would you like to try out these special perfumes? I can guarantee you will feel like a muscle daddy without even need to lift any weight. Some minor physical changes are just slight side effects don't worry about it.

"Some minor what? Sorry it's loud in here, I couldn't quite hear what you said."

I get on my top toes, trying to get closer to your level so I can hear you better.

"Some perfume? Oh... sure I might as well if it's free."

I grab the small black bottle of perfume and spray it on my wrist to test what it smells like.

"Oh god, that smells awful. Is that... sweat?"

I cough as the pungent smell engulfs me. I violently rub my wrist to get rid of the smell, but it only seems to be getting stronger.

*RIIIIIIIIPPP*

The sound of fabric ripping distracts me from the smell. The sound came from my sleeves, which are now torn to shreds.

"Is my arm... bigger than before?"

I poke and prod my now rock solid biceps as they continue to grow. I stare for a few seconds, mesmerized by the sight of my arms swelling, but I snap myself out of it.

"What is happening to me?"

Why am I growing? Why do I reek? Why can't I remember how I got here? All questions that are running through my mind. I can't think about that right now though. My clothes feel so tight.

*TEEEEAAAAARRRRRRR*

The sound of fabric tearing once again echoes around me. I look down to see my shirt has fallen to the floor in pieces, leaving me shirtless. Not that I mind showing off my bod, I've been hitting the gym so I could show it off. Wait, hold on a minute, I don't go to the gym. I look down at my swelling pecs and wonder how they got that big, and when did I get such a ripped six pack. It's because I earned it at the gym. Yeah, of course I go to the gym every day.

"I'm having trouble thinking, but I must've just had a sick workout if I smell like this."

I giggle to myself, breathing in my own stench. Of course I'm proud of it, it's a sign of hard work dedication.

*POP!*

I watch as the button on my fly flings across the room. It distracts me from admiring my upper body. My thighs expand until my jeans are bursting at the seams, and I feel the pressure build as my ass perks up. It doesn't take long for my jeans to also end up on the floor in pieces.

"Why does this feel so good bro."

My now massive man hands slide down my crotch as my once average dick starts to grow. Adding inches by the second, it sticks straight up past my belly button. Finally settling at a monstrous 10 inches long and as girthy as a pop can.

*SNAAAPPPP*

With comic timing, my feet burst through my shoes as they grow from a modest size 10 to a hulking size 16. But the euphoria of watching my muscles expand in front of my eyes is interrupted by a sudden lethargic feeling. I'm not as spry as I was in my twenties. Wait no, I'm in my twenties now. Well that can't be right, I just celebrated my 45th birthday. Who gives a fuck how old I am if I'm built like this.

"I gotta check these gains out bro."

I turn to the mirror beside me, and flinch when I see my reflection. My face... it's different I think. I run my hand through my thinning hair and over my five o'clock shadow. It feels so new but so familiar. The square jaw, wide nose, and wrinkles show the years, no, decades I've worked to have a sick bod like this.

"You like what you see, son?"

My gruff voice echoes around the room as I start to show off my bulging muscles. I love showing off to pipsqueaks like you, you're the perfect height to stare at my muscle tits. Don't feel bad about it, most guys are.

"You got something for me? A cigar? Nah bro, that shits not for me."

I would never put poison like that in my body unless it made me bigger. My body is a temple. But... now that you mention it, I am kind of craving a cigar right now.

"Damn that shit smells kinda good tho. It's a Cuban cigar? Give me that."

I snatch the massive cigar from you and stick it into my mouth.

"Got a ligh-"

I'm interrupted as you pull out a match.

"Old fashioned, I respect that bro."

I take a deep breath in, really letting that smoke settle in my lungs. I don't smoke often, so I gotta make the high worth it. Though something feels different this time, I can feel the smoke coating my lungs.

"What is happening? Side effects?"

I look at the bottle of perfume and see written in bold, "Do not smoke or take any drugs while using this product." I continue reading.

"Side effects may include; weight gain-"

I feel my stomach drop as I'm reading it. I look down in horror as I see a distended muscle gut where my abs used to be.

"Hormone imbalance."

My pecs swell into a pair of man tits that hang over my gut and my nipples perk up, making them impossible to hide under a shirt. My ass also widens as it becomes more soft and rounded. Worst of all, I feel my balls shrivel up like prunes. I quickly grab a pair of gym shorts that are conveniently resting beside me. Not many men are 6"6 and 300 pounds like me, how lucky that there was a pair of shorts that fit me.

"Excessive body hair."

I can feel an intense itchiness as my once hairless body is covered head to toe in a thick forest of salt and pepper hair. Especially around my chest and gut. I can also feel my five o'clock shadow grow into a bushy goatee and mustache.

"Male pattern baldness."

A cold sensation engulfs my head as my hairline starts to rapidly recede, even more than it already had. My hairline moves further and further back until I'm left with a strip of short and thin hair on the back of my head.

"Addiction."

My body suddenly feels drained, like I have a severe fever. I instinctively pull my cigar to my mouth and take a deep breath in. The smoke fills my lungs, and just like that I feel great again.

"Why are you still staring, kid. You really want a piece of all this?"

I grab you by the collar, letting you smell smoke off my breath and the sweat from my skin.

"Only real men can handle me. So why don't we fix that."

I yank you closer to me before pulling out the perfume and spraying it into your face. It makes me smile when you try to brush away the pungent fragrance.

"The smell will grow on you, son."

[oceandelreysworld]

Hard times

Homophobic parents, vi comforts reader. Fluff(Angust to) a/u. Vi x reader.

You never thought you'd end up crying in the rain at Vi's doorsteps, but here you are. Kicked out of your house because your parents found out that you have a girlfriend...

You knocked at her door, not even 10 seconds later, she opened the door with wide eyes as you rushed into her arms.

"Hey hey hey, y/n what's wrong?" Vi asked while she rubbed your back, bringing you inside, closing the door. You started sobbing into her arms, and all she could do was stand there and wait for you to answer. As you picked your head up off her shoulder, she cupped your face as your eyes drifted off from her face. You couldn't look at her.

"They..they found out. They found out about everything. They found out about me, you, us. I'm so sorry. I really tried. And I know I shouldn't have just-" you rambled on so fast you didn't realize when she put her lips on yours. Your heart was racing, body tence, but Vi has always been here for you to come back to and to comfort you. Your body relaxes as her kiss lingers.

She slowly backs away from the kiss, resting her forehead on yours. Both of your eyes are closed.

"You don't ever have to apologize to me. Especially for being yourself. Okay?"

She wiped your tears away with her thumbs. You okay your eyes to find hers looking back at you.

"Okay...Vi I never...I never meant for you to get caught up in all of...this. Whatever this is. Their problems always reflect on me, which just falls back on you-"

"Honey, listen to me. I. Do. Not. Care. Fuck em. All that matters to me is you. I don't care what they think of me. I care about you and us."

She's soft with her voice, but you can tell she's being serious and stern. Vi means what she says. It comes from the deepest part of her heart.

You are her soul tie. Her string of balance. She's your twin flame. Your everything.

"Please understand when I say I love you. I love your mind, your body, your soul, even your damn stubbornness."

You both lightly laugh as you lean into her hands, placing your hand on top of hers.

"Vi is do, but I don't want to keep relying on you for everything. I'm helpless. I feel like I keep taking advantage of you. I fall back onto you when everything goes wrong."

You sob lightly, trying to catch your breath. Her eyebrows frowned, looking at you in the eyes.

"Oh my sweet girl...I'm here for that. That's what I'm here for, I'm here to go through these things with you. You're my girl. And I wouldn't change that for anything in the world."

She kisses your forehead, then you lean into her shoulder and she moves her hands down on your waist, rubbing her thumbs on your sides, as you move your arms around her neck, moving your body closer to hers.

"I love you." You say as your grip grows tighter around her.

"I love you more." There's a comforting moment of silence between you two before she speaks again."You can stay with me as long as you want to. I don't mind at all, okay? Don't ever think you're a burden on me." She always knows what you're thinking without speaking out loud. Vi knows just what to say to make you feel better.

"Okay. Thank you Vi. You always know what to say. "I know, baby. I know." She rubs up and down your back as you rest your body on hers.

"Hey baby?"

"Yeah?" You say as you picked your head up.

"Let's go lay down. How does that sound, hmm?" Vi hold your ever so gently, afraid if she hugs you to much you might break.

"Yeah, I would like that alot."

"Okay, but first let's get you changed into some different clothes."

"Okay...can I wear one of your shirts?"

Vi hums in approval, nodding her head. "Of course baby, whatever you want." She kisses your forehead.

___________________________________________

A/n: I hope you guys loved this plot as much as I did. I'm so glad I came up with this. Also, if anyone has parents like that, please reach out to me or someone for comfort. I know this is a very delicate subject. So if anyone needs to talk, I'm all open ears.

[practicalgauntlet]

~You're still my person. Even if I'm not yours.~

Part two

"We kept crossing paths, near misses and almosts, when all I ever wanted was for us to collide." -Jessica Katoff

Synopsis - Some time has passed, and you think you've healed. But when you're shot by an unsub, old wounds are ripped open for all to see.

Category- Angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending.

Notes - Hurt/comfort, you get shot, Canon typical violence, blood and gore, angst, self-loathing, self-blaming, a year has passed between this and part one, gender-neutral reader (I only use They/Them pronouns because I know everyone likes Spencer not just the girlies), I'm so sorry this is so long, you're a trooper if you get through all of this. The fic started writing itself :/

A/N- this is for @bloodredrubyrose and everyone else who wanted the happy ending. I hope this is okay.

WARNING- This one-shot has violence similar to the cases in the show, but I wanted to bring attention to what transpires and is mentioned in this fic. The case revolves around murdered pregnant women and their fetuses. If the topic is too sensitive for you or can trigger anything, I suggest not reading this.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A year has passed since J.J.'s wedding.

You still find yourself hurting, lying awake at night thinking of the possibility of "What if?". You still have to shake away the thoughts of inadequacy, of not good enough.

Sometimes, when you're particularly tired or inebriated, you find yourself still unable to look away from him.

It was three weeks and two days after the wedding when Spencer invited you to hang out with him again. It was a month, two weeks, and eleven hours when he greeted you with a genuine smile again.

It was eight months, three weeks, six days, and two hours when you felt like you could breathe again.

Everything was back to normal. It wasn't bright, shiny rainbows and glittery kittens like Penelope said it would be once you healed. But it was normal.

It was easier to ignore the festering pit in your stomach during the day, easier to look your team in the eye, say, "I'm okay." and mean it. It was easier to watch Spencer heal the same way you were.

You were so proud of him. It felt like your Spencer was back. His long-winded speeches about something that didn't seem relevant but ended up helping the case drastically, his magic tricks in the bullpen when Hotch was in his office, and his goofy authenticity. All of it was back, at least partially.

He still got quiet when J.J. was around and closed in on himself. But compared to those days after the wedding, he was making immense progress. You just wished he let you in so you could help.

"I don't think they're listening."

You barely hear Morgan's voice over the bubbling thoughts that threatened to take control and invade your mind.

"Oh, sugar they're definitely not listening."

