#it was always meant to be for ME- and i just hoped to create things ID enjoy and that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shizu-nagita · 2 days ago

Text

The stars are crying.

Ngl, This took more time than anticipated, and i did want to add First Icing/Alli oc in here, but by the time her lore would come out, this lore would be in too deep ……. Anyways, I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY ITTTT . Oh and, you can tell where i gained motivation and where i lost it- And you can tell where i gained favortism and got extremely bored .

Oh and, no. I’m not shrinking the text-

OH AND NO . HAREBELL , GOLDEN BERRY BELONG TO CHIBI’S PRODUCTIONS, FIRST JAM ALLIMILLI, FIRST WATER JIRAI. YOULL FIND THEM IN THE MADTERLIST

masterlist:

The world was bright, cheerful.

Everything was perfect.

The gods helped us, they lived beside us and offered love and understanding, some even blending in just to aid us.

They were truly divine. The witches above were brilliant, they gave us our lifeforms, they held us close and even gave us others to help guide our civilization into better times .

The virtues .

The ones who incarnated into the realm.

The divine.

And yet, the world was never meant for eternity, but we still tried.

We tried to preserve reason, we tried to preserve life. We tried to keep the cycle of joy continuing, forever stuck in the phase of joy, of elation.

However it was inevitable .

Joy, elation, was not what it was without the presence of despair and sorrow .

And so, after the world had experienced the light of the sun, the ever consuming warmth of reality, it dipped down into the shadows, into chaos and blood . Just like how it always was supposed to be .

And yet…

I couldn't accept that reality .

Because if I did . That meant she would be gone, and they would all leave me behind .

But that was what eternity was all about, wasn't it?

To continue on, even as you left something behind, to lead the others who have lost to something new, to guide them towards a new paradise, the cycle that was never ending was one of destruction and renewal .

My job was to keep that cycle , to allow it to continue and flourish .

….

I failed .

….

And I wish I didn't .

Because now, my reality is nothing but a dream I used to love, a life I used to know .

All a figment of imagination, that i used to live.

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

The soft clink of metal gently hitting iron echoed throughout the empty halls, the moon up in the sky as boots clunked heavily against the marble floor, creating a rhythm as a lone figure walked through the desolate halls of the museum .

His long hair trailed behind him, tied into a high ponytail, bangs obscuring his face as the moonlight filtered through the glass painting the halls in a soft ethereal light, shadows creeping up the walls and floors .

Pale yellow eyes trailed over ancient artifacts, paintings, and skeletons, sparing them a single glance before turning away, as if he were looking for something specific.

Then he stopped .

The world was plunged into silence, the only things that kept it from being too much was the male’s breathing, his eyes staring at the wall in front of him.

On that wall, was a mural, one depicting gods and their companions, cheering each other on in a joyful atmosphere. One was long red hair, stretching out to envelop her companions as if to protect them, she wore robes of lush white and a headpiece composed of gold and red jam.

Another was akin to a hare, floating on a broomstick, legs crossed elegantly as her shawl seemed to billow out around her, the woman’s periwinkle eyes holding wonder and intrigue in them as she looked ahead, as if towards the future, her platinum hair tied in a neat ponytail as it streamed out behind her.

Beside them was one of water, taking the form of either a male or female at will , water serving as the beings hair as it flowed and expanding out behind them, creating tides and crests of sea foam, their hand outstretched towards another .

Then came the virtues .

One of knowledge, robes as dark as the night, shimmering with an ethereal glow, scrolls upon scrolls around him , his eyes closed as people crowd around him in the mural, looking up to him as he continues on .

One of volition, granting wishes as the woman knelt down, raising others the best she could, her long white hanfu draping across her figure, cream white robes complementing her features as the woman gave a small smile .

One of change, long black hair furling out as he destroyed nations, allowing others to grow in their place to prosper, to live and thrive in the remains, continuing on the cycle of change .

Then the mural ended, the rest of the painting torn apart from wear and tear, the brown fabric seared and worn at the edges , nevertheless, it was still lovely, each brushstroke full of emotion and passion .

The figure’s hand reached up, beyond the frame and slowly traced the faces, an indescribable expression on their face as something flickered in their eyes , sorrow, yearning, and grief . The woven fabric between his fingers shifting , comforting even

“ Sir? Are you alright? “ A man with long hair, tied into a ponytail at the ends walked by right beside the figure, blond hair trailing behind him as the scholar stopped at his side the lenses of the glasses reflecting the light as he stared at the other .

“ Ah…. Sorry, I .. was just admiring this painting . “ The figure looked down, shame in his eyes as he sheepishly scratched the back of his neck . Though his dough held the smooth, unblemished texture of youth, the pale yellow irises that scanned the ancient artifacts were etched with the weariness of centuries. Each flicker of his gaze across a chipped clay tablet or a faded tapestry seemed to hold a silent conversation with the ghosts of the past.

Eclair cookie looked at the man once again, worry in his eyes before shaking his head, attention diverted to the mural before the, , colors vibrant and elegantly put together as they both stared .

Eclair Cookie adjusted his spectacles, a gentle smile gracing his features as he admired the mural. The vibrant pigments, though faded in places, still pulsed with a captivating energy. "Magnificent, isn’t it?" he murmured, his fingers unconsciously tightening around his quill. "They say the Virtues and the Great Witches walked hand-in-sprinkled-hand in those bygone eras. A pity their whereabouts remain a crumbly mystery."

Eclair cookie sighs, disappointment in his eyes before it goes away. He looks back at the figure in front of him, eyes narrowing for a brief moment before blinking . “ Anyways, you have to go home now, the museum is closing soon , i'd be happy to see you again though! May I have your name, young man? “

The figure pauses for a brief moment, reluctance flashing across the other's face before nodding in acknowledgement.

“ My name is… “ he hesitates .

[ What do i say- Do i?- Who- I- I- ]

Yet, his face didn't give a hint of emotion even as his thoughts raced, tripping and stumbling over itself, his voice coming out in a steady tone .

“ My name is Stellar Mist Cookie, it's nice to meet you, Eclair cookie . “

Eclair cookie smiles before walking off, his voice ringing out in the halls despite the distance , the arched columns of soft beige seeming to welcome him in, as if they were old friends.

“ Come along now, I wouldn't want you to get trapped in the museum now would i? I’ll give you 5 minutes before you have to go.”

Stellar Mist cookie watches Eclair Cookie’s figure become smaller in the distance, the museum unnervingly large, before nodding his head and redirecting his attention towards the painting.

There, on the side of the mural was another, long, dark blue hair akin to the stars spilling out into the skies , the woman’s halo with a small shine as stars and moons hung from it, her dress billowing out .

If one were to see Stellar Mist cookie alone, they wouldn't have thought much. After all , there were many cookies , there was no need to remember one who was just a bit similar to the one in the mural at the museum no one was paying attention to .

However, side by side, they seemed too similar.

Two halves of one whole .

Yet, they were different at the same time, one had a look of enlightenment, pure joy as she stared at the sea, adoration and love in her eyes, the other had a look of unspoken burdens from a life they never experienced .

And yet.

The other still raised their hand once again, tracing eyes and faces as sorrow filled their eyes, the worn fabric soft as he brushed his fingers over the painting, careful not to ruin the colors and craftsmanship.

Stellar Mist cookie backed away, making his way towards the exit of the museum , leaving the mural behind, the shadows in the room seeming to cling to his form, his black shawl flowing out behind him.

However, no matter how hard you try, you will always remember .

With one last look towards the mural, he slowly opens the doors and leaves, hands shaking as an ache in his chest blooms, filling his soul with a hollow feeling as he steps out into the woods, the moon slowly rising above the horizon as the sun begins to set

We truly were timeless, weren't we?

…

If only…

If only you guys had reached eternity with me

And yet that wish was useless, for now the one who carried the memories of one who had long lost never wanted to enact upon the former´s wishes, instead wanting to forge a life for themselves, instead of holding up the sky.

Walking through an overgrown path, the gravel scraping against the sole of his boots as his shawl flowed out behind him, glinting a soft dark blue in the faint moonlight, head kept low as the world blurred.

It was only when he had opened the door to his adobe, sat down in his bed, and closed his eyes, did he finally open his eyes to reality, what once was, what could've been, and the life of someone else entirely .

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

Sunshine filtered through trees, birds chirping happily as the sound of rushing water steadily hummed throughout the area, a lone figure sitting on the blades of grass, her hair spilling out on the grass as she hummed , eyes closed .

Slender hands brush through flowers, as if attempting to comb through them, akin to a brush running through hair, pollen dancing in the wind as the figure plucks a moonflower from its stem, hands delicately tracing the white petals, another approaching her.

“ Star Swirl Cookie? Are you okay?” A soft, gentle voice redirected her attention from the ground, lush and full of greenery, flowers spanning out all the way to the horizon with the occasional wisteria tree in the distance , where starry eyes met swirling, raspberry red ones .

Star Swirl cookie looks up, her halo tilting as her own head tilts, a familiar face greeting her, long, translucent hair framing the other's face, shading her from the sun as the other woman excludes a graceful aura , her hair billowing out .

“ Oh, First Jam cookie! “ Quickly scrambling to her feet, Star Swirl cookie bows for a moment before standing upright, First Jam cookie stunned for a brief moment before a kind smile appears on her face . “ There’s no need to worry, truly! “ Standing upright, she nervously shifts side to side, piercing red and white eyes staring back at her unnervingly.

Star Swirl Cookie may know First Jam Cookie for centuries, but that cookie is still the grim reaper, for all she knows, one day instead of asking her if she was alright, First Jam might be there to whisk her into the afterlife.

“ No need to rush, it's okay. “ First jam cookie’s smile widens for a brief moment. “ Thugh, are you sure you’re alright? You’ve been spaced out for a while now. “ However, even with her position as ¨Death¨ First Jam was still someone, not just a concept.

Star Swirl looks back at First Jam, expression eerily neutral regardless of her inner emotions, and merely gives a sheepish smile, hand raising to scratch the back of her neck in embarrassment.

“ Yes, I am, I'm truly sorry for making you worry. Did I keep you waiting?” Star Swirl Cookie brushes the broken blades of grass off her dress, First Jam giving a small laugh before waving her hand over her face .

“ No, no, you haven't , don't worry!” First Jam cookie gives a bright smile, and that's when Star Swirl is reminded of why First Jam Cookie is called divine.

Why First Jam adores her.

The sunlight filtering through her hair, painting the ground in beautiful swirls of red, dancing and intertwining with each other as the angle of the sunlight changes. Pale white robes contrasting with tan dough, with a gorgeous smile, as warm as the summer sun with a personality as graceful as a swan .

Truly .

The divine was divine .

….

[ Oh how i wish i could've been you, oh how i wish i could have been given First Water´s Affections, but wishing is useless. The eternity I want, I have to achieve with my own hands.]

The sweet, almost cloying fragrance of the blossoms suddenly felt suffocating. A hollow ache, spreading into the core of her being, the emptiness radiating outwards until her very dough felt brittle and cold, the sting of her reality coming back to her

And yet, she couldn't ever bring herself to hate First Jam, she had done nothing wrong, it was merely her own resentment and longing that spurred her jealousy, her inability to communicate.

The world slowly stopped, all noise filtering out as Star Swirl zoned out, a deep pool of resentment gathering in her soul before dispersing immediately, someone's gloved hand gently shaking her arm.

“ Star Swirl cookie? Are you listening? “

Star Swirl cookie flinches, looking up to realize they were moving all this time. The scenery changed as in their path were crushed blades of grass with the occasional flower in the mix, her halo spinning slowly as the stars that hung from it swung .

Now facing Star Swirl cookie, First Jam looks at her, concern in her eyes, her hand retracting to neatly hold back in front of her as she tilts her head. ¨ Star Swirl Cookie, are you sure you're okay?¨

Star Swirl cookie looks down, her hands tightening in the folds of her dress before shaking her head, sighing, the silence suffocating as she struggles to make an excuse for tuning out First Jam Cookie, yet nothing comes out of her mouth .

The silence ensues for a while, before Star Swirl nods and smiles at the other, “ Oh, sorry, I just space out a lot, do you mind repeating what you said? “ The stars on her halo obscure First Jam’s sight, preventing her from seeing the emotions in Star Swirl's eyes; the only thing visible is the slight smile on Star Swirl Cookie´s face .

BUt you can not fool death .

First Jam Cookie's gaze lingered on Star Swirl, a silent question hanging in the air, a delicate tension between wanting to understand and respecting unspoken boundaries. With a soft sigh, she seemed to concede, turning away, her cream-colored robes billowing like gentle clouds, momentarily casting the vibrant flowers into shadow as she continued her stroll.

"I was just wondering if you'd care to join Harebell and me for tea when Harebell Cookie comes by, most likely next week, during the afternoon at the rosewood pavilion," First Jam called back, her voice carrying a note of gentle concern. "But if you're not feeling up to it, please don't hesitate to decline." A reassuring smile, radiant as the midday sun, flickered in Star Swirl's direction.

Star Swirl offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a low hum escaping her lips that held no real melody. "Don't trouble yourself over me," she replied, her voice flat. "I'm just a bit unwell, but I'll be there."

"That sounds lovely, Star Swirl. But truly, don't push yourself," First Jam cautioned, slowing as she reached the edge of the flower garden. Her form began to shimmer and fade, the edges softening as if dissolving into the very sunlight as she slowly receded to who knows where, a mere whisper echoing in her place. "We'll see you at the pavilion later."

"Of course," Star Swirl echoed, her voice a mere whisper carried on the gentle breeze, but First Jam's form had already dissipated, leaving her alone in the vibrant stillness. "Later," she murmured to the empty air. Turning, a weary sigh escaped her lips. With a languid wave of her hand, the stars in her hair seemed to swirl, and a shimmering rift tore open in the fabric of reality. As she stepped through, the faint starlight within the void pulsed, a silent, cold welcome to her lonely domain. She had duties to attend to, petitioners awaiting her judgment, their hopes and fears a constant weight upon her soul.

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

If only she could stay within the embrace of the stars a little longer, letting their warmth and light shine upon her as she slept for eternity. Nevertheless, she had to help others reach eternity.

Even surrounded by people, you can feel lonely.

But, I am the Light of eternity, I will fulfill my duty, and grant everyone an eternal elation, an eternal joy as the world continues to ascend .

[ Well, that's what I thought Eternity was, now that dream is now nothing but a shattered imagination of a child . ]

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

The soft click of Star Swirl Cookie's heels against the polished marble echoed in the sudden hush as she entered the pavilion. Even before she could fully register the scent of moon orchids and aged parchment, she felt the weight of countless gazes pressing upon her – shadowy figures peering through the silken drapes of the windows, their anticipation a palpable presence. Her silhouette, etched against the soft light filtering through the fabric, was a beacon of fading hope in their desperate eyes.

"Your lady," a voice murmured from behind, accompanied by the subtle clink of armor and the synchronized rhythm of two sets of breaths. Though she didn't turn, she knew her loyal guards were there, their concern a silent weight on her shoulders. "There are hundreds of civilians gathered outside. Shall we organize them into sections?"

"Thank you," Star Swirl replied, her voice betraying none of the turmoil within. "But I will address them directly. Give me a few moments." The guards halted their advance, a low murmur passing between them before their footsteps receded, leaving her alone in the echoing halls, where deep blue fabrics softened the light filtering through the arched windows, and ancient artifacts stood as silent witnesses to a lost era.

A sigh escaped her lips as she wrung her hands, the familiar anxiety tightening its grip. Her pace quickened as she approached the heavy, intricately carved wooden doors of her office. Two more guards stood sentinel, their expressions a mixture of reverence and apprehension. They swung the doors inward, revealing the familiar sanctuary – the sharp scent of ink mingling with the musty fragrance of old papers and the faint, ethereal shimmer of residual stardust.

"Good morning to you, my lady," one of them offered, his voice hushed, as if afraid to shatter the fragile silence.

"Good morning," Star Swirl responded, the stoicism in her tone a stark contrast to the storm raging within her.

"I…" The guard's voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on the polished floor.

Star Swirl Cookie halted, turning to face the hesitant figure stationed to the left of her office doors. He stood rigidly, awaiting her acknowledgment. When it became clear that a fear of causing offense held his tongue, a small, gentle smile touched her lips. She tilted her head, her starlit eyes encouraging.

"Go on," she prompted softly.

The guard shifted uncomfortably, his companion nervously tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. Finally, the first guard sighed, his gaze still lowered.

"Forgive my impertinence, my lady," he began, his voice hushed with concern. "I have no doubt of your strength, of your ability to guide us. But... are you certain you wish to face them all today? The memory of your collapse... it still troubles me greatly."

Star Swirl Cookie freezes, pupils shrinking as the guard freezes along with her, before hanging his head, ¨ I'm… sorry for doubting you, this lowly one apologize for overstepping-¨

¨ It's fine,¨ The guard looks up, surprise in his eyes, the helmet obscuring most of his face as the one beside him lets out a sigh of relief, the grip on their weapon loosening as she gives a smile of gratitude. ¨ Thank you, but there is nothing to worry about. I will be okay.¨

She closes the door, the guards' response cut off as the echo resounds through the room, bookshelves spiraling up the ceiling as a lone desk sits in the middle of the circular room, although intimidating at first once you got used to it, it was a lot cosier than most rooms.

Starry fabrics draped across the room, shielding the books from excess dust as stacks of paper were piled around the wooden desk, the whispers of spells and sigils dancing in the room, the area painted in a soft , dark blue light, as if the world was in an eternal night.

Star Swirl Cookie stares at the familiar space, before walking over to her desk and sitting down, the wooden chair cool to the touch as she sighed, running a hand through her hair .

[ Now then, let the crowds through. ]

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

People are naturally selfish, for that is how we all live, how we all find a will to live , yet some ask for the impossible, emboldened by the promise of eternity and the rumours of a pushover, others timid with their requests out of fear of angering the one in control.

However, no one can truly say if one is evil, or good.

Whether one is the villain, or victim .