Penelope's hand was slamming down on your desk, startling you out of your reverie.

"What's on your mind, honey pot?"

She asks, propping herself up on the table. With her quirked eyebrow and intense look in her eye, you knew what she was asking.

"Are you still hurting?"

She was right to be worried, right to involve herself in case you got worse again. But instead of thinking about Spencer and how you'll never be on the receiving end of his affectionate gaze, you were actually thinking about the case.

There was a lull in leads, the ones you had only took the team to a dead end. Dead body after dead body and still nothing.

"I'm fine, Pen. This case is just taking a lot out of me."

And it was true. The BAU had been called in because a dead body had been unearthed by a gardener somewhere East. A heavily pregnant woman had been murdered, her unborn child ripped from her body and buried with her.

It was horrifying, to say the least, the brutality of the unsub turning your breakfast sour. But it had been seven hours since the team landed in the small town, and you were still no closer to finding the culprit.

"Why don't we get something to eat, hmm?"

Penelope suggested, hopping off the table and holding out her hand for you.

"If you're getting food, get me a little somethin'. I'm in the mood for Chinese!"

Morgan yelled from across the room, his hip propped against the clear board Spencer was mumbling at.

"I guess we're getting Chinese."

You chuckle, standing up and following Penelope out of the makeshift conference room the local police allowed you to use. As you were passing Spencer, you turned to him and called his name.

"Do you want anything specific?"

He looks to you, eyes reluctantly leaving his equations as he's pulled from his thoughts.

"What?"

There was a surge of affection at the sight of his pursed lips and furrowed brows. The way his hands fiddled with the marker, clicking the lid on and off the end.

"We're getting the team Chinese takeout. Do you want anything?"

"Just a fork."

You nod your head, peeling yourself away from his attentive gaze. When you and Penelope get in the car, she places a hand on yours. You didn't take your eyes off the road, but you could tell that she was looking at you with that look again.

"How have you been, sugar?

It felt good to have someone watching over you, someone in your corner, to ask if you were okay even after time had passed and you were healed.

"I've been doing good."

She was the only one to know of your breakdown on Rossi's front porch. She was the only one you allowed to see what it did to you those weeks afterward. How depressed you were, how hopeless. Penelope Garcia was your best friend, and she was the only one to know you were still unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Spencer Reid.

"Are you sure about that? I know this case is a doozy but I know that look in your eye."

You briefly take your eyes off the road once you reach a red light, patting the hand that now rested comfortingly on your thigh.

"Yes, I'm fine. It doesn't feel like the world is ending anymore. Plus, life is unfair sometimes. I just need to roll with the punches."

She looked at you, her knowing eyes always privy to the storm that rolled beneath your skin. In one final attempt to comfort her worry, you flash her your most believable smile.

Penelope quirked an eyebrow and looked away, not at all convinced but persuaded to leave it be for the time being.

The trip for food was brief. You got various dishes in case the team was in the mood for a certain thing. You were back at the station within twenty minutes, walking into the conference room to something you never wanted to see.

Your team was gathered around the table, faces grim as they spoke towards the phone sitting in the middle.

"Another body..."

Penelope whispers, catching the eyes of Morgan as he shakes his head solemnly. Hotch was already giving the team their orders.

Morgan and Emily were dispatched to question the family as the local police had already ID'd the girl. She was a well-known and loved woman; she was a part of the PTA, led the neighborhood watch, and hosted bake sales for all parts of the community.

J.J. was asked to stay behind and deal with the journalists and news anchors that suddenly surrounded the station.

That left you and Spencer to follow up with the police at the scene of the crime. Spencer drove the two of you there, your knee bouncing in the passenger seat as you watched the scenery pass by.

"I don't get it..."

Spencer mumbles. When you look to him for an explanation he was already glancing at you.

"Why pregnant women? Why take the baby out and bury it with the mother? It makes no sense."

You flip down the visor, both because you need to get the sun out of your eyes and to do something with your hands.

"Maybe they're surrogates for his real target? A mother? Maybe he's upset at his mom and taking the baby is a way to give mercy to his inner child."

"Or maybe," Spencer counters, long fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he pulls into the crime scene. "They're surrogates for a wife."

The scene before you was gnarly. And unfortunately, the unsub had changed M.O.

The woman was buried in a shallow grave like the others, dressed in a thin white gown, poised perfectly like Snow White with her child tightly swaddled in a towel and tucked safely in her arms. The only difference was the lack of blood, the lack of brutality. That, and she had blonde hair whereas the other victims were brunettes.

"He's devolving."

You mutter, feeling sick at the sight of her.

"Or he's getting close to what he's wanting to do."

You look up at him from your squatted position, taking in Spencer in all his glory. He looked so good in his FBI vest, with his sweater and tie peeking out from the collar.

You shouldn't be thinking of him like that. Not when a woman and her child had lost their life and they lay decaying in front of you. Not when you should already be over him.

"What do you mean?"

"She looks perfectly preserved. Sure, she's laid out in the same outfit and the same position. The color and the way she's laid are meant to symbolize purity. So we know he isn't murdering for hatred. He feels sympathy for these women. But look at this,"

He crouches next to you, the movement sending your heart into overdrive. His sleeves were rolled up as he shoved his hands into some blue surgical gloves. You could even smell his cologne.

"Her hair," He picks up a strand. "Her hair had been styled. There's a texture to it that means he used hairspray. And while the others' hair was wild and unkempt, most likely because he kept them for some time or they fought back, her's is washed and curled."

"So we know this woman is a surrogate, but he's not acting on any sexual or vengeful impulse?"

Spencer turned to you, looking at you from above his sunglasses.

"I think we're ready to give the profile."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"We are looking for a white male in his mid to late thirties."

Morgan starts as he leans against one of the desks, his arms folded against his chest. Emily stepped up, continuing on as she stared each and every officer down to make sure they were taking this as seriously as it was.

"Look for someone who had recently lost a wife and child during the birth, someone who is most likely blue collar. He would have been a normal man up until his loss. Now, he would be agitated and easily riled up. Getting into fights or arguments when he normally wouldn't. "

You step in, delivering the line you rehearsed in your head over and over on the ride back to the station.

"He's kidnapping pregnant women so he could relive the birth. So he could hold his child and kiss his wife. But he's desperate, so he is taking the babies out prematurely and amateurly that neither victim survives. He would need a space to do all of this, a garage, a second home, or a place of work. Somewhere concealed enough to not draw attention but spacious enough to perform the c-section."

It was now Hotch's turn to deliver the final line of the profile.

"He will continue to take women until he gets what he wants. We need to make sure Kate Smith is his last victim."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You found him. Carl McGregor, a welder for a construction company. His wife of six years died giving birth to his child, and he went off the rails.

You sympathized with him, knowing that he was in so much pain. But that didn't excuse what he did to those poor women and the families they were a part of.

Carl was hiding out in his garage, a woman in the last week of her second trimester strapped to the table; screaming for help.

You were the first on the scene, your legs carrying you just a bit faster than the others. When you opened the garage door, you had to put every ounce of will not to tackle the guy to the ground.

"FBI! Put the scalpel down Carl!"

Carl was hovering over Debbie Park, a young mother of three and a half. He had her strapped to a makeshift stretcher and her terrified screams broke your heart.

"No!" Carl said with a crazed look in his eyes. "My wife is about to give birth, give her space!"

You lower your gun so the barrel isn't aimed straight at his skull but keep it raised just in case. When you spoke, you made sure you sounded as calm and understanding as possible.

"Carl, your wife died three weeks ago giving birth to your son. Let Debbie go so her husband doesn't experience the loss you did.

You don't know how or when Spencer made it into the garage but he suddenly appeared in the shadows, his gun aimed at Carl.

"No, please!" Carl was focused on you, his shaking hands still holding Debbie down. "This is my wife! Why are trying to take her away?"

You lower your gun entirely, feeling safe with Spencer there to have your back. You approached Carl slowly, keeping your body crouched as if you were approaching a scared and wounded animal. Because that's exactly what he was. A scared and wounded animal.

"Carl?" You put a hand on his shoulder. He winces but doesn't attack. "Debbie has a family, she has three kids and a husband who are worried sick about her. Do you want to put her husband and kids through the same pain you're feeling?"

It all happened so fast. First Carl was lunging at you, a gun you didn't know he had raised before you could pull your own. Debbie's screams mixed with yours as Spencer fired his gun and took Carl down.

There was a sharp sting to your chest, your right shoulder to be exact just under your collarbone. Upon Carl's death, his finger squeezed the trigger and put a bullet three inches from your heart.

Spencer was in front of you before you could collapse, cradling your head to save it from bashing against the concrete ground.

"I need a medic!"

Spencer yelled into his com, his face wild with worry as he pressed his hands into your wound.

It hurt, sending a blazing fire throughout your body. In the back of your mind, you heard yourself scream from the pain, your throat raw and ragged. Your hands uncontrollably gripped Spencer's vest, clutching him closer to you as you tried to breathe around the sharp, boiling pain.

"You're going to be okay, the medic is on his way."

Spencer's voice sounded far away, garbled and hazy like he was underwater. Panic soon tore across your body, thrumming through your veins as you tried to ignore the sticky warmth pooling through your shirt.

"No, no, stay with me. Stay with me please!"

You barely felt Spencer's cold hands patting your cheek. You had to say it now, as you were dying. This was your last chance to tell him how you feel. You already felt yourself slipping away.

"Spence..."

Your mouth felt so dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. He was shaking above you, pulling your body into his lap as he rocked you back and forth.

"I'm here, I'm here. I'm not leaving, you'll be okay."

You felt he was saying that more for himself than he was for you.

It was hard to unfurl your fingers from his vest but you did it, lifting your hand to cradle his cheek. It was now or never.

"Before I dye, I need you to know-"

"No!" Spencer seethed. You had never seen him so emotional before, so upset he looked feral. "You are not going to die! Where's my fucking medic?!"

"I need you to know, that I love you."

He smoothed his hands over your face, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your eyes. "I love you too, you're my best friend."

You let out a breathy, strangled, humourless chuckle. Of course he'd make you spell it out for him.

"I'm in love with you, Spencer..."

Black was edging your vision, your ears ringing as you watched Spencer blink once, twice, before the medic pushed him away.

Faintly you felt your body being moved, that white-hot pain once again rendering you speechless as you finally succumbed to the darkness that was calling to you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't taste, or hear, or feel. Frantic, animalistic worry overpowered every other emotion. Logic be damned, facts be damned.

"Reid, calm down or you're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

"There is a high chance the bullet nicked a vital vein or artery. It took us fifteen minutes and thirty seconds to get her to the hospital and another six minutes for the doctors to start operating. There is a higher chance that she lost too much blood and will need a transfusion. If she needs a transfusion there is a chance she could have a Febrile non-hemolytic transfusion reaction or a Transfusion-related acute lung injury. There are so many possibilities to think over and every time I think I've found a way to stop them another one pops up. Do not tell me to calm down!"

Morgan backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"My bad, man."

Emily was next to approach him and he had to look away from the worry on her face.

"Only thinking about what could go wrong will only cause you more stress. Maybe you should go home and take a shower."