These days, Star Swirl Cookie can feel the days pass by all too quickly, the world echoing in a loop over and over again until someone cracks and goes mad to change the world, and yet she can't bring herself to end such a cycle .

Hence, why she uses her time in the office, looking at others with a stoic nature, as if not affected by the mortal woes .

BAM!!

Star Swirl Cookie flinches, her head slipping from the support of her palm as a figure rushe forward, a horde of people angrily grumbling as the figure collapses to their knees in front of her, chest heaving and out of breath, covered in dirt and grime.

“ My lady! I beg! Save my son! He is deathly ill , I beg of you to please grant him immortality..”

Through the tangled strands of her greasy hair, Star Swirl Cookie saw a woman's face contorted in raw panic, her eyes wide with a desperate plea. Clutched tightly in the woman's arms was a child, its small form unnervingly still. The warmth of life was visibly draining away, its chest unmoving, its tiny body growing colder and heavier with each passing moment. A grim understanding settled over Star Swirl Cookie's features, her expression hardening with a sorrowful resolve.

She sat rigidly in the coldwood chair, its unyielding surface a minor discomfort against the backdrop of the unfolding tragedy. Her legs were crossed with practiced elegance, a posture of detached objectivity that belied the turmoil within. Her spine was ramrod straight, a physical manifestation of the composure she was compelled to maintain, even as her heart ached for the mother's inconsolable grief.

She may be eternity, but that meant prolonging the era of prosperity and elation, not bringing back another from the dead, there is an order of nature, and to go defiantly against such nature meant flipping the chessboard over and forcing another to reset the pieces and set it back upright .

And so, she was forced to acknowledge the one thing everyone despised in their lifetimes.

[Death]

"Miss," Star Swirl began, her voice a soft whisper , as if afraid to startle a sleeping beast, though in a way, mortals could be as viscous as the monsters weaved from their imaginations .

“ Time can not be turned back, you are essentially asking me to go against the laws of this world all for your own selfish needs, if i do so, then others will come and beg me to do the same, and soon enough everyone will stay on this earth until the gods crumble us all.¨

Star Swirl closes her eyes, a hint of acceptance and anxiety in her voice as she tensed up, reading for anything and everything, hands tightening in the fabric of her pants as the world is suddenly eerily quiet, as if waiting .

[ Here it comes.]

The woman’s eyes snapped up, fury suddenly blazing in her eyes as her tears slowly streaked down onto the pristine floors of Star swirls adobe , making her flinch as she watched the woman stand up abruptly, even if this has happened for thousands of times, it still doesn't fail to frighten her .

“ YOU- YOU UNGRATEFUL SWINE- YOU DON'T KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU HAVE IT! BEING IMMORTAL AND NOT HAVING TO ASSOCIATE WITH THE PAINS OF DEATH! STOP BEING SUCH A BRA-”

The child cradled against her breast is limp, its body unmoving as the woman continues to yell, accusations echoing out into the marble walls, draped with gauzy silk and fabrics, the people outside not able to not hear, murmuring underneath their breath as thousands of eyes stare at her through the cracks in the door.

The woman’s furious accusations hung heavy in the air, each word a tiny, stinging shard against Star Swirl’s ancient soul. Yet, beneath the practiced serenity of her expression, a familiar ache echoed – a yearning for the very oblivion she was tasked with preventing for others. When the mother’s rage finally broke, dissolving into a heartbreaking sob, Star Swirl saw not just grief, but a release she herself could never know.

"You… want to be with your child, no?" she whispered, the question carrying a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of longing.

[ If I can't grant you a reality, then I'll grant you a dream. ]

The woman’s desperate nod was a stark contrast to her earlier outrage, nothing but grief and desperation in the woman's eyes . As Star Swirl Cookie extended her hand, a faint shimmer emanated from her fingertips, not just of magic, but of a weary resignation. The transition was swift. One moment, a broken mother clinging to a lifeless form; the next, two figures sinking into a peaceful repose, the harsh lines of sorrow smoothed away as if by an invisible hand.

[Did I offer solace, or merely a gilded cage? ]

The cries outside the door seemed a world away, their pain a reality she could touch, unlike the silent, manufactured peace she had just orchestrated. Had she truly helped, or simply removed them from the messy, unpredictable tapestry of life? The question hung in the air, a lonely star in her desolate sky.

The guards from outside walked in, holding a stretcher as two others replaced their position, silencing the murmurs from the crowd outside her office with their mere presence.

They slowly gathered the woman onto the stretcher, a wave of Star Swirl Cookie´s hand, and the void opened, revealing a carefully crafted eternity of flowers, retreating into a life of elation.

She watched them disappear, the scent of otherworldly blossoms filling the throne room, a fragrance that always carried a hint of melancholy for her. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant cries of those still clinging to their fleeting existence. Star Swirl’s hands clenched in her lap. To grant eternity was her duty, her purpose. But sometimes, the weight of that endlessness felt like a cage forged of starlight, and she longed for a key that would never appear.

[ Will anyone else try this? Should I have done that? What would I say if she even wakes up again? Did that go against eternity? Should I repent for doing such a thing? Oh what am i going to do now there's still so many people left-]

Her chest tightened, her hands wringing itself as she looked down, the guards silently retreating towards the end of the room towards the doors as the loud hollers of desperate people echoing through the room before the doors shut, once again isolating her from the world .

Days go by, the same schedule over and over again, and yet Star Swirl was somewhat content with iit, for surprises could be good , or it could also be devastating. The only change in her schedule is the day where she would meet up with Harebell Cookie and First Jam for tea.

[ But some days I wish it wouldn´t always be a constant . ]

Star Swirl Cookie Sighed, eyes duller than usual, the once starry brightness in them gone, worn down from centuries of upholding eternity, a cycle that repeated everyday.

¨ Looks like someone is ready to collapse, again.¨

A dash of dark feathers. Glimpses of navy blue and dark gold flash before her eyes, startling Star Swirl Cookie as she whips her head towards the direction of the voice, elegant yet condescending at the same time.

¨ Listen, I don't exactly want to have to carry you through the halls again because you couldn't stop yourself from overworking your body. ¨ Bright amber eyes stare at her, the owner crossing her arms, a long , midnight blue gown spiraling down and blending with the black carpet as feathery tips shook restlessly . She rolls her eyes, ¨ You aren't exactly light you know?¨

Star Swirl Cookie gives a small huff, amusement flickering in her eyes . ¨ It was one time, Golden Berry Cookie. ¨

¨One time too many.¨ Golden Berry Cookie emphasizes, looking down at star Swirl cookie, Wings slowly morphing back into her soft nest of hair as she floated in the air , suspended by her own magic .

There were days where Golden berry Cookie would come by, seeking treasure or some shiny trinkets that Star Swirl Cookie didn't need , and if she was honest, Star Swirl Cookie didn't mind Golden Berry Cookie´s cunning nature, in fact it was amusing at times, thought if anything, she was just glad that there was a difference in her never changing schedule .

¨ I promise, I´m fine. ¨ Star Swirl turns, waving her hand as the void opens at her beck and call, enveloping her hand as she pulls out a shiny crystal, a polished, intricately carved sapphire stone , glimmering in the light and painting the ground beneath it a striking indigo .

Golden berry Cookie raises an eyebrow at Star Swirl Cookie, taking the offered stone before looking at the void as it sows shut , as if it never was there .

¨ Can you just carry infinite things? ¨ Golden berry cookie inspects the sapphire in her hands, the golden berries on her sash reflecting the sunlight as it pours form the window above, the room painted in a gentle glow as the accents of pale yellow stand out in the new light .

Star Swirl shakes her head, gathering a stack of papers in one hand as she hits the bottom of them against the wooden table, making a hollow sound as the stack slowly rearranges itself to become neater .

¨ No i can't, when i place it inside the void, it's merely hidden and it frees up space in my hands, i still carry the weight with me . ¨

¨ I see, ¨ Golden Berry Cookie tucks the gem inside a hidden pocket, shielding it from view as her hair slowly spirals out, forming feathery, midnight blue wings , spreading out before pushing against the wind, Golden Berry Cookie´s form out a mere figure in the distance as she flies out the window.

[ I wish you could've stayed longer. At least i wouldn't be so alone. ]

Ding!

….

It’s time, isn't it? For tea? First Jam did say it would occur in the afternoon…

Looking up at the clock, suspended in the air, she sighed once again, “ Please, manage the others as I visit First Jam Cookie and Harebell Cookie.” She stands up from her desk

There's a soft soft rustle of fabric behind her, but it was acknowledgement, and so she waved her hand, the void opening up once again, the stars flickering sleepily as she stepped through, the world void slowly blanketing her as she left.

Soft cries could be heard from the other side of the wall, coming from the door at the front of the room, hordes of cookies crowding if only to gain eternity .

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

I wonder, did we have a choice?

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

“ Star Swirl cookie! There you are! For a moment I thought you wouldn't come! “ A familiar voice calls out to Star Swirl cookie, head rising to see periwinkle eyes look back at her, full of light and brilliance .