"Stop telling me what to do."

He didn't recognize his voice, and he knew his friends didn't recognize him. So he backed off, settling himself in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, and put his head in his hands.

Emily was right. Derek was right. But if he thought about anything other than the complications that could take you away from him all he would focus on were the last words you uttered before blacking out.

"I'm in love with you, Spencer."

He didn't know what to do with that information. After J.J. he didn't allow himself to even look a second longer at someone that was out of his league. Which was everyone. Especially you.

You were so kind and gentle with him. You let him go on his rants, asking him to finish what he was saying if the team not so subtly told him to shut up or bluntly interrupted him. You loved his endless facts and knowledge and you told him often.

You were like a beacon of light when you entered the room, his gaze unconsciously looking for you wherever he was. You were his best friend; you knew everything about him and still treated him like a human being. Not some computer, not some freak.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His hands were shaky and he couldn't keep still to save his life. He had never felt like this before, not when a gun was pointed in his face, not when the bureau was infiltrated. Not even when Emily was in the hospital.

He'd never been this scared shitless before.

And then it hit him.

He was in love with you.

He had been for a while. Maybe after J.J., maybe before. Spencer didn't know when it happened or how deeply it had been buried. All he knew was that it was now so fucking obvious.

It felt so natural. He had always thought you were going to be a permanent fixture in his life. Always thought that you'd be a phone call away when he needed you and he'd be the same. Whenever he thought of something you were always there, in the back of his mind like you belonged there.

He faintly heard a commotion, the sound of chairs scraping against the ground and footsteps running away. He looked up from the floor, his body fuzzy from the realization.

Spencer bolted from his seat the moment he saw the doctor standing in front of his team. He gently shoved aside Morgan and J.J. needing to hear the news as close as possible.

"They're stable and awake. It had just barely missed their heart, but they will heal with no permanent damage."

Spencer could have dropped to his knees with relief, his body sagging and his lungs deflating.

"Can I- we see her?"

"Of course, but we still need to take their vitals frequently. And a room full of people would not be best stress-wise so I suggest one to two people at a time."

Morgan clapped him on the back, a knowing look on his face before shoving him forward.

"We're going to get something to eat. You check on our sunshine."

After all the attitude he threw their way, he was dumbfounded that they would give him such a precious opportunity.

"Thank you,"

"No problem, Pretty Boy."

When Spencer entered your room, it was like he walked into a different reality. You were usually so bright and shining, carving a path of light and kindness wherever you stepped, but now you were lifeless. The tubes and wires hooked up to you made you look so uninhabited; pale, and sickly from the blood loss.

Spencer approached the bed, being careful not to make any noise that would startle you awake. Your eyes were closed and he assumed you were probably in and out of consciousness due to the pain meds they were pumping into you.

He hated seeing you like this.

"Spence?"

He hadn't realized you had awoken, too focused on all the machinery you were hooked up to.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

Spencer didn't know what to do with his body so he just stood there, willing his emotions into submission and picking at the skin of his thumbs.

"I feel like I just got hit by a train."

You groan and he is at your side immediately, checking the monitors and making sure your pain meds are working. They were, but he needed to make sure.

"What no fact about processing pain or how it affects the body?"

You were looking up at him now, a pained but genuine smile on your face. In the hour that he worried relentlessly about you, he feared he'd never see that again.

That smile faded into something akin to concern when he didn't respond.

"What's wrong Spence?"

"I thought you were going to die."

He sounded so small, even to his own ears. Weak, scared. Like a child.

You waved him over closer, and he listened. If you told him to, he would follow you to the ends of the earth. It surprised him when you grabbed his hand and placed it over your heart, the roughness of the gauze grazing his shaking fingers. He tried to pull away, but you kept him there so he could feel your heartbeat.

"I'm still here, Spencer. You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Do you-" He couldn't stand not knowing anymore. The probability of people saying things they didn't mean while bleeding out was too high for him to think clearly any longer. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

He watched your face turn sad, your lips turn inward and your eyes drop to the hospital-grade blanket. You also dropped his hand, the limb numbly swinging back by his side.

"Yes," You refused to look at him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put you in that situation, it was unfair of me."

"No, I-"

"I understand if I've ruined everything. I don't blame you if you don't want to be friends anymore."

Before he could think and rehearse a thought-out sentence, his mouth moved and spoke for him. "I don't want to be friends."

He realized his mistake not a second later. And to make up for it, to take away the pain on your face, he gently grabbed your chin and made you look at him.

"I love you too, so much so that the idea of you dying turned me into an illogical and emotional mess."

Tears lined your wide eyes as you stared up at him, your cheeks regaining some color. Now that he's said it out loud, he couldn't keep his mouth shut even if he tried.

"I love you so much, that I want to take away all your pain. All the bad memories and shitty feelings that take away that pretty smile. I'd do anything for you."

You reached up and cupped his cheek, much like hours before, your lip quivering.

"I'd do anything for you too, Spence."

"I know."

It felt natural to kiss your forehead, to settle into the small hospital bed, and tuck you gently into his side. It felt natural to, days later after you were discharged, take you on a proper date and call you his.

A/N- Realistically I know there would be more turmoil, less trust, and more self-doubt during the confession part but this is fiction of fiction so let's just pretend okay:) I'll save that stuff for the full-length stuff. Also along the lines of reality, I know that there is such a thing as a bulletproof vest, but I needed drama so forgive me.

[siriuslylantsov]

6 string

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: in which, joel teaches you how to play a song on the guitar.

tags: fluff, established relationship, fem!reader, contractor!joel makes a brief appearance, no outbreak au, age gap, r has hair long enough to twirl but thats it for appearances, so so sweet, some singing, joel makes a dirty joke (i couldn't help myself) hozier mentioned!! and played... by a certain someone, and riptide as the song r learns, one mention of a dead parent.

a/n: my second joel teaching reader fic, this is very telling... also! should this be more frequent? my requests are open if you have any suggestions? i'm self taught when it comes to guitar, where tf was joel miller to teach me...

wc: 1.6k

“could you teach me?”

joel's head doesn’t lift up from his plans, long blue scrolls stretched across the table. “teach you what, baby?” he murmurs absentmindedly.

“a song. on your guitar,” you answer, voice small.

he looks at you now, his expression mildly shocked. you seem to have garnered his full attention, though it wasn't difficult when it came to you, he let go of the corner of paper that he had pinned to the hard surface. 

“i've been tryin’ to get you to play for months now,” he replies, not irritated but curious. “why the change of heart?”

“oh, i don't know. i just think it’d be nice to have a skill that i can credit to you.” you know the justification isn’t necessary and you know he knows that. he’ll do it regardless, anything for his girl.

a wry smile plays on his lips. “i’ve taught you plenty’a skills,” he says, not oblivious to the innuendo that clung to his statement. 

you huff out a chuckle, “not like that, silly.”

 you watch him walk over to you. his hands plant themselves on your shoulders, thumbs caressing lightly in the divots of your collarbones before turning you around. 

“let's go.”

“what? now?” you ask, although you don't stop him as he gently pushes you to the living room as he follows with his hands still on you.

“got other plans?” he sits you down on the couch, moving across the room to grab the instrument. 

“no,” you respond, smiling when he sits to your right. he's angled slightly so you can see his hands. it's how you're usually positioned when he plays you stuff so he can watch you but this time it's more for your benefit. 

“d’ya have a song in mind?”

you hum in thought, trying to recall songs he's played. they all seem difficult. “something easy?” you suggest.

“‘s a little cliche but a good beginner song,” he says as he starts to play.

recognition dawns on you, he's playing riptide. he quietly hums, a low timbre to the verse. you want to melt. 

“i love it when you play,” you murmur, dropping your head to his shoulder. 

“i love playin’ for you, sweetheart,” he replies, letting a chord fade out and handing you the guitar with a soft “c’mon.”

the instrument feels big in your arms as you rest your elbow over the base of it. it's not that you forget how much bigger joel is to you but in this instance it becomes painfully obvious. he guides your other hand to the neck, curling it around the wood. 

“okay, so riptide consists of three chords. a minor, g and c and it's the same strummin’ pattern all the way through,” he explains, moving your fingers to the first chord shape.

he places your fingers over different fret boards and you try to remember each one as he moves on to the next. you give an experimental strum to one chord and sounds with an unpleasant pitchy buzz. your face screws up and he chuckles lightly.

“you have to press hard enough so you get a clear tone, but not too much, just enough that it's firm against the fret,” he says, covering your hand with his own and pushing down.

“ow,” you gripe as the strings dig into your fingertips. 

“sorry, baby. s’gonna hurt like hell for now, need to build up your calluses for it to not.”

“it's fine,” you reply, partially distracted by how his calloused fingertips rub against the back of your hand, trailing down to allow you to try again.

you do, pressing a little harder, ignoring the pain. when you strum again it comes out a bit clearer, still buzzy, but better than before. 

you spend the next 30 minutes trying to switch chords, a feat more difficult than you thought it would be. you almost rage quit five times but joel's soothing encouragement urges you to keep trying. 

“how do you do this so easily?” you whine, leaning back on him. he's sitting a little behind you now, as you've moved to the edge of the couch. 

“playing for 20 years helps,” he says with a little shrug, rubbing your arm.

“careful, mister. you're showing your age,” you warn teasingly and he chuckles, that same warm one that you love so much.

“good to try some stummin’ now?”

“mhm,” you sit straight again. 

he crowds in behind you, arm coming to rest above your right one. he has a gentle grasp on your wrist and your palm as he directs your movements along the strings; down, down, up down up, he murmurs quietly in your ear, moving your hand accordingly.

you get the hang of it, you think. stumbling here and there when you do a down instead of an up, or the opposite. he watches as you intently strum, his fingers keeping the strings muted by touching them lightly. your hand, not on the neck anymore, rests on his thigh.

“keep going,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re doin’ good.”

he lifts his fingers off the strings, and they start to resonate with uneven tones. but then a very distinct note rings out and you realise he's started to play the chords while you strum. it sounds good. you look at him and smile, and he shoots you an equally bright grin, crows feet deepening proudly. 

“there we go,” he spurs as your strumming stays perfectly consistent. you hum the melody as he effortlessly switches chords, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he does so. “wanna try doin’ both at the same time?”

you stop, your wrist growing a little tired. “tomorrow.”

“okay, sweet girl.” he takes the guitar out of your arms and leans it against the couch. 

he instinctively wraps around you when you curl into his side, scooting further back into the couch. his fingers play with the hair at the nape of your neck, it makes you squirm because it tickles and he laughs. the same low and warm one again, his chest vibrates with the sound as you press your ear to it. you can hear his heart beat in steady thumps. he leans his head against yours, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the space between you. his free hand settles on your leg, his thumb lazily tracing small, aimless patterns.

“can't believe i've never asked this,” you ask, suddenly curious. “how did you learn how to play?”

he tenses ever so slightly before easing again. 

“y’know my dad died when i was young, right?”

“yeah,” you confirm, lifting your head so you can see his face.

“well, he used to play all the time and after he passed my mom let me have his guitar,” he explains, twirling a strand of your hair with his fingers. he stares absentmindedly at your shoulder, but his gaze is solemn leaving you no reason to worry.