As Star Swirl cookie stepped out of the void, she was greeted with the sight of large, elegantly carved columns and Harebell cookies at a small coffee table, 3 chairs around as a broom rested against a pillar,the periwinkle, pale gold, and white blending into each other and dancing a tune only they knew . The scent of healthy, flourishing flowers wafted over to Star Swirl Cookie’s nose, pleasant and sweet.

“ I wouldn't dare miss it, it's hard to catch you these days as you traverse the world you know? “ Walking up to Harebell cookie, Star Swirl cookie pulls out a chair, crossing her legs as she sits beside Harebell cookie. “ Do you mind indulging me with your adventures? “

Harebell cookie gives a bright smile, blond hair framing her face perfectly as her shawl flows out with the small breeze, rhythmically swaying , her trademark hat in her lap as she nods .

“ Of Course not, let me tell you, I went to this really pretty field , it was full of Harebell flowers and oh it was just so pretty, you should've seen it!!You would've loved it!” Harebell Cookie’s hands animate the conversation, adding a lively atmosphere to the area as Star Swirl cookie smiles .

“ That sounds nice, maybe if I get a break from my duties, I'll join you on your adventures one day! “ Harebell cookie brightens, stars seeming to twinkle around her as if to emphasize her elation as she squeals .

“ Oh you’ll love it if you do come!! “ Harebell Cookie claps her hands together, smiling as bright as the sun as the scent of roses blossoms in the air.

Before any of them continue, a soft chuckle emerges from the sidelines, a familiar figure at the edges of the pavilion, long red hair distinct against the greenery as cream robes sway rhythmically in the wind.

A melodious cadence of soft clicks announced First Jam Cookie's approach, her cream-colored robes swaying with an almost ethereal grace. The subtle aroma of sun-ripened strawberries, a comforting signature, preceded her. Harebell Cookie's periwinkle eyes lit up, and she eagerly gestured to an empty seat. "First Jam! Perfect timing! I was just about to delve into one of my latest escapades with a particularly stubborn patch of Moonkissed Petunias!"

With an amused smile on her face, First jam takes out a bag, reaching in, the rustle of the bag rough yet soft at the same time as she pulls box some boxes of tea, ranging from green tea, all the way to high end ones, a kettle coming from nowhere .

“ Do you need me to heat up the water?” Star Swirl offers, unwillingly to feel like a freeloader as both of them nod.

“ Of course! How else would be boil this? Leave it out in the sun and wait for 3 hours, staring at the bucket waiting for it to boil? “ Harebell laughs at the thought, a joyful sound coming from her as she opens the kettle and fills it with water, the liquid overlapping itself and creating small waves inside the porcelain as it makes a soft, hollow sound before stopping .

Taking the kettle, Star Swirl sleeve’s billows out, the leaves of the trees rustling and the flowers blooming in vibrant peals of color in the background . She cups the kettle in her hand as she suspends it in the air, a small star underneath to heat up the kettle, muffled popping sounds coming from inside .

“ It’ll take some time, any hotter and the porcelain will break.” First Jam cookie smiles, nodding as she opens the box of tea, hands elegantly tearing through the box and plucking out a tea bag from the container before offering the box to the others .

“ Here, take any! I have too much anyways.” Harebell cookie brightens, smiling in gratitude at the other , her broom at her side as she gently takes the box from First Jam’s grip, fingerings lingering too long before retracting .

“ Thank you! Truly, what would we do without you?” She gives a nervous laugh, lands neatly folding in her lap as Star Swirl watches a subtle blush arise on Harebell Cookie‘s cheeks before turning towards First Jam Cookie, observing the same gentleness on her face.

….

[ What a close relationship.]

The silence is comfortable, just tinged with a bit of tension as Harebell cookie taps her fingers on the rim of the table, First Jam cookie fidgeting with her cup as Star Swirl cookie just looks between them.

“ Well-”

SQUEALLL!!!!

The kettle slowly puffs out a steady stream of steam as it emits a loud , high pitched screech, alerting the 3 of them as Star Swirl fumbles for the kettle, her fingers quickly turning red .

“ Oh! Crap, we forgot about the kettle-” Harebell cookie quickly sets her teacup in place, Star Swirl cookie giving a sheepish laugh as her fingers close over the handle of the delicate porcelain .

A gasp escaped Star Swirl's lips as the heat lingered on her doughy fingers. Before she could fully register the sting, a gentle warmth enveloped her hand. She looked up to see First Jam Cookie's gloved hands cradling hers, her touch surprisingly firm yet soothing, like sun-warmed jam.

"Does it still tingle?" First Jam's voice was a soft melody, concern etched into the delicate curve of her brow.

Star Swirl managed a weak smile. "Just a little crisp around the edges. Nothing a bit of starlight can't fix." She tried to pull away, but First Jam's grip remained steady. Harebell huffed, her ears twitching in disapproval.

Then, a low hum resonated from First Jam's touch. The air around their hands shimmered, and a faint scent of wild strawberries filled the air. Though First Jam spoke no discernible words, intricate patterns of light, the color of deep crimson jam, danced beneath her gloves. The sensation on Star Swirl's burn shifted from a raw ache to a pleasant warmth, the tingling fading with each pulse of light. It felt strangely familiar, like a half-remembered lullaby. When First Jam finally released her hand, the redness was gone, the dough beneath feeling smooth and whole once more.

Star Swirl stared at her healed hand, a sense of wonder washing over her. Harebell clapped her hands softly. "See? Told you it was amazing! First Jam's healing touch is like a sprinkle of pure magic!"

A delicate rose blush bloomed on First Jam's cheeks. "It's merely a simple enchantment, fueled by a bit of heartfelt concern." She avoided Star Swirl's gaze, her attention turning to the perfectly steeped tea.

Harebell Cookie gasps, as if offended, “ You think too low of yourself, it's not everyday you see your friend perform magic not even the highest level cookies can perform!” Star Swirl nods, inspecting her healed hand as intrigue dances in her eyes .

“ It's quite fascinating actually.” Star Swirl cookie looks at First Jam, a smile of gratitude on her face. “Thank you, First Jam Cookie, I was honestly thinking I would have to wait for my hand to heal, but thanks to you I won't!”

First Jam looks away, setting her teacup on the table, as she attempts to use her hair as a barrier from the other two’s stares. “ You guys…, flatter me..”

Harebell Cookie lifts the teacup up to her lips, the scent of harebells wafting towards Star Swirl Cookie as Harbell Cookie blows on her tea, attempting to cool it down . “ You're too humble, First Jam.”

The conversation dies down after that, a comfortable silence overtaking the area, the sound of rustling leaves being the only thing that keeps the place from going completely quiet.

It was nice, in comparison to the cries of the people, to the relentless assault of prayers and burdening schedule placed upon Star Swirl Cookie’s shoulders .

She raises her head, looking at first jam with an indescribable expression.

[ If this is already burdening to me, what's it like for First Jam Cookie? Having to provide and heal the whole population…]

There, on First Jam’s face, is a look of contentment, relaxation as she sips her tea, legs crossed with an elegant demeanor as she gently blows on her tea, the liquid rippling as she takes a sip once again .

….

You truly are something else .

Star Swirl Cookie looks down, suddenly feeling much smaller in comparison as she shifts, fidgeting with her hands as Harebell hums, her ears twitching happily as a satisfied grin spreads across her face .

[ … I … have to be like you, if I want First Water to look at me like she does with you.]

And so, the star watches the water drift further towards the sun .

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

It’s dark outside, the stars shimmering through the night sky and reaching earthbread as their light shines down upon the world, the moon illuminating the ground below, moonglades dancing upon the water as it ripples with the wind.

Star Swirl leans on the railing of the balcony , hair slipping from behind her ear as she looks down at the lake below, shimmering and reflecting the moonlight, a figure at the water’s edge, dipping the lower half of their legs into the dark water as they close their eyes .

The moonlight painted the lake's surface in shimmering silver, reflecting the luminous depths of First Water Cookie's eyes. Each languid sweep of her translucent tail sent ripples across the still water, the gentle shush of the reeds a hushed counterpoint to the silent yearning in Star Swirl's chest. Tiny water sprites, drawn to First Water's presence, danced at the water's edge, their laughter like the tinkling of frozen droplets.

Star Swirl’s eyes soften, hand cushioning her cheek as she watches First Water, a look of adoration and love on her face as First water traces patterns into the murky depths of the lake, fishes coming up to greet her as she smiles.

A deep sigh comes from Star Swirl cookie, her heart throbbing just a bit as she’s reminded by the fact that First Jam Cookie admires someones else, an image of a woman, bright red, translucent hair with a jammy texture with an elaborate headpiece flashing in her head.

A kind voice, intelligent, pale white robes that compliment her features as she stands in the sun, divine and on par with first water’s ability, just perfect, lovely and beautiful.

…

How cruel.

To love another, to pay attention to another with all your heart only to be ignored,

Nevertheless, I can wait, we have eternity after all, and I'll stay with you until my soul shatters, left with nothing but yearning as I search for you.

However, a brief flicker of hope bloomed in her soul, reaching for a wish that might never come true.

[ These days… First Water Cookie doesn't look at First Jam so much… Maybe i.. Have a chance?]

A twinge of reluctance and hate twists in Star Swirl’s soul, repulsed at the fact that she was somewhat delighted in the fact, First Jam had done nothing wrong, in fact she was a wonderful friend and a great person overall.

And yet…

Star Swirl cookie sighs, massaging her temples as she tries to navigate her feelings before ultimately turning to leave, opening the balcony door back to her quarters, the extravagant furniture greeting her with a chill as she steps inside , the wind blowing and making her robes flow out as she closes the door.

She didn't see red eyes dart up, looking at her as she left, tinged with a bit disappointment before the figure slipped into the water, her body melding with the liquid as they sank underneath the surface, retreating to the cool, familiar embrace of their waters as they closed their eyes.

Tomorrow is a new day, and you can only pray that you will survive to see another , and for a different outcome rather than the same .

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

Knock.

Star Swirl Cookie sighs, hand supporting her head as she massages her temples, frustration bleeding into her tone as she looks up, eyebags hollowing into her skull as she stares at the door, a lone guard there .

¨ Come again later, I'm too-¨

¨ Your Lady, it's Lady Golden Berry Cookie, and she claims it's urgent.¨ They say, standing in the doorway as a familiar silhouette paces through the halls behind the guard, wings not even shifted back to normal, a testament towards Golden Berry Cookie´s anxiety.

[ What- ]

Star Swirl cookie furrows her brows, concern etching onto her face as she places down her pen

“Come in.” The guard opens the door for Golden Berry Cookie, Soft ash gray skin coming into view as navy dress reveals itself, accents of yellow and lighter shades of blue accentuating Golden Berry´s Features, eyes full of grim acceptance, her hair ruffled.

¨ This isn't all too urgent , but… I think you might want to see this. ¨ Golden Berry starts first, amber eyes looking down , her feather-like tips in her hair nervously swaying back and forth , her hands stretching out to deliver a letter, a crisp seal in place , her heels clicking against the floor.

“What? You had me scared there..”Star Swirl lets out a nervous laugh , the halo above their head spinning slowly, the cycle of eternity continuing as Star Swirl cookie stacks up a few documents, places them to the side, and folds her hands in her lap.

Golden Berry Cookie moved with a hushed reverence, the very air in Star Swirl's chambers held its breath. The stark white envelope he presented seemed to pulse with an unspoken weight. The crisp snap as Star Swirl broke the royal seal echoed in the vast room, a sound far sharper than the gentle rustle of fabric billowing out, covering the high windows .

That snap of the seal echoed the sharp crack that seemed to fissure the very foundation of Star Swirl's soul. The elegant script swam before her eyes, each carefully formed letter a tiny, glittering shard of ice piercing her heart.

There, in front of her eyes are the dreaded words, the ones she loathed to see, the ones she dared to think wouldn't appear before her eyes for the eternity she lived for, the ones she wished, prayed, wouldn't arrive,

There, in neat penmanship, one that is so achingly familiar , it says.

{ You honor us with your presence and would immeasurably augment our joyous commencement as we, First Water Cookie and Shadow Milk Cookie, embark upon the sublime odyssey of matrimony.

Furthermore, with sentiments of profound affection and unwavering trust, we deem you, Star Swirl Cookie, an indispensable luminary within our constellation of cherished companions. It is with immense pleasure and heartfelt conviction that we hereby appoint you as a Bridesmaid, entrusting you with the esteemed honor of standing alongside the bride on this most auspicious occasion. Your grace, support, and effervescent spirit will immeasurably enrich the tapestry of our celebration.

With hearts overflowing with anticipatory elation, we beseech your esteemed attendance at the solemnization of our union, a felicitous occasion wherein we shall plight our troth and commence our shared sojourn through the verdant pastures of life.

The auspicious confluence of our destinies shall transpire on the 25th of may, in the annum of our Lord XXXX, commencing precisely at 11 am and ending at 8 Pm

The hallowed sanctuary wherein our vows shall resonate and our spirits intertwine is the venerable Spire of knowledge, situated at { You already know this place star, you’ve visited plenty of times!}.

Following the hallowed rites, we entreat you to partake in a jubilant repast and convivial celebration at The Pearl Parlour located at the edge of the Moonfrost Sea. There, amidst an atmosphere of effervescent merriment, we shall commemorate the genesis of our conjugal concord.

The favor of your considered response is earnestly requested no later than the 10th of April , that meticulous arrangements may be orchestrated with due diligence. Kindly direct your affirmative or negative declination to First Water cookie.

Your esteemed presence, and in your particular case, your invaluable participation as a Bridesmaid, would immeasurably amplify the resplendence of this momentous occasion, and we eagerly anticipate the distinct privilege of your company as we inaugurate this extraordinary chapter of our intertwined existence.

With sentiments of profound anticipation and heartfelt affection,

First Water Cookie

and

Shadow Milk cookie. }

The crisp parchment slipped from Star Swirl’s numb fingers, landing on the polished floor with a sound that echoed the shattering of something precious within her. The elegant script blurred through the sudden sting of tears she refused to let fall. Each word was a precise, elegant blade twisting in the core of her ancient being. Matrimony. Joyous commencement. Shared sojourn. These words, meant to celebrate love, were a stark pronouncement of her solitude. The light of the stars in her halo flickered erratically, mirroring the fracturing of the carefully constructed facade of her eternal composure. The paradise she had unknowingly clung to – the faint hope of a different future – dissolved like morning mist. All that remained was the cold, hard truth of her unrequited love, now sealed with an invitation to witness its consummation. The breath caught in her throat, a silent scream trapped within her immortal form.

And yet, she still sighed, and merely picked the letter up from the cold, wooden floor, placed it on the desk with a flourish, and leaned back in her chair, her heart aching as she stared.

….

This was how it was supposed to go, wasn't it?

First Water deserves the steady wisdom of the Fount of Knowledge, Star Swirl told herself, the mantra a fragile shield against the rising tide of despair. His understanding runs deeper than the Moonfrost Sea; his love, a constant, unwavering current.

….

It might've been better for both of them, but it still stung .

Star Swirl sighs, Her vision blurring but then clearing up as she brushes the stack of papers to the side, taking out a quail and a clean sheet of paper, careful not to get any ink onto the paper, careful not to expose her emotions in her writing as she neatly signs every letter .

And so, she signed an affirmative , Golden Berry Cookie in the doorway, dark wings slowly morphing back into hair as an indescribable expression passed over her face, a hand reaching out hesitant before gently holding her arm as if to comfort, bright amber eyes staring at her with pity.

A sad Smile made it´s way onto Star Swirl cookie´s face, a tinge of gratitude in her eyes as she shakily pens a letter of congratulations and well wishes before sighing and placing down the pen, a dull thunk echoing through the silent room.

For the least she could do now, for both herself and First Water, was to be there for First Water’s wedding, to be the constant in the world of change .

Oh cupid.

How could you be so cruel to me?

| ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ |

#cookie run kingdom #crk oc #star swirl cookie #first water cookie #golden berry cookie #harebell cookie #first jam cookie

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zaynessbeloved · 11 hours ago

Text

Creative block

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

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

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

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

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

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

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

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

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So close—I'm so close—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deep space #loveanddeepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel x mc #professor rafayel #teacher rafayel #rafayel lads #prof rafayel

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risibledeer · 3 days ago

Note

permission to ramble about gribeans 🎤

(but really i would love to hear your thoughts, those two mean so much to me they are so silly)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH tyyyy 🥺 thats so real also. oh man where do i start T^T

In every series (except third life), whether they're allied from the start or they resort to each other after other alliances fail, they're together.

They aren't meant for each othe the way soulmates are. Joel has lizzie and etho, and grian has scar. But they've carved their way so deeply into each other's soul that they're inextricable. So even if it isn't meant to happen, and whether they want to or not, they're bound to find each other again everytime.

they're equals. Take secret life, Grian and Joel keep exchanging hearts. Grian gives Joel a heart, and Joel gives Grian one back. its not charity. Never charity.

It isn't love either, because it's an expectation–to be paid back. Id say it's respect and trust, they know they can rely on each other to follow through

And Joel is bloodthirsty sure, but Grian is just as much.It was why they worked so well as reds in last life. And grian kills on green for goodness sake, and he loves the chaos. I once read someone say along the lines of Grian loves the consequences Joel loves the thrill and it's so true. Joel has no self preservation, he would willingly lose himself to the chaos if it meant he felt something. He kills to see his victims' fear so he can feel some semblance of power.

Grian’s the opposite of joel in this regard. Grian will always be his first priority. he's selfish. And he kills not for pleasure but for the sake of it. He kills so he can destroy. but he hates risking himself for it.

ultimately they both want to create chaos, because it is the only thing they know to do. It's the only thing they want to do.

They're the same person, or perhaps two halves stitched haphazardly together.

They see themselves in each other. More specifically, they see their bloodthirst and hatred reflected in each other.

they know each other like they know themselves. They can show every ugly part and not feel guilty, because they know the other is just as ugly inside. so they also hate each other like they hate themselves. That's why theyre drawn together, because ruining each other is the closest thing to ruining themselves they can get.

it's sweet. Sweet like revenge, sweet like love, and sweet in all the ways it shouldn't be.