“took me ‘bout a year to pick the damn thing up ‘cause everytime i did it reminded me of him but when i finally did, i spent days on end teachin’ myself. didn't want a teacher or nothin’. if anythin', i wanted him to teach me but i never took up his offer when he was alive.”

“sweet,” you whisper, bottom lip jutting out sadly.

“you’re sweet,” he counters, tapping your nose with his finger. it wrinkles up at the contact and you pull away to reach for his guitar. you hand it to him, perking up in anticipation.

“play me ‘like real people do’?” you request, knowing smile on your lips.

only you could get mumblin’ grumblin’ joel miller to learn a hozier song. it took a bit of convincing, to which he would reply with begrudging grunts like it was the worst thing in the word. but he learned it surprisingly fast, playing it out of nowhere later that night. 

“‘f you sing, then yeah.”

you nod and he shakes his head fondly as he begins to play. you’re not a singer by any means but you could keep a tune. 

“i had a thought, dear, however scary about that night, the bugs and the dirt,” you begin softly, nodding along to the beat.

“why were you digging? what did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth?”

his fingers effortlessly plucks the right strings without looking, his eyes fixed on you with a reverence that makes you nervous. must be muscle memory, you wonder how long it’ll take you to get that good.

“i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask and neither should you.”

your head tilts to the side, smiling. you bring a hand up to his jaw, scratching his beard lightly in a way you know he likes. you lean closer for the next words.

“honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips. we should just kiss like real people do.”

so naturally, you kiss him, giggling as you do so. he nips at your bottom lip when he falters, you–the distraction–to blame. 

it goes sweetly and quietly like that. you lean against his shoulder for the rest of the song, humming the melody. he doesn't mind, he just likes the sound of your voice, be it behind closed lips or not. 

when the song ends, he freestyles a bit, you don’t know what he’s playing but it sounds nice. everything sounds nice, and smells nice and feels nice, you could probably die here and you’d be happy, so long as you could take joel with you. 

“play more tomorrow?” he asks, still plucking away. 

“yup,” you chirp, inadvertently agreeing to more frequent lessons by him. even though he doesn’t suggest it, it’s implied in your own secret little way, and how could you say no to an offer like that.

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Tw: kidnapping/brainwashing

Hello! I simply adore the way you write, so if it's not too much of an bother, could you please write something about yan!Sonic with an darling who's got kidnapped and controlled into getting on Robotnik's side?

Have a good day/night

☕️

A/n: this one took a while, its not too long though.

Yandere!Sonic x brainwashed!reader

"Come on, Y/N, snap out of it!" he yelled desperately. His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. His face was contorted in panic as he dodged another attack you threw at him, before jumping to Dodge another attack from one of eggmans mechas. His eyes darted between you and Robotnik's latest monstrosity.

But you didn't respond. You simply stood there, your stance rigid, your expression devoid of any emotion. The once bright spark in your eyes had been replaced by an eerie, lifeless glow. Robotnik’s laughter echoed through the air, sharp and mocking.

"Looks like your little 'friend' has finally seen the light, hedgehog!" Robotnik sneered, leaning out of his floating pod. "They're mine now, and there’s nothing you can do about it!"

Sonic clenched his fists, his body tensing as his mind raced for a plan. "You’re wrong, Egghead! I'll get them back, no matter what!"

Robotnik only laughed harder, motioning toward you. "Go on, my dear. Show Sonic where your loyalty lies."

Your body moved, almost mechanically, stepping forward with cold, unrecognizable precision. Sonic flinched as you raised your weapon, one of Robotnik’s energy blasters, aiming it directly at him.

"Y/N, come on! Snap out of it!" He desperately wanyed to try and shake you out if it but you aimed the weapon at his head.

Without hesitation, you pulled the trigger.

Of course, Sonic is still the fastest thing alive, so he dodged it easily, darting to the side. He skidded to a halt, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and heartbreak. You were really trying to hurt him.

"Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way," he muttered to himself, shaking off the dread creeping into his chest.

Sonic lunged forward, zipping around you in a blur. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he needed to disarm you somehow. As he closed the distance, he could see the faint tremor in your hands.

You turned to him, aiming at him, and firing, though he dodged.

"Come on Y/N! Youre better than this!"

For a brief moment, recognition flickered through your eyes. But it was quickly snuffed out as Robotnik barked another order.

"Enough!" Eggman ordered. "Finish him, or you’ll regret it!"

Your body stiffened, your movements becoming even more rigid. Sonic gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling up inside him. He hated Robotnik more than ever. How could he- no, how dare have the audacity to lay his hands on you.

"Fine, If you won’t let them go, I’ll just have to take them back."

Sonic closed the gap between you in an instant. . You lashed out, your movements swift and precise, but Sonic was faster. He dodged your strikes with ease, his focus unshakable. As you swung at him again, he caught your wrist, holding you in place.

Sonic held your wrist tightly as he sped away from the battlefield, dodging blasts and debris from the collapsing mecha behind him. His heart was pounding. He refused to let Robotnik keep you like this, this cold, unrecognizable version of yourself. He wasn’t going to lose you.

"Hang in there, Y/N," he muttered under his breath as he reached a secluded clearing far from the chaos. He gently set you down, though you struggled, thrashing against his grip with the same mechanical precision. "I'm sorry about this," he said softly, grabbing a piece of rope he’d snagged earlier and tying your wrists and ankles together. You struggled harder, but Sonic was too fast and too determined.

Once you were secure, Sonic knelt in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as he stared into your lifeless eyes. "This isn’t you," he whispered. "You’re stronger than whatever Robotnik’s done to you. I’ll fix this, I promise."

He fumbled for his communicator, dialing Tails with shaky hands. "Tails, I need you," "he said as soon as his friend picked up. It’s Y/N… Eggman did something to them. I don’t know what, but they’re not themselves."

Tails voice crackled through the communicator, calm but concerned. "Bring them to my workshop. I’ll see what I can do."

Sonic hesitated, glancing at you as you continued to struggle against the restraints. He hated seeing you like this, but he couldn’t risk untying you just yet. "Alright, but you’d better be ready, buddy. I’m bringing them now."

When Sonic arrived at Tails workshop, the fox was already waiting, tools and scanners laid out in preparation. Sonic carefully carried you inside, setting you down on a padded table as Tails got to work.

"They've gone under some kind of mind control," Sonic explained, pointing toward hus head as he tapped his shoe on the ground. "Eggman’s got them doing his dirty work, and I can’t... I can’t lose them, Tails."

Tails nodded, scanning you with one of his devices. "It looks like Eggman implanted a neural control chip. It’s suppressing their free will and amplifying his commands. I think I can disable it, but it’s going to take some time."

"Then do it," Sonic said firmly, his hands clenched into fists. "I don’t care how long it takes, just fix it."

Tails worked diligently, carefully removing the chip while Sonic stayed by your side, holding your hand even as you fought against him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Tails let out a relieved sigh. "That should do it. The chip’s deactivated, and their neural pathways should return to normal soon."

Sonic’s ears perked up as he looked at you. Slowly, your eyes fluttered closed, and when they reopened, the lifeless glow was gone. Instead, there was confusion, fear, and, most importantly, recognition.

"Sonic…?" you murmured, your voice shaky.

"Y/N!" Sonic’s voice cracked as he pulled you into a tight hug, relief washing over him. "You’re back! I knew you could fight it."

You blinked, your memories slowly coming back. "What... happened?"

"It doesn’t matter now," Sonic said quickly, holding you closer. "You’re safe, and I’m never letting him hurt you again."

Over the next few days, Sonic barely left your side. He hovered constantly, always checking on you, asking how you were feeling, and making sure you ate and rested. At first, you appreciated his concern, it was comforting to have him so close after everything. But as time went on, his behavior became more and more overwhelming.

"Sonic, I’m fine," you said one afternoon, trying to step outside for some fresh air. But Sonic was already blocking the door.

"Are you sure? What if Robotnik tries something again? You should stay inside where it’s safe."

"Sonic," you said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I can take care of myself. You don’t have to watch me 24/7."

His eyes softened slightly, but he still didnt relent. "I almost lost you, Y/N. I can't let that happen again. I won't."

You frowned, trying to reason with him. "Sonic, you saved me. I'm okay now. You don’t need to-"

"I do need to," he interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "You don’t get it, Y/N. I can’t lose you. Ever. You mean too much to me."

The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. You tried to step back, but Sonic caught your wrist.

"Don’t worry," he said, his usual grin returning, "I’ll make sure nothing ever happens to you again. You’re safe with me."

[fortunekookie07]

hii can i request a highschool au, where sylus is the scary but popular jock x nerdy/normal reader😫 thank you!!

Not Just The Girl Next Door

Nonnie, I absolutely adore your request. Because you brought it to me. Thank you sooooo much for trusting me to craft your desire. Love you for it.

I am immensely sorry it took so long. I hope I haven't disappointed you. I struggled with this one a bit, and not because your request was hard, I didn't want to deliver a cliché. I rewrote this one a couple times. If you want to see the unfished alternate, let me know.

****************************************************

Sylus, how could one name make your heart feel full of giddines? Put those butterflies in your stomach and make your brain mush?

He'd been your classmate since preschool. He even lived on your street. How could one person be so close and yet so far out of reach?

You never minded his teasing, he'd never taken it too far. After all, it was to be expected. Many times, you'd examined yourself just to count all the things you saw as flaws.

Unruly wild red curls hung around your face and trailed over your shoulders all the way down your back to your hips. Your mother absolutely loved your hair. You'd lost count of how many times she'd begged you not to cut or change the color.

The round glasses perched on your nose framed your face nicely, but you hated their necessity. If only you'd gotten your mother's perfect vision. You had yet to win the debate on trying contacrs.

If only you were taller, being the shortest one in the senior class was irritating. People often mistook you as a freshman and sometimes you knew it was on purpose.

Sylus had been the one to start the jokes. While the rest of your classmates were getting taller, you didn't. The only thing that has grown was your curves. Your mom liked to say that you had the perfect hourglass figure. One that you worked hard to hide. Being teased for having no boobs as opposed to being well-endowed was much better.

It was easy to hide with the schools mandatory uniform. Button up white collared shirts, a sweater vest in dark blue or gold. For the girls, a pleated plaid skirt in the same colors. The boys could wear black or dark blue pants. During the winter months, a black jacket could be worn.

As you stood in front of the mirror, examining your appearance, you could hear your mother calling you from downstairs. "Are you ready yet? You need to be leaving now!" You scrambled to shove your feet into shoes while trying to smooth your hair back so you could braid it. "I'm coming, mom!" You shouted back to her, tying the end of the briaid and scooping up your bag.

"Have a good day." She said, kissing your forehead and then pushing you out the door. It was windy today. Spring was just around the corner. Hurrying to your car, you quickly started the engine just as your phone rang. It was Tara.

"Hey girl!" She answered with her usual bubbliness. "Can you pick me up? My dad confiscated my keys this morning." You knew instantly that she had a story and had gotten into trouble again. "Yeah, I'll be there in three minutes." Her sigh of relief had you shaking your head.

Tara was extremely outgoing and well liked. It was a miracle that she had picked you, the quiet introverted girl with her nose always in a book as best friend. But that had been the case from the first grade till now. She tended to get into trouble with her dad a lot. He was always trying to calm her down and teach her patience. He wasn't mean, just very strict. Sometimes, he would compare the two of you. About how well-behaved you were and your much quieter nature.

She really tried sometimes to play the role he wanted, but it was hard. It was her nature to be loud, rowdy, and very outgoing. Maybe this was why you were friends. You balanced each other out.

Fifteen minutes later, you were settled into your first period English class waiting for the teacher. He was running late as usual. He had a knack for being perpetually late. Around you, you could hear whispers and the scratches of pens as people scrambled to do the homework from last class.

Ever the one prepared for class, your books and notebook sate neatly on your desk. No one was paying you any mind. Too focused on their own affairs. Well, you thought no one was watching you. How wrong you were.

"Well now, look here. The little Kitten is all ready for class." His deep baritone voice sent shivers down your spine. Sylus hadn't used your actual name in years. Ever since the day he'd dubbed you Kitten, that's all he would call you.

He swooped in and grabbed your notebook. Dodging your hands as you scrambled to get it back. "Give it back." You said, trying to remain calm. Getting angry or showing your frustration only spurred him on.

"Then jump for it." He said a smirk on his face as he held the notebook high in the air well over his head. He knew you couldn't get it. Your short stature would never allow it. What he didn't count on was your resourcefulness. Or the fact that you were agile.

Swiftly, you stood from your seat and climbed onto your desk. Anger fueling your actions. You jumped for it, fingers just barely brushing the spine as he changed the way he was holding it.

Forgetting yourself and where you were, you lunged, throwing your full weight at him as you jumped higher. This time, you managed to grasp your notebook. It would seem your mom's insistence on dance classes was not useless.

Sylus stumbled as your full weight pushed him back. He clearly wasn't expecting you to throw yourself at him for the notebook.

"What's going on in here?" The sharp voice of Mr. Reynolds snapped you back to reality. The position you were now in was clearly inappropriate for a classroom. Your body was firmly pressed against Sylus. His hand pressed firmly against your waist. He was practically laying on the desk with you on top of him. Still holding the notebook with your hand tightly grasping it as well.

The look in his eyes was a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something you couldn't quite name.

Mr. Reynolds sharply called your name, and you scrambled back to standing. Face bright red with embarrassment. How you wished the floor would swallow you whole. This had to top any embarrassing moment you'd ever had in your eighteen years on this Earth.

Seeing how mortified you were, Mr. Reynolds turned to Sylus. "Explain yourself right now!" He was angry, face turning red as he glared.

"Just having a bit of fun. Just a joke." Sylus said nonchalantly. His ears were slightly red. Was he embarrassed, too? "Detention, both of you, go right now." He pointed to the door, shaking his finger as he did so. "I do not allow such nonsense in my classroom. If I ever see this level of disregard for school decorum again, I'll have you both expelled. I don't care if you are the star player or the top academic student. I'll not have it!"

Snatching your notebook from Sylus' hand, you scooped up your books and walked to the door, footsteps heavy with dread. Never, not once in all your years of school had you been in trouble. A teacher had never reprimanded you before, never mind yelling at you.

Your eyes burner with unshed tears. This was all his fault. You tried hard not to cry. You would not let him of all people see you shed a tear. A quick glance beside you, he looked completely unphased. How could he be so calm right now?? Anger took over.

"This is all your fault. Why can't you just leave me alone? I'm not a toy for your amusement. I do not exist to entertain you when you're bored." You chest heaved as you finally said what you'd always wanted to. "See me, Sylus. I am not your Kitten. I'm a person." Despite your best efforts you were crying now.

Tears slipping down your face as you finally told him all the things you'd wanted to say for years. You'd stopped walking, and so had he. His face had a broken expression as he stood there helpless while you cried. "See me." You said in a begging tone.

He stepped closer to you, gently pulling your glasses from your face. Using his sleeve, he wiped the tears even as they continued to fall.

He stared down at your face, puffy from crying, nose red. Cupping your cheeks as he looked down at you. You couldn't name the expression in his eyes. It tore at your heart.

How much you wanted something you were sure you couldn't have. Sylus could pick any girl he wanted, so why would he choose you? The small girl, the one who was always studying. Who didn't wear makeup or pretty jewelry. The one who hid herself away instead of showing off what she had. Why would he choose you? With a heart of gold, a fierce loyalty to the few friends you have and a deep love of your family.

Still wiping your tears away with his thumbs, he finally speaks. "Silly girl, why are you so silly? I've always seen you. How can I not see you?" His expression was tender gazing at you like he held the most precious thing in the world.

"You always make fun of me. You're always calling me short and teasing me for never handing in assignments late. For always being top of the class. You called me four eyes in primary school. You pull my hair and hide my books." You sniffle loudly, finally your tears have stopped.

He sighs loudly, breaking eye contact as he hangs his head. "For someone so smart, you're incredibly dense. I hope you know that." He looks at you again. "Have you never heard that a guy will pick on the girl he likes? I don't know how else to get your attention. You're not like other girls. You don't follow after me. You never talk to me unless I start. I've never seen you at any of my games. Tell me how I'm supposed to bring you back to my level?"

He's looking at you earnestly now, but your brain has disconnected. Surely he didn't mean that he liked you. You must have misheard him. "Wh-what did you say?" You stutter out after a minute of silence.

Sylus sighs deeply again. "Words have no effect, I see." He tilts your face upwards more, and before you can react, his warm lips steal yours. If your brain was disconnected before, it's completely offline and mush now. Unable to think of anything, slowly, your hands come up to grasp the lapels of his jacket, crushing them in your grip.

You stand on your toes so he doesn't have to lean down so far. In the back of your head, you're glad he took your glasses off. The lenses would be fogged up now. Pressing yourself closer, you give in. Your lungs are starting to beg for air, but you never want this moment to end.

But end it does, he pulls back, and you stare deeply into his red irises. The depth of his emotions is swirling around, trying to pull you in.

"Do you understand me now?" He asks quietly, watching you intently.

"Why me?" You mumble quietly. "Why not you? I've always been drawn to you. Ever since we were kids. You're like a flame that burns just for me. I don't want to be apart from you anymore. Don't pull away from me now." His voice is not more than a whisper, but it still pierces your heart.

The sincerity in his voice sends you over the edge. Your face burns red again, and you hide it in his jacket. "Is this going to be a habit of yours?" He asks, chuckling as he wraps his arms around you. "Shut up." You mutter against his chest. "We're still in trouble and have detention." He comments, and you freeze. You'd forgotten that detail.

"I'm still mad at you for that." You say stepping back. He grasps your hand and leads you to the office laughing.

****************************************************

I'm so sorry again for the long wait. I hope you get all the fluffy feels out of this that I tried to pack in.

If you want to read my original draft, message me. If you want to take a different route and finish the one I started, I will relinquish it. Just let me know.

[certifiedsexed]

Terrified to ask in fear I'll be framed bad but here I go!!

I'm very interested in the human body and anything that can be considered medical (have been ever since I was 3-4 years old!!) and so I tend to get carried away with topics when it comes to human anatomy or procedures

One of which I've been talking about a lot is ftm HRT and the affects it'll have because not only am I incredibly excited for it I find it fascinating with how it works and what changes it provides and I'll yap about it in VCs with friends and stuff

With that context out of the way some of the people in those VCs are minors and I'm worried that what I'm talking about is harming them (because sometimes the topic turns to bottom growth or vaginal atrophy, sometimes the topic turns to mtf hrt and I'll discuss breast growth and the affects estrogen has on penises or testicles) Because I'm an adult (barely so too, I turned 18 like this year)

The minors are 15 or older never any younger and I always clarify and check in if I'm making anybody uncomfortable and if people want me to stop which everyone has said continously that they're ok with it and even ask questions about the topic (a lot of the people I hang out with are trans folks who have some kind of transition goal in mind)

But I'm worried if I'm pushing it too far and am actually harming them because I'm an adult while these people are minors. It never turns sexual its all talked about in a strictly educational manner.

I hope this makes sense sorry for the long ask :(

It's kinda interesting to read this ask for me because I'm very similar to this and have been for a long time. I also had similar worries but more about sharing with my siblings than general friends.

Look, talking about sex education (including trans specific sex education) isn't bad for kids or going to harm them.

You've been interested in this type of thing since you were very young yourself, do you think it hurt you? It doesn't sound like it, seeing as you're still wholly excited and fascinated with this type of subject.

It sounds like you're very considerate about it as well and that your friends are curious/interested in the topics you discuss. That's wonderful.

You being 18 does not make it dangerous or harmful. You're not flirting with minors or anything even similar. You're just sharing information-information that it sounds like some of these kids will need!

You being an adult doesn't immediately make it inappropriate or dangerous. In fact, I'd argue having a safe adult these kids can talk to and ask questions about topics like that generally makes them safer.

If any of them were voicing discomfort and you continued to engage them in these conversations, ignoring that, I'd say, "Definitely stop that." but so far, it sounds absolutely fine.

Hope this helps, Anon! Let me know if you have any other questions. <3

[ionobjectshow]

Hello granddad!! Really enjoyed the new episode by the way :D I just wanted to ask something, I dont know if you already answered this so I'm sorry for bothering you if you have D:

Do you have a particular interest in nuclear physics? I'm wondering because when I watch ION it seems to me like you must be very passionate about it as well, either that or your just very good at researching (or making stuff up this sounds legit to people who dont know anything about physics, like me! /j), but it sounds like you know a considerable amount! Maybe it just seems like that to me because I don't understand physics at all :P

I really love cracklin!! So much!!! I've felt like I was too naive and childish for most of my life, I felt weak, pathetic, i cried nearly every day and my feelings of self hatred were only solidified by the people around me. And even though I act MUCH differently now and am in fact quite crude (I am much like a bird squawking outside your window that refuses to shut up!!!) and say uncomfortable things, I'm still regarded as naive and dumb sometimes! The thing Sylvia and cracklin have going on feels very similar to MANY friendships I've had with girls my age. I liked school very much and liked to work, so it made them angry that I managed to be "so stupid and so smart at the same time" (quoted directly from something a girl said to me when I was in middle school). I feel very seen.

I also want to ask if you have a particular interest in object shows, or if you just happened to choose to make your show an object show by coincidence? Object shows are my special interest and I LOVE how your show goes against (almost) everything standard for an object show. Your show is absolutely unique and there's nothing like it out there! I'm sure you will inspire many young creators to make their object shows more serious and complex, deviating from just the typical competition show. In my eyes something is qualified as an object show when there are objects (or non human characters) and the creator considers it an object show, so I love how versatile the title can be! Your designs communicate a lot about the characters and that's SO uncommon!!!! I love it!!!!! You inspire ME!!!! The art is also BEAUTIFUL, really abnormal to see in object shows, most of the time very little detail is put into it, but your backgrounds feel so ALIVE

Have a good day! :]

☢️ As soon as I saw this secret message, the words flashed through my mind: “this letter is very autistic, perhaps it was created by an autistic person.” ☢️ I love long opinions with lots of details and sincere emotions, thank you for this text, I was very happy reading it!