Uhhh I'll end my rambling there for now lol. I cud talk about them for ages ngl ughhh but I'm sleepy. plus I've been told that line sounds somewhat cool lol. I hope these mostly unfinished thoughts aren't too incoherent lol djnddbbd

#i suppose this also relates to my whole Joel's bloodthirsty is an expression of his anxiety head canon hmm.#asks <3

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pavedinashes-if · 19 hours ago

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I don't usually send asks about spicy scenes so this is a little awkward for me but I felt like I needed to say something. I think that was probably my favorite spicy scene I've ever read. It was well written and there were so many nice details but I think there were two big things that stood out to me. First, it felt like a genuine moment of connection between two characters and not just something that was there because spicy scenes are the expected. Which is maybe a little weird to say about a scene that could be like a one night stand, but I hope you get what I mean. But honestly, I think the biggest thing that stood out to me was how it didn't just end at climax. There was no 'everybody's done now, time to transition to the next scene.' That really added so much.

But really, even outside that one scene, the whole thing has just been fantastic so far and I'm so excited for more! I do wish I had more in depth to say about more than just the spicy scene but it's hard to narrow down good parts to talk about when the whole thing is great.

I have no words. Just 🥰 But I appreciate yours so much.

Thanks for sharing your impression because I am so happy the scene hit like I meant it to.

I really want to create special moments no matter how small, because I always felt that most (not all!!!) stories simply rush it, try to get over with it asap or were not satisfying for whatever reason.

The fact that so many of you said that my intimate scenes hit different... ❤️‍🔥😩🫠

So yeah, can't wait to provide you with more... much more....

#qna: pia

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waterfallofspace · 1 year ago

Text

A Word-Filled Update

that no one's asking forrrr~

Sooooo, hiya~ ^^

Realized I kinda dropped out without much word, and wanted to give a lil update to anyone who may care, (and specifically to all the unfilled requests that have been sat in my inbox for months now T~T)

Dropping it under a cut because it gets quite long~ but I'll also TL;DR it with: been a bit burnt out, trying to get back into this, I apologize for all the unanswered asks, and I will be trying to get to the ones I can, but I'll be focusing more on trying to enjoy the process of making content~ Thank you to anyone who's stuck around <3

(Tw for brief mention of mental health/neurodivergencies~ nothing in depth or dark, but just incase anyone wants to avoid that <3)

Nothing serious has been going on, mostly just burn out and a bit of drama in main friend group, combined with free time just being a lot more limited recently~ (not a bad thing, most of it is because I'm getting to talk more with friends I've gotten closer to this past year~)

That said, I've been trying to get back into content, making it, reblogging it, etc, without letting it become all-consuming. I find, with the way my brain works, mostly to do to some wonderful neurodivergent tendencies, I tend to fall heavily into 'all of nothing' mentality.

This shows up in my day to day life, (ie: can't wash the dishes for weeks until I suddenly do them all in one day) and I've definitely noticed it with content creation. Need to write and finish a story in one go, record a wav as fast as possible, always afraid I'll lose that motivation.

But honestly? I love making content on here! And I'm not a huge blog, nor do I care if I am (at least trying not to, if I'm being painfully honest~) but I genuinely love making content. Whether it's just for me, a request that I am hoping one specific person will enjoy, or a story I write with a community in mind, I just love creating~

So, I'm trying to ease my way back into this! Bit by bit, let it be fun, and enjoyable, with less internal pressure to produce as much as I can, as fast as I can, and make it be perfect.

I won't lie and say 'numbers don't matter to me', if I'm honest, they do. But I'm learning more and more how to let it be about the content, and to just enjoy the process~ (and if people like it, that'll be a wonderful bonus!~)

Wooo this is getting so long, I apologize sincerely! Last thing, something I've mentioned a few times previously but never really let myself get into... requests~

I'm so honoured that people care about my content enough to have asked for things, and getting any ask, request, praise, ask lists, heck even just a 'hi!' is honestly the best part of this blog for me!

Buuuut, I definitely worked myself into burn-out before with a "every request needs to be filled and fast" mentality, that led to just... not filling any.

So! I'm going back through my inbox, and deleting some older ones that I don't have a clear vision/motivation for. I apologize to anyone who requested them, though by now it's possible they're long gone~ But I think this will help me not only start enjoying the creation process without feeling so overwhelmed, but also start actually getting more content made~

There are definitely a bunch that I still adore, and am thrilled to get to test out, but if there's one you remember sending, and you really want to see it completed, please feel free to send another ask saying what it is you want done, and I'll see if I can get that going <3

And if you've stuck it out to the end here- uh hi! ^^ I'm sorry this is so long, I'm such a words person, but I appreciate you so much, not just for any support you've offered, but just bothering to read this <3 I genuinely didn't expect most to make it this far, so thank you so deeply <3 and I hope to see you guys around as I start reblogging stuff more!~

#waterfalltalks #waterfallrambles #more like waterfallparagraphs im so sorry hahaha #been thinking about making this for awhile- but always felt so anxious???#idk why specifically... maybe cause i cant be short to save my life #or maybe because it feels like ive left it too long?? been promising so much and never fulfilling #but i am gonna try!! not to fulfill everything but- to start enjoying it again #i worry this comes off like i have an ego... i really dont haha~ i dont expect anyone to really interact with my blog or care #it was always meant to be for ME- and i just hoped to create things ID enjoy and that #if anyone else enjoyed it too that i could start giving back to the community thats given me so much content ive adored #anyways this is a LONNNGGG post and so are these tags hahaha~#using this blog as a journal again i think! but its mine! so okay! im gonna let myself!#gonna add here too that i might be reblogging with shorter tags for a bit- i promise its not cause im not excited!!!#just trying to make it the least overwhelming situation so i can start really getting back into ENJOYING it~#thank you to anyone who read this far and a huge thank you to all my friends from here and anyone who stuck around <3 #i appreciate and love you all so dearly <333 #not snz

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polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup · 1 year ago

Note

“A part of me still thinks we’ll find our way back around.”

I hope we do ❤️

I left the church a while ago and I don’t think I have any blessings I can actually give but the best one I can think of is that I hope you find a place for your art to go

#let me know if you ever make it and I’ll do the same #in a few years maybe I’ll find my way to the tiny seaside down where all I have to do is write #and maybe you’ll find your way to where your art needs to be #i left religion for a reason but I do miss it #and one of the things I miss the most is the sense of determinism #you’re just becoming the person you need to be to get where you’re meant to be in the end #I don’t regret being a lawyer #but a part of me hopes desperate that I’m a lawyer because the version of me that becomes an author needed to be a lawyer first #when I was little I used to bookmark moments in my mind #I’d be doing something random and think ‘I’m going to think about this in one five ten years’ for no other reason than I wanted to track #the passage of time. ten years seemed so far ahead looking forward but I knew it’d be small looking back and that always seemed silly to me #I remember sitting outside a dressing room on an unremarkable day for no other reason than I decided I wanted to remember it in a decade #anyway I don’t do that so much anymore #but I think I’ll remember this in five years #and I hope when I remember it we’re both where we want to be #I hope you find your way back around #I hope you’re happy where you go #and I hope you can create everything your heart wants to let out

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like-a-gutted-fish · 3 months ago

Text

i am a child.

i am forced into a dress. makeup is smeared onto my face. i kick and cry and beg, but they will not stop.

i am forced to pose in front of the camera with my thighs together and hope that the makeup hides my tearstains. i must be the perfect picture of femininity; innocent, untouched.

i already have a thousand hand prints on me.

'all men are evil rapists', i am told.

i think about my friends, who are men. the men who called me every day while i was in a psychiatric hospital. the men who walked me home when i was afraid. the men who protected and cared for me, without ever expecting my body in return.

it can't be the body that makes someone evil. it can't be the presence of a penis that makes someone evil. but it can't be the identity of 'man' that makes you evil, either.

i ponder the difference between the men who raped me and the men who protected me. i decide that it depends on who the person is inside, and not on their identity.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the men are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

'you throw like a girl.'

'you run like a girl.'

'girls can't do this. they're not smart enough.'

'girls aren't strong enough to do this.'

over and over, such sentiments are tossed at me. i bite down my anger, because women aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, that makes me a hysterical bitch.

'women are meant to be mothers,' i am told. they beat it into me that my worth lies not in my personhood, but in the womb between my hips. it makes me feel sick and violated, just like every sexual assault has.

i am groped. i am raped. i am assaulted.

it's my fault, i'm told. i'm a temptress. my body is a vile weapon, a weapon created to tempt men into sin, a weapon that makes me a subhuman toy.

i am treated like a toy. as i am molested during my childhood, i learn that i am a toy. the anatomy between my hips has marked me as public property. i am less than human.

they keep forcing me into dresses. they keep forcing me into makeup. no amount of protesting makes it end. i grow to loathe femininity and the violation that always seems to come with it.

i come out as a trans man at fifteen.

'can't you just be nonbinary?'

'can't you just be a tomboy?'

'i don't want you to regret this.'

'i don't want you to ruin your perfect body.'

'men are disgusting. why do you want to be one of them?'