☢️ Yes, you guessed it - nuclear physics (especially everything related to the operation of Nuclear Power Plants) has been my special autistic interest for about 5 years now. I love everything about it. In fact, I am absolutely bad at the exact sciences, but the dance of nuclear energies fascinates me and takes my breath away! I order manuals on nuclear reactors for myself and read them with great pleasure, waving my hands. I often go to a coffee shop to read there by the window with a cup of coffee ^^

☢️ I created ION during the most terrible period of my life, and this project was the only thing that held me while anxious depression was rapidly developing and consuming me into some bottomless black abyss. So I put my whole soul, all of myself and what I love into ION, I made this project my mirror. ☢️ It is very important for me to see how this story touches the hearts of other people, I scream with delight if some neurodivergent people recognize themselves in Cracklin! This is extremely important to me.

☢️ Object shows are not my special interest, but I was very surprised and intrigued by this genre of web animation. At first, I did not like the concept of an object show and I could not understand why people were watching it … and then something switched inside me and I really wanted to create my own experimental Object show. To create it entirely myself. To make an author's project that will become a part of me. I didn't even hope that ION would be liked by anyone else, I posted 1 episode with the thought that I was doing it only for myself. And now I am happy as a rainbow in the sky, reading so many kind comments and support! Thank you very much

[late4the-party]

Many things I want to say, I hope I won't forget anything. I'm not part of any mob. It's just me, one tiny blog that if people had taken the time to look at they'd see how little I post. Please, do take a look at my archive. At the beginning I had made only three posts about TDP. I'm not a blog dedicated to this show. If the first blog that reblogged my post hadn't done that I bet no one would had noticed my words. I didn't want this to blow even more so I had muted that post. I'm still getting notifications, so I guess the muting didn't cover my reblog too. I would like to mute the whole thing now because the more I reply the more it will really look as if I were part of that mob. And I don't have the time nor the interest in making a campaign against the show. I just wanted to speak my mind and that be it. Btw, taking a quick look I saw someone saying that if I don't like the show then just don't watch it. I did take it out of my list after I finished the season. I'm genuinely surprised when I read you saying that there's a mob wanting the cancellation of the show. At Rotten Tomatoes it is rated with a 100% likes. At twitter I just found three comments in Aaron's tweets. And a couple of videos at YouTube. All these expressing their discontent, not promoting cancelation. Maybe that mob is mainly just on Tumblr? If anyone reading knows of a website or an app that helps finding a person's comments on other people's posts on Tumblr, check me. I'm not on the look out for new posts related to the show, throwing hate on those who think different than what I think. I don't do that. I see your point in how my words are contradicting themselves. What I meant was this. If they have material that cannot be covered in say 5 seasons, they need 10. Ok. Go, present your project and leave it there. I don't like when they see their show doing good and then extend it more and more seasons. Stretching the story through filler episodes.

The show premiered in September 2018. That's 6 years, 4 moths ago. For 5 years, 10 months it was going to be 7 seasons long. People has complained about how the story slowed down after season 3. If there hadn't been filler episodes I would had thought "Ok, no biggie, they just didn't plan correctly". But those filler episodes,... it's hard not to think that they are trying to stretch the story as much as possible to get as many seasons approved as possible. To gain as much as possible. Filler episodes don't contribute to the development of the story. They build nothing or very little. Now, how to stretch the story and not get the fans bored? That's what I was talking about when I first wrote about them just giving us cute moments with our favorite ships. It's no secret Netflix in general only approves 3 seasons. They approve more only if a show is doing incredibly well. There have been many shows that even after ending in a cliffhanger they didn't get approved. This is no secret. Aaron cannot claim ignorance on this. They could had ended the story in season 7 as they had originally planned. They could had chosen not to slow the pace. They took the risk of not getting renewed. With that tweet Aaron is trying to get the fandom to pressure Netflix into approving more. Sorry but he do is manipulating the fans here. I think it's so clear I don't understand how people are choosing not to see this. About what you wrote about offering criticism. I did write a previous post mentioning some points about season 7. Previous seasons to that I didn't have the blog to write them on. In this previous post there's something that will be contradictory big time: Among other things I wrote how the show deserved a better planned ending or end it with a movie. At that point I didn't know Aaron wanted that 3rd arc. Someone's comment on my post made me aware of it. I checked his twitter and saw that message from him. My head went through all those thoughts that I explained after the Facebook screenshot. I got mad at him. Again, he could had chosen to stick to his original 7 seasons plan. (Sorry to be repetitive) If every episode had been loaded with things that were really building the story then I wouldn't had gotten mad. It would had been bad planning. I cannot see how this is not greed from his part. That's what changed my mind from "come on, at least one movie to give us closure", to "no, no green light so other show creators don't start doing the same". As I mentioned in my first post, this is not the first show to do this. There is one other who has been using this same technique. It is frustrating seeing a show starts being so good and then slowly turn into this. "What? Did I say 3 seasons? No I meant 7." Then on season 6 "Did I say 7? I meant 10". The story is affected by this stretching but most of the fandom are so obsessed they don't see that. They don't care. It's frustrating seeing this. Do you really think ATLA would had been as epic as it was if that same story had been dragged for 10 seasons? That's what I'm against of. That's my reasoning. @lawchan89 I never wrote that they don't deserve to have jobs. Don't change my words please. I agree that there is a lot of unhealthy toxic behavior is going on in social media. Believe me when I say part of me wishes there were no social media at all. Or at least that creators didn't listen to it. On one hand because there are some who have altered their stories just to do fan service. On the other hand because all that fanatism is what fuels this never ending series. "The fans are loving it! See how you can stretch the story!" I did say I didn't like season 7. And as I said before I had muted the notifications. (didn't know I also needed to mute my reblog or I wouldn't had seen both of your comments) I did remove the show from my list. I seriously think a future trailer could make me want to retake the series. There's a chance this will start more reblogs from other ppl. I don't want to keep this soup cooking any longer. So I may need to mute this too.

Thanks for reading.

It is normal to develop some emotional attachment to fictional characters in a TV show or a book. It is not nice of him to use that attachment to keep his show going, to keep making profits.

This is not the first time a show creator does this. They add beautiful moments with the couples that we love to keep us obsessed and asking for more. And there we go falling for this manipulative trick. I’m so glad I found that tweet by Alexandria. Be conscious of this people and have a little bit of pride in yourselves. Don’t let them use you to keep making more money.

Seven seasons was more than enough to develop a great story with a satisfying ending. I’m sorry but I hope Netflix won’t greenlight more. Creators and producers need to stop doing this.

[secret-moonstruck]

IN MY DREAMS | P. SH

— Pairing: Sunghoon x fem!reader | (Masterlist)

— Synopsis: Y/N didn't know what fantasy or reality was, always dreaming about this mysterious man. Subtle touches and a wonderful evening bringing the truth.

— Genre: light smut, fantasy

— Warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex, praising, cum inside, making out, hickeys.

— Notes: I'm new to this writing thing, and English is not my first language. Sorry for not writing so well, I wish to improve and bring better and well-written stories.

The days have been tiring for Y/N, she has always had trouble sleeping, however, since she saw this man at the entrance of her building a few days ago, it has gotten worse. The same thing always happens, she is having a normal dream, but suddenly everything changes in a strange way where he is there. Perfectly beautiful, so real, but at the same time so ethereal. However, whenever the dream is good, she ends up waking up, her damn sleeping problem interfering. When she wakes up, she can't go back to sleep thinking about him.

She was leaving her apartment when she saw him again, he was entering the apartment next to hers. No, he couldn't be her neighbor.

When he passed, she looked at the ground, avoiding him, embarrassed by the dreams and thoughts she had about him. It's not like he knew what was going through her mind, but she still felt ashamed.

At work, she received an order, she didn't remember ordering anything, but she often received gifts from customers thanking her for her work. They were beautiful handmade chocolates. There was a note too.

“Eating a sweet before bed helps you have a light and sweet sleep.” - P.SH

- I hope it really helps. - She said to herself, thinking about the sleepless nights.

Y/N was already getting ready for bed when she remembered the chocolates. She went to her bag and took out the box, then ate one, it was really very delicious. She hoped it would actually help.

It didn't take long for her to fall asleep.

It all started as usual, a normal, boring dream, actually a little irritating. She was in her office, feeling stupid and not being able to complete a project. It was irritating that she didn't even get a break from work even when sleeping.

- You must be very stressed to be dreaming about work.

Y/N looked for where the voice was coming from... there he was, the mysterious man, well now not so mysterious, now she knew he was her neighbor.

As soon as she noticed his presence, the atmosphere changed, they were no longer in his office. They were in a garden covered in snow, it was beautiful, and despite the snow, it wasn't cold. There was a lake with a big tree in the middle. It was a calm and peaceful place. She felt light.

- Thanks. - She thanked him. - Whenever you appear, everything becomes beautiful, it's so good.

- Actually, Y/N, haven't you noticed yet? It is not a consequence of my presence. I'm the one who takes you where I think you can feel good.

Y/N was confused, did he do that? But how? Shouldn't she be the one who controls her own dream? Why would a creation of her mind have control?

Sunghoon noticed how confused she was, so he snapped his fingers as he tried to show her.

The environment changed again, they were now in a beautiful ancient room, it looked like a palace. His clothes also changed.

She wore a white dress, her hair falling in waves, tied to the side with white feathers, red lips.

Sunghoon impeccable as always, his outfit so simple but perfect for him, his layered white blouse and simple black pants.

He took her hand, leading her to the window, the sun was setting. As she watched the sunset, he didn't take his eyes off her.

- I'm sorry, Y/N. - He said turning her towards him. - I sent the chocolates. I come into your dreams every night, but you always leave me. I needed to make sure you wouldn't leave me today.

- I don't understand.  - What did he mean by that?  - How did you send me the chocolates? This was in real life, not in a dream.

- Yes. I, your neighbor, sent it. That way, you would sleep through the night, and not leave me like every other night. It's frustrating, every time I think I'll finally have you, you disappear.

Sunghoon touched Y/N's face, a gentle touch, but it sent shivers through her body.

So many times she melted at his touches, but they never managed to go any further, that's what he was talking about.

So many nights when she woke up with the feeling of his hands that left her weak under his touches, his lips that spread trails of kisses all over her body. So many nights when she woke up frustrated and angry, her desire for him getting greater every day, but never being able to have him for herself.

He was also tired, so many times he came so close to taking her and she always left him alone.

- Thanks. - Y/N said, looking into his eyes. - I also couldn't bear to always wake up and realize that you weren't there, that it was an incomplete dream. Even if it really is a dream. I will believe that this is all real. So, dream or reality, thank you for bringing me here.

Y/N stood up on her tiptoes, even with her heels she had to pull him by his shirt to be able to kiss him.

They had already kissed in other dreams, but this time it felt more real, she felt perfectly the heat of his lips, she felt the touch of his hand on her waist, the other on her neck. The kiss was calm but intense, she felt the desire he had for her throughout her body.