'are you sure you don't just want to be a man because you were sexually assaulted?'

i continue to be a man. my parents intentionally delay my ability to go on testosterone. by the time i am able to go on testosterone, i have already finished puberty. my body is irreversibly feminine.

people throw food at me. they call me a faggot, a tranny, a dyke. they kick me and shove me to the ground. they cyberstalk me. they post pictures of me online so that they can mock me.

a girl says to me, 'you need to learn your place,' as she calls me a faggot over the internet. she kicks me when she sees me the next day.

my boyfriend when i am fifteen is a cis man who says he is pansexual. he dismisses me when i talk about being trans, because he uses he/they pronouns and 'understands it'.

he sexually assaults me repeatedly. i am in constant distress. my distress is used as proof that i am a snowflake hysterical tranny. i am a hysterical woman who only THINKS she's a man, and i need to be put in my place. trans 'men' are all hysterical and overreactive, and my behaviour is used as proof.

my boyfriend exclusively refers to me with they/them pronouns. i tell him to use he/him. he waves his hand, dismissing my words, and says, 'they're basically the same thing'.

he tells me that he wants children. i try to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.

he only uses he/him pronouns for me after we have broken up, when he is trying to paint me as abusive. i lose my entire friend group because of it.

people keep talking down to me. when i go on testosterone, cis men try to explain that it's toxic for me, using cis man bodybuilders as an example. i try to explain how that isn't the case. they insist that 'female bodies aren't built to handle testosterone'. i try to explain to them how hormones work, and they laugh and roll their eyes.

silly girl. stupid girl. she doesn't know what she's talking about.

people continue to make fun of trans men online. our music, our art, our interests, our fashion sense, our names. i cannot help but feel dejected. all i want is to be a man, and to fit in among everyone else, but even in doing so, i stand out as a target for mockery. misogyny is inescapable, even for men.

i am seventeen years old. my worst fear comes true. i am raped and forcibly impregnated, with the intention of forcing me to detransition.

that sense of violation is impossible to truly describe.

my reproductive system was designed to become pregnant. my body will do its best to become pregnant, no matter what i want. pregnancy is an inescapable function of my body, and it makes me feel trapped and sick.

the man who raped me has turned my own body into a weapon against me. even in my body, my own flesh and sinew, i am not safe.

i miscarry. i am in agony. my womb cramps and i try not to pass out.

i enter feminist spaces. i try to talk about my experiences with misogyny.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the women are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

all trans men have male privilege, you see, without exception. by the mere act of wanting to become a man, i have become a traitor, and i am thrown to the cis men.

the cis men, who see me as a woman that they're finally allowed to abuse. finally, they can hurt and rape and impregnate a woman, because she's one of those snowflake trannies and she needs to be put in her place.

i bite down my anger, because trans men aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, it's proof that i'm not a man, that i'm a hysterical bitch, and that i'm a dangerous snowflake tranny seeking to mutilate children.

the sentiment is bitterly familiar.

#anti transmasculinity #transandrophobia #transmisandry #< i have seen a lot of words going around to describe transmasc specific oppression #and i am not sure which one i am supposed to use #sorry

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cutehoons02 · 4 months ago

Text

Forced roomates or forced to be lovers?

University series: Jungwon Jake Jay

*pairing: popular pervy gamer Heeseung x popular cheerleader

*trope: forced roomates/opposites attract

*synopsis: Heeseung, a slightly introverted nerd but popular in the world of video games and in his computer course, with a passion for video games, and Y/n, the most popular cheerleader on campus, they find themselves sharing the apartment due to a mistake in the allocation of rooms. They could not be more different: he loves to spend sleepless nights in front of the monitor with always in hand a bowl of ramen, immersed in role-playing games, while she lives between exhausting training cheerleaders, evenings at the various parties of the football team and stories on Instagram. Initially the two barely bear each other, but a series of funny and intimate events will lead them to discover that, perhaps, they complement each other.

*tags: A lot of humor, tension, fluff, spicy, pervy Heeseung, a little pervy reader, Unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) pet names (Barbie, Baby, Good girl), pet names (Nerd, Loser), jealousy, teasing, possession, references to video games, cowgirl, +16,sweet moments at the end.

8.4k words

It’s the first time i write explicit scenes so i hope you like (🎮)

Heeseung’s room at that precise moment was full of mathematical forms and calculation sheets and various drawings of characters he invented, you could hear only the noise of the joystick and the various clilc he made in the mouse, with his excellent score in all subjects in the computer course and being one of the best video game players in the state, Hee had the chance to register for an online tournament for only nerds and professional gamers lasting a few months and the first 3 who had unlocked the level "Queen" they would have received a reward from one of the largest video game production companies and only 3 people would have had the chance with funding from the university and this video game production company to create their own virtual game, but he would not have imagined that his life at that exact moment could change with the entry into play of a noisy Cheerleader, who spent hours in their shared bathroom to make masks or to prepare to go out and tease him from morning to night.

He heard loud punches at the door of his apartment and when he took off his headphones he thought that those punches meant only one thing, His friends Jake and Jay had finished football practice and had come to disturb him or eat a cup of ramen together but when he opened the door he choked on his own because he found himself in front of a girl in a mini denim skirt and tight t-shirt with I ♡ HOT BOYS, Blonde as a ray of sunshine with a bright smile and a scent that left a sweet trail every time she shook her long tail of hair and with a bag of lacquered leather that had to cost more than her computer and a pink suitcase. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he was. Y/n, one of the strongest cheerleaders on campus and perhaps all other universities, a marketing student and undisputed queen of the campus. She organized the best parties and seemed to always have the answer ready for any situation.

"Hey, i know you’re a nerd and you don’t deal with girls but are you listening to me instead of looking at me like i’m an alien?" Heeseung fixed Y/n’s shirt and felt the cheeks slightly redden when he read the entire I ♡ HOT BOYS writing and looked at how well it wrapped the shirt slightly tight in the breast of the girl in front of him.

"You’re kidding me, right? What if you are one of those perverts who come to the instant only at the sight of a girl in a slightly tapered T-shirt and a skirt? Did you hear what I just said a few seconds ago?"

Finally Y/n heard the voice of Heeseung «I don’t even know what you’re talking about Barbie, i think you’ve got the wrong apartment» replied Hee with an indifferent tone, returning to his room to continue his game of League of Legends. His online teammates were already complaining about his afk.

“Barbie? Are you serious?" Y/n entered his apartment and like a puppy followed the nerd and went into his room and stared at him with a mixture of contempt and disbelief.

"The lease says this is also my apartment and you will be my roommate for next year, Lee Heeseung."

Heeseung froze when he heard that sentence. He paused the game, ignoring the barrage of insults he was receiving in the game’s chat, and turned to her. «Wait. What would your apartment be like? This is my room for...now a year and in the option, i always put that i did not want roommates and then the other room sometimes I need!»

"Well, now that room will be mine. My parents bought the whole student building and the only apartment where there was only one person was yours. Congratulations, nerd. You’ve got the roommate of your nightmares or maybe your most perverse dreams" You whispered these last words near his ear and then you went to get your pink suitcase and to disturb your roommate I played one of the songs that you were supposed to dance on the football field for the beginning of the new season and sang until your room was slightly "Decent" and clean to your standards.

It was two weeks since the beginning of the partnership and you couldn’t stand Heeseung, he was a serious pain in your neck, You didn’t understand how he had so many followers in his profile and so many girls who commented on his life or who added edit about him while playing. Some girls stopped you to ask if he was engaged or if you had taken part in watching him in one of the many tournaments he did. You really hated that nerd especially when you found empty bowls of ramen around the apartment, colored electric cables scattered around the sofa, and Joysticks of shapes and sizes of verse scattered as well in the laundry but the thing you hated most was that he played until late at night and started laughing with his virtual friends at those stupid games or tournaments you always heard about.

The hatred was mutual also on the part of Heeseung, the cheerleader with whom he shared the apartment had monopolized the bathroom they had in common hair dryers, plates with strange shapes, tricks that cost more than the food she ate, glitter, and also bought a kind of mini refrigerator to put his masks or creams for skin care. Heeseung didn’t understand how everyone was following him or how he had so many friends or guys to go out with but the thing that he couldn’t stand about you was being perfect with everyone from the professors, To your friends, family and how you thought you were always the center of attention.

That late afternoon you and Heeseung were both in the apartment, trying to study business but as always when there was Heeseung at home there was never silence. You snorted and went into Heeseung’s room and watched him sitting in the gamer’s station with his hair slightly ruffled around the professional headphones, he had a slight grin but the thing that struck you most were his hands.

God since when did that boy have such attractive hands? They were large, slightly veiny, and wore a silver and black ring that sometimes tortured them for anxiety or maybe to wait for the next level, you recovered from that state and went near the desk.

Heeseung had noticed you but he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of being in the center of attention and kept on wielding his joystick even though he was about to start a game. “Can you turn that down? I’m studying." Heeseung watched you speak, a slight puff came out of his lips as he took off his headphones and wore them around his neck. «What do you want, Barbie?»

"I said if you can please turn down that volume, I’m trying to study."