When they separated, and she opened her eyes, she realized that they were no longer in the same place.

They were now in a huge white room, it seemed so old, so surreal, everything was beautiful. 

He took her to the big soft bed, guided her to the center of the bed, making her sit on her knees. She felt increasingly anxious as he tied her hands with a long red satin ribbon. Soon after, with another tape, but this time white, he blindfolded her eyes.

She shivered as she felt his fingers run across her face, down her neck as he admired her.

- You're perfect. I looked for you so much, I waited so long for this moment. - He whispered to Y/N, who didn't understand what he meant, but that didn't matter to her.

He lifted her a little, then kissed her, the kiss was more urgent than the previous one, his hands running down her side, up her exposed legs, while he trailed the kiss down her neck.

- Please, Sunghoon. - Y/N asked amidst sighs. - I need you.

Obediently, he continued, his fingers undoing the ribbons on Y/N's dress, sliding it off her body. 

The fact that she was blindfolded and trapped seemed to make Y/N feel everything more intense, every little touch from Sunghoon made her shiver. And he noticed the effect it had, it made him yearn for her even more.

Y/N felt him move away, it didn't take long for him to be with her again. Kissing her again, he made her lie down, she felt the heat of his body against hers.

He took her tied hands and lifted her above his head, then distributing hot kisses all over her body, until he reached her wetness, interspersing between her lips and his long fingers, he prepared her. 

Pulling her onto his lap, Y/N wrapped her trapped hands around his neck to hold on.

Moans leaving both of their lips, pleasure coursing through their bodies as they moved.

So many days that were interrupted, finally having the pleasure they had waited so long for.

Their sweaty bodies were pressed together as they sought more and more of each other.

Breathing heavily as the pleasure finally exploded, as they climaxed.

Sunghoon tugged on Y/N's hands, releasing her and removing her blindfold, a smile on his face as they kissed.

Y/N woke up suddenly. A horrible pain in your head, a whirlwind of memories invading at the same time.

She wasn't her. It was another life. Sunghoon was exactly like now, he was a vampire, that's why he could enter your dreams, it was his power. People accused him of having attacked the villagers and were hunting him. Y/N, even though she was just a human, stood in front of him when arrows were shot, dyeing her. Sunghoon cried as she died in his arms. 

Dizzy with so much information, Y/N ran out of her room, when she opened the door to her apartment, she found Sunghoon panting. They looked at each other for a moment before he picked her up and kissed her. 

- I remember everything. - She said, tears running down her face.

- I couldn't protect you, I hated myself when I let you go. I looked for you every day of my existence. But I finally found you. And I will never lose you again.

[doodler16]

Without giving myself much away, lemme tell you that I've been writing and working as an artist for years. Every time I try watching Viv's shows, it never fails to give me second-hand embarrassment as they remind me of the stuff I used to write when I was a teen.

I imagine Viv clapping her hands all giddy and giggling as she kicks her feet like it's the best thing in the world as she shows her poorly-designed, random OC's swearing and acting like edgy American teenagers.

The Mastermind episode, for example, makes me cringe like these Seven Sins like Queen Bee, Mammon and Ozzy are supposed to talk like refined upperclassmen who never swear. Have them talk like Game of Thrones (GOT) characters. The same problem applies to Hazbin Hotel where Alastor and the angels in heaven swear. It's like I'm watching Monster High except they were written by the people behind Riverdale.

Also, the humor isn't even that funny which reminds me of how I'd try to emulate Family Guy and South Park without any idea what makes them very entertaining in the first place. Basically, you don't force your audience to laugh but you've gotta give them something to laugh at. Sure, you can be offensive and even poke fun of people but in her case it's just spiteful and annoying. I just watch with a straight face pondering if it was meant to be funny.

I heard she also makes fun of those with intellectual disability and those she doesn't like by either making them into chubby and annoying characters or ugly caricatures who tend to drool and struggle to read. The story is just all over the place and many other characters end up being neglected over Viv's favorite ship.

I learned not to make those mistakes when I entered college where we also had writing and literary classes that I started scrapping all of those cringey comics and fanfics I used to do in high school. If I were the showrunner, I wouldn't wanna embarrass myself and ruin my career with those shows. Sorry for the long ramble but I just wanna get this off my chest.

Yeah, the humor is pretty hit or miss. Maybe out of context it might more funny but in context it does feel dragged out. Vivziepop is very open about being proud of episodes she has written. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with being proud of your achievements but there are times when Vivziepop overdoes it and sounds like she is sucking her own dick (metaphorically). There are so many examples of this you can easily find online. She’s inspired by Bojack Horseman and South Park.

Yeah Anon, I was expecting the deadly sins and by extension the overlords in Hazbin Hotel to be gray characters who were professional authoritative figures for Hell. But they are a bunch of middle schoolers hidden in a trench coat.

Yes, she does make fun of people with disabilities in the show (especially if they are ugly). I don’t mind dark humor but when Vivziepop does that, it screams double standards. Because the in universe and in the fandom, they would coddle and defend Fizzarolli (a pretty disabled man) but when it’s someone else it’s “ew” or the characters make a judgmental face.

Vivziepop is an excellent example of what not to when writing a story, Anon.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

They had won, Eddie had lived, and Max didn't succumb to Vecna's wrath. Thanks to Robin, Steve, and Nancy, Henry Creel had perished in the Upside Down. Convincing the town of Eddie's innocence was a lot harder than clearing him of all charges, so the Munsons had stayed in Indianapolis until their new house was ready and until things settled down in Hawkins. A couple of months passed, and the Munsons were ready to move in. Dustin was allowed to help as long as Claudia went with him. Claudia had been a bit overprotective since Jason's goons had threatened Dustin. He didn't mind. It was the perfect opportunity for his mother to finally meet Wayne and Eddie. Dustin burst through the front door of their new house.

"Dusty! You should have knocked! You never knock!" Claudia scolded.

Eddie popped up from behind a box with a manic grin.

"Henderson!" Eddie exclaimed and tried to jump over a box, but he tripped, falling on his face. "Goddamnit!"

Dustin laughed and helped Eddie up off the floor before pulling him into a hug.

"I'm so sorry about my son," Claudia said to Wayne, who came out of the kitchen.

"I'm used to it. Eddie doesn't know how to knock either," Wayne said.

"Dude, your house is amazing," Dustin said.

"Way better than the trailer," Eddie said. "Wayne has his own room!"

"I brought muffins," Claudia said, holding out the basket. "It was between this or the houseplant, but I figured growing the houseplant would have taken longer, and it wouldn't have tasted as good."

"I suppose it wouldn't have," Wayne said in amusement. "Kitchen's this way."

Claudia followed Wayne into the kitchen. It was an open concept so you could see the kitchen from the living room. Claudia looked around the room, smiling as she tried not to stare at Wayne Munson and his pretty blue eyes. He was trying not to look at her either.

"It's a nice kitchen," Claudia said.

"Thank you, and thank you for the muffins. We really appreciate you coming to help us unload, Mrs. Henderson," Wayne said.

"Please, call me Claudia," she said, blushing.

"And you can - you can call me, uh - shit. Wayne, you can call me Wayne. Oh, I tend to lose my marbles around a pretty woman," Wayne blushed.

Claudia's face turned red as she giggled and touched his arm.

"Uh. . .what's happening? Is your uncle flirting with my mother?" Dustin asked, hitting Eddie's arm. "Eddie, your uncle is hitting on my mother."

"Yes, Henderson, I have eyes and ears," Eddie rolled his eyes.

"Eddie, do you know what this means?" Dustin asked.

"That I'm not blind and deaf," Eddie said.

"No, it means that if this works out," Dustin whispered. "We'll be family. . .officially!"

"Holy shit," Eddie whispered with wide eyes.

"Oh," Claudia said flustered as she continued to touch Wayne's arm. "Do you work out?"

"Oh, come on, mom, you can do better than that," Dustin muttered.

"Well, no, not really," Wayne said.

"Well, your arm feels very strong," Claudia giggled.

"Oh, well, thank you," Wayne said blushing.

"Ha," Eddie laughed quietly. "He's falling for it."

"You know, I don't know much about baking, but these are definitely the best muffins in the world," Wayne said as he ate one.

"I'm glad you like my muffin," Claudia said.

Eddie and Dustin gagged as Wayne nearly choked on said muffin.

"Your mother definitely knew what she was doing when she said that," Eddie said.

"She did not," Dustin hissed.

Claudia patted Wayne's back and got him some milk to wash it down.

"You boys want a muffin?" Claudia asked.

"Okay, so maybe she didn't," Eddie frowned and laughed at his uncle's red face. "Wayne's mind definitely went there. . .No, thank you, Mrs. H!"

"I'm never eating a muffin again," Dustin said.

"Those muffins definitely belong to Wayne now," Eddie whispered to Dustin and then cackled.

"So, are we getting to work, or are we building a fort out of these boxes?" Dustin asked, and Eddie grinned.

"You know, Wayne, if you did want to learn how to bake, I would be glad to show you how," Claudia said.

"Well, that sounds great. . .I'd return the favor if you don't know anything about gardening," Wayne said.

"I know absolutely nothing," Claudia smiled.

While Wayne and Claudia were busy flirting with each other, Eddie and Dustin got busy goofing off. Eventually, though, the Hendersons remembered the reason they were there and got to work. Over the next few weeks, the Hendersons continued to help the Munsons settle in, with Claudia and Wayne calling each other every chance they got.

"They're on the phone again!" Dustin whispered into his walkie.

"Yeah, I know this, Henderson. Did you forget I live with the man?" Eddie asked.

"They're making progress!" Dustin grinned.

"Not enough. Why doesn't he just ask her out already?" Eddie complained.

"I could ask you the same thing about a certain someone," Dustin said.

"I wish I never told you!" Eddie hissed. "Say nothing. . .they could be listening."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Dustin rolled his eyes.

"And you know why I'm so nervous," Eddie sighed. "This is a lot more complicated."

"I wish it wasn't," Dustin frowned.

"Yeah," Eddie sighed and then changed his tone. "I got that new comic book!"

"No!" Dustin exclaimed gleefully.

"I'll come over. . .or rather we'll both come over to show you the comic book. I think my uncle's been looking for an excuse to see your mother," Eddie said.

The radio crackled, and Steve's voice came through.

"Hold on. . .why didn't you tell me that Claudia and Wayne are interested in each other?" Steve asked.

"Because, Steven, you don't have to know everything," Eddie said affectionately.

"Have you been listening, Steve?" Dustin asked.

"There's nothing on television," Steve said. "I'm bored, and I'm home alone."

There was another crackle on the other end of the walkie, and what sounded like a crash.

"Eddie?" Dustin asked, but he got no response. "Yeah. I think he really had to piss."

"So, tell me about this girl that Eddie likes," Steve said bitterly.

"Oh! Would you look at that?! My mom's calling me! Gotta go!" Dustin yelled. "Over!"

A week later, Eddie and Dustin were spying from behind a wall into Dustin's kitchen. Claudia was giggling as she was showing Wayne how to bake. Well, it was more like they were trying to see who could put more flour on each other's faces.