«And you can stop occupying the bathroom for three hours or sprinkling blue and gold glitter in the bathroom? The other day while I was training, i found a flurry of glitter in my gym shirt, and some thought i joined your flying spinner team!» He answered, not taking his eyes off the monitor while dodging a zombie.

Heeseung looked at you with those little deer eyes put his headphones back on and kept talking to his friends as if you’d never even entered his room until he saw you go under his table for a second and sit between his muscular legs, when you sat down you sunned yourself to look at him and observed the small ones that filled his face. Hee stood still for a moment, caught unawares, but he recovered immediately.

«What are you doing? Do you want to sabotage me? You can’t go to one of the many little friends» he asked with a somewhat grumpy tone. You wanted to take him by surprise and see how long it lasted not to give your attention

"I’m just checking your level of concentration. Don’t tell me I’m the first girl to sit over your legs or do this. You know, as an experienced cheerleader, I enjoy distracting nerds like you." Y/n moved slightly above Heeseung’s legs and watched him straighten his hair perhaps out of frustration or embarrassment.

Heeseung laughed slowly, trying not to show her that she was slightly in awe of the blonde sitting almost above her length.

«You know, I knew that I was a temptress and that I had no fear of anything Y/n but spoiler does not scare me either because I’m used to going into video games of wars, zombies, demons, etc» Y/n started laughing and looked at Heeseung

"How do you know those animated things are scary? Let me see I’m curious, nerd."

Heeseung pressed a button and an unsettling scene appeared on the screen: a dark corridor, distant moans, and a shadow creeping slowly into the bloodshot view with eyes out of its sockets. Y/n barely jerked, unintentionally clinging to Hee’s shirt.

"What the hell was that monster?" she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide as a zombie made a chilling sound and hurled itself toward the screen. Hee burst out laughing, holding the controller with ease. Oh, I thought cheerleaders were not afraid of anything. What happened to your courage?» Heeseung looked at you carefully and thought you were not as bad as his mind had painted you but he would never tell you

Y/n turned around, pretending to be upset. "I’m not afraid! It’s just... I didn’t expect it."

«Yes, Barbie. You were shaking like a cat in the rain.»

"I don’t tremble! and I’m not a coward, if I was afraid I would not be thrown by human beings for air as work," said Y/n, straining his shoulders in a theatrical move. " If you want, I’ll take the controller and I’ll kill that thing."

«Oh, yes? please, come in. Let’s see the cheerleader against the zombie. And it has nothing to do with people blowing you up Barbie, if you’re not used to a little horror you’ll always be afraid» You felt Heeseung whispering these things to you and where was the nerd from before who was in awe with you sitting between his legs?

Y/n took the controller with determined action and started playing. Hee looked at her with a restrained smile as she moved nervously through the virtual corridor. «Why are you moving like that? No need, your character does not follow you! If you’re doing it to get my attention all on yourself Barbie did it, so stop moving between my legs and rub against my length because you will never win the level» You hated how that nerd made you feel. The tension increased with each step and suddenly a zombie broke down a side door with a scream. Y/n shouted and almost threw the controller.

"YOU NERDS ARE CRAZY. THIS IS A GAME FOR PSYCHOPATHS!"

Heeseung laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. «You’re incredible! You screamed louder than the zombie! Oh my god, it would have been iconic if it had been live streaming» Y/n stood up how angry but at the same time scared, and ran into his room until he heard Heeseung yell «I have all the cards in hand too win this game between me and you, not play with fire that sooner or later you will burn. Sweet dreams, Barbie» hit your face with your hairy pillow and Lee Heeseung in all the languages of the world.

It was almost a week after that little clash with Heeseung and for two whole nights, you had not slept properly for your standard because you always had in mind those horrible images of zombies with eyes out of the orbites.

«You are a little tired and less energetic Y/n, is everything all right?» Chan asked one of your group’s dancers and one of the few athletes you trusted to get you thrown in the air

"Yes, it’s all right I’m just a little tired of the exams and the selections we would have in the middle of the year. I would like to try to run as captain for the new year and that’s why I’m creating a choreography to run" Chan arranged the sheet you had on your head and smiled at you

«Please do not ask too much of yourself Y/n, The genta thinks this sport is nonsense but I would not want to see you again bandaged and in the hospital while crying because you could not move your leg or because your mind had made you think that you were not perfect for this sport and skipped meals or hours of sleep»

"It won’t happen again Chan, now I go home and make a good hot ramen and a nice hot shower to get all this sweat away and sleep until tomorrow morning at 10" Chan smiled at you and brought the bag until you were under your apartment

«Take care of yourself Y/n, and if you do not ask your roommate to prepare a nice basin of hot water for your feet and make ramen, Every time I get videos of Heeseung on Twitch or Tik Tok always has a bowl of ramen" the smiles and when you came in you raised your eyes, God because everyone saw Heeseung as the perfect boy and not as a loser who spent hours and hours playing those stupid games.

When you entered the apartment scientists immediately it was cold enough for your taste and on the sofa there was Heeseung who was watching a TV series to your great surprise he wasn’t playing any of those games and this thing made you alarmed because he always spent the evening At least 3 hours to laugh with his friends. Perhaps he had understood that you needed a good evening without hearing him giggle or hear from his headphones moans of zombies just killed or guns.

"Why aren’t you playing? Don’t tell me that all your friends have you pulled little and you have no one here to shoot or play" Heeseung raised his eyes and continued to eat and pay attention to the TV series he had put on the TV.

"Hey nerd, you listening? why is it so cold in here I’m going to ask you again why you’re not in your room?" Heeseung suddenly stood up and stood in front of you, you hadn’t looked at how he was dressed and had two sweatshirts and some sweatpants that he never wore inside the apartment because it usually made more than 20 degrees but now it must have been just over 10 degrees.

«The heating system of the whole building is out of use for a couple of hours and before the day after tomorrow will not be adjusted Barbie, for that you see me dressed so stuffed. You’ll have to take a cold shower today or you could call some of your friends and get them to host you» You jumped onto the sofa and made yourself slightly tiny in Heeseung’s eyes

"today is a day to forget in the sense of the word, I did not pass an exam and at Cheerliding I made mistakes I do not know how many steps I would just like to take a nice hot shower, eat some good ramen and put myself to bed warm" Heeseung looked at you and you made him a little pity where the girl had gone always exuberant, cheerful and that played music to the ball and that danced for everything?

«Relax for the ramen I can think of it, I am a master in doing so and if you want I can heat water and put it in baccinelle. I know it won’t be as relaxing as taking a shower with a full hot water shower but at least you can wash yourself and get rid of the sweat from your training»

Heeseung a little amazed and speechless, I did so with my head and you watched Heeseung prepare the ramen for you and even put an egg to you to be seasoned more.

«Here is the ramen, I hope you like it you would have made it with more ingredients but it’s been 2 days that I did not go to the grocery. Now.. Yes, I’ll make you some hot water and bring it to the bathroom. Come and see me when you’re done and leave the dish that I washed» You were seriously surprised by this version of Heeseung, is it not that maybe he suffered from some kind of bipolar disorder? Or was this the real Heeseung that everyone loved?

When you finished eating you went to the bathroom and prepared 4 basins of boiling water in the sink you had also put on a plush over-stuffed sweatshirt and a small smile formed, what is happening to Heeseung because he was so good today with you?

The shower with the basins had not you relaxed at all but at least you were washed and no longer had that smell of sweat, when you left Heeseung was no longer on the sofa, you wanted to thank him for both food and hot water and then knocked on his door.

"Heeseung" From the inside, you heard the familiar sound of the keyboard and a few nervous clicks of the mouse. And you heard his answer distractedly because he was concentrating on some computer calculations

«Yes? What is it?»

You entered without waiting for an invitation and crossed your arms for the cold. God, why is it so cold in this house? You wanted to ask Heeseung to share the bed so you could at least stay close and get a little warm but we are always talking about Heeseung the guy who loved to tease you and make you go crazy. Heeseung looked up, noticing his oversized t-shirt and his sweatshirt on the girl in front of him, he would never admit it but you with his clothes made him feel things that he should not think about you, He always wanted to see you with his things and a side of possessiveness intruded into his body. The sight of you made him swallow noisily, but he strove to keep a neutral expression.

"I wanted to thank you for the food and the hot water... I thought maybe we could share the bed. Just to keep warm. Just for this evening, I called my parents and they told me that tomorrow morning the technician will come. In my room it freezes so I thought to ask you" You had a fake smile shy, you wanted to absolutely embarrass him as he did while playing together with those stupid horror games

Heeseung opened his eyes wide and his mouse slipped out of his hand. God wanted to put him in awe

«what?! I don’t trust you at all Y/n, I know that after making you scared with that game you want to crash me» You raised your eyes to the sky, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, man this guy had understood you immediately but you kept insisting

"Oh, relax. It’s not an indecent proposal. Except that I would never do anything with you, you’re not my type Heeseung. It’s pure survival. We’ll freeze both or keep company and sleep together and warm up a little"

Hee rubbed his neck, embarrassed. He has no idea how to respond. Share the bed with Y/n, the most popular girl she knows. He’s never even been this close to a cheerleader... and now he has to share a bed but the thing that pissed