"They're so fucking adorable," Eddie whispered.

"I'm going to get my Polaroid," Dustin said.

Dustin quickly hurried to his room, grabbed the camera, and rushed back to Eddie, who was now holding Tews in his arms. He took a picture of Claudia putting flour on Wayne's nose. The sound of the camera startled Tews, and Eddie shrieked as the cat flipped out in his arms. He scratched Eddie and jumped down before running into the living room.

"Boys, what's going on in there?" Wayne asked.

"Nothing!" They yelled.

Dustin grabbed the photo and scrambled with Eddie to sit down on the couch. They held the comic book open upside down just as Wayne and Claudia entered the living room. Dustin and Eddie smiled innocently at them.

"Eddie, your cheek is bleeding, son," Wayne said.

"It does that," Eddie said, shrugging.

"Right," Wayne said and raised an eyebrow at the comic book.

"You better not be doing any experiments, Dusty," Claudia said. "Not tonight."

"I would never interrupt your evening with Wayne, mom," Dustin grinned.

"I swear, Uncle Wayne, we're being good," Eddie said.

It wasn't until a whole month later, right when Eddie and Dustin had started talking about pulling a parent trap, that their parents announced they were going on a date. Wayne insisted on dropping Eddie off at the Hendersons when he went to pick up Claudia for their date.

"We both still feel a little iffy about leaving you alone," Wayne sighed. "Not that we don't trust you or anything. . .well, you know how it is."

"Can you blame us?" Claudia asked as they stood in the living room, looking at the boys.

"Not at all, Mrs. H," Eddie said and kissed her cheek. "Have fun, you two, and be safe. By safe, I mean - ,"

"Eddie," Wayne gently scolded.

"What? You know how to bake now. . .you might end up putting a bun in that oven," Eddie grinned.

"Hush, you," Claudia giggled and slapped his chest. "Your uncle and I talked about it. . .we'd decided we would be more comfortable if you boys had a sitter."

"You just said you trusted us!" Dustin exclaimed.

"I am a big boy, Uncle Wayne!" Eddie shrieked. "I do not need a sitter! Him, on the other hand!"

"Hey!"

"You'll thank us later," Wayne said in amusement.

"I will not!" Eddie yelled.

They walked out the door, and Eddie slammed the door behind them with a pout. Eddie leaned against the door and crossed his arms. He smiled softly, shaking his head.

"What?" Dustin asked.

"It's nice having two parents and a little brother," Eddie said. "If they make us get bunk beds, I call top."

"Settle down, it's only their first date and by the time - Oh, shit, the babysitter is here!" Dustin yelled, his face pressed to the window.

Eddie shoved Dustin aside with his elbow and ignored Dustin's cry of protest.

"Those motherfuckers really - ,"

"It's Steve!" Dustin exclaimed.

"Okay. . .I changed my mind, I definitely need a babysitter, and I want that one. That one right there," Eddie said, his face pressed to the glass as well as his finger.

"Please, Eddie, act a little more desperate," Dustin said sarcastically.

"I take it back. I hate having a little brother," Eddie said.

They watched as Steve talked with Wayne and Claudia just as they were about to leave. The three of them were laughing about something Wayne and Claudia had said.

"What did they say?!" Dustin asked.

Steve hugged Claudia and shook Wayne's hand. Wayne opened the car door for Claudia and got into the truck. Steve waved them off and turned to face the house. He looked in their direction in confusion and then waved his hand at them.

"Can he see us?!" Eddie yelped.

"Yes, Eddie, because it's a window, not a two-way mirror," Dustin said. "Wow, I know love can make you stupid sometimes, but I didn't think it would make you this stupid."

"Ha! Ha! HA! You're so funny, butthead," Eddie said. "NOT!"

Eddie jumped away from the window as though he had been burned. He started fixing his hair and smelling his breath.

"Oh my god, this is hilarious," Dustin grinned.

"How's my hair?" Eddie asked.

"Awful," Dustin giggled and Eddie flipped him off.

"I should have picked a better outfit - wait, I don't care what I'm wearing. . .unless. . .does Steve care what I'm wearing?" Eddie asked himself.

The sounds of footsteps come closer to the door. Eddie squeaked and ran off towards the bathroom.

"Why are you being so weird?!" Dustin asked as he followed him and spoke through the door. "You've been around Steve before. . .unless, are you planning on telling him?!"

"Yes!" Eddie yelled. "Shut up, let me think! I didn't plan on it being tonight!"

They heard the front door opening and closing.

"Hello?!" Steve called out. "Aw, hey, Tews, at least somebody wanted to come see me."

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Eddie came stumbling out. He gently pushed past Dustin and fell into the living room. Eddie got up and straightened his clothes.

"Hey, Steve," Eddie said casually.

"Hey, Eddie," Steve said smiling, his hazel eyes twinkling in amusement. "What were you guys up to?"

"Uh, I was showing him something," Dustin said quickly.

"In the bathroom?" Steve asked.

"Uh. . .I had a rash. . .on my butt!" Dustin yelled out quickly.

"And why didn't you show it to your mother before she left?" Steve asked.

"I'm an expert on rashes!" Eddie yelled out without thinking about it.

"Isn't Claudia a nurse?" He asked.

"You know what, Steve?" Dustin asked, his hands on his hips. "That is an excellent point. . .something that I did not think about."

"Okay, your mother and uncle told me not to let you guys have sugar, did you already have some?" Steve asked.

"Hey, how about we watch a movie?" Dustin suggested.

"Yeah, okay," Steve said, shrugging.

Dustin put in a videotape and scurried off to make popcorn, turning the lights off on the way out. He came back in a few minutes later with sodas for them and a bowl of popcorn. He hurried back into the kitchen to get his own snack, telling them to start without him. He had seen it before. Eddie and Steve sat on the couch with Tews still on Steve’s lap.

"So, they really didn't ask you to babysit us, did they?" Eddie asked.

"What?! No. . .is that what they said?" Steve asked and Eddie nodded. "That's hilarious."

"I was nervous. . .earlier," Eddie said. "I've been trying to figure how to tell my crush that I like them but I didn't know how."

"Oh. . .well, they'd be crazy not to like you," Steve said.

"Hm. . .tell that to the rest of Hawkins who still think I'm a murderer," Eddie said.

"Oh, I constantly tell them that they're crazy," Steve said seriously.

Eddie blushed and turned back to the movie. They fell into a comfortable silence. Eddie yawned and stretched his arms behind Steve’s head. He placed his arm cautiously around Steve’s shoulders. Steve looked at Eddie, his eyes widened in realization. Steve pointed to himself with a questioning look.

"Yeah, big boy, I was talking about you," Eddie smirked.

Steve blushed. He snuggled into Eddie's hold, scooting down to rest his head on his shoulder. Eddie rested his cheek against the top of Steve’s head, and they watched the rest of the movie wrapped up in each other's arms. When they finished the movie, they realized something was missing.

"Dustin never came back from the kitchen," Steve said.

"Yeah, you're right," Eddie frowned.

They walked into the kitchen and found Dustin fast asleep at the table. His hat was crooked, his mouth open as he drooled on his hand. The popcorn bowl was empty, and there was a magazine open in front of him. Eddie and Steve smiled at each other softly.

"He's such a butthead," Steve said affectionately.

"You gotta love him, though," Eddie said, flashing his dimples.

"We should put him to bed," Steve said.

Steve and Eddie tried everything to wake that boy up, but he was out like a light. They got him partially awake, though. It was enough to pull him out of the chair and push him towards his room. Steve cleaned his mouth and hands first before pushing him into the bed. Eddie took off his hat shoes so Steve could tuck him into bed. Tews meowed and hopped onto the bed, snuggling up next to Dustin. Eddie stood with his hands on his hips, exhaling loudly.

"Let's give it five or ten years before you try getting me pregnant, honey," Eddie said and patted Steve’s shoulder. "I'm already exhausted."

"Eddie, we can't - ,"

"You have your fantasy, and I have mine," Eddie said. "And I can say that now. . .so let's just imagine this: the baby was put down, and now Daddies can have their free time to make out on the couch."

"Hm, I like that," Steve grinned.

Eddie guided him into the living room and pushed him onto the couch. He crawled on top of Steve, his nose brushing up against Steve’s nose. Steve pulled back a little bit, blushing.

"What?" Eddie asked.

"I was super jealous as hell by the way when I thought you had a crush on someone else," Steve replied.

"I know, that's why I decided to tell you. You were super obvious, even to me, babe," Eddie cackled.

"Asshole," Steve laughed.

Eddie crashed his lips to Steve's. He wrapped his arms around Eddie, pulling him completely on top of him as he eagerly returned the kiss. They hadn't been kissing for very long when they heard the sound of a truck pulling up. Steve and Eddie broke apart quickly. There were doors opening, and then they heard the sound of Claudia Henderson's loud laughter. Steve and Eddie grinned before going to the window. Claudia was pushing Wayne up against the truck, and then she was kissing him.

"Looks like they had the same idea," Eddie grinned.

"It's sweet. I'm glad they found each other," Steve said.

Eddie looked at Steve, his heart beating rapidly at the sight of him.

"Yeah. . .we all do," Eddie said.

They sat back quickly down on the couch as Claudia and Wayne started walking up to the door. Just as they were about to come in, Eddie realized that Claudia and Wayne had definitely worked together to set them up. Eddie let out a bark of laughter. They fucking won.

[crimsoncandy04]

I'm sorry I haven't posted in such a long time. I'm going back and forth between my Tumblr drafts and my actual book series on google docs and I finally just burnt myself out recently.

But I'm slowly getting back on things and besides going on evening walks for my mental health and also taking more time to fall in love with The Guardians of Agia again as a plot, I'm also going to spend more time writing fun stuff here so I can enjoy writing again.

So in other words here's another angst idea I've been having for more Wanderer/Scaramouche drama.

Okay imagine this, so Wanderer has this whole mental belief that he's evil and nothing good comes from anyone getting involved with him and that he's better off not having any close connections. But what if in another universe his existence as Scaramouche actually DID do something good?

Hear me out, Scara actually makes a friend but it's on the dl. No one knows about this strange girl except him because she's not fully human and most people don't like being around her because of some uncanny vibes she gives off or something despite being a genuine sweetheart, in other words they really only had each other while in the fatui and once Scara is gone from history this entire girl's life is absolutely ruined.

Why?

Because Dottore would still find a demi human to experiment on to make his segments. It's destined to happen. It just wouldn't be Kabukimono who was groomed for the fatui.

It would be the half human girl he abandoned by deleting himself from history.

And it would be her who Dottore takes an interest in and experiments on and stuff.

I feel like she would just replace Scara in this universe and oh my god the absolute mind fuck poor Wanderer would get upon seeing what became of this girl he once was friends with.

He'd feel guilty but would also be reconsidering his entire personal beliefs about himself because if his existence as a harbinger was protecting this girl before, then how could he say his old incarnation was completely unnecessary and only a blight on the world?

I feel like he'd try to actually meet this girl again but if he would try to help her or not I'm unsure. But I definitely feel like he'd feel a little responsible for her suffering in this timeline and would want to speak to her face to face again.

Thoughts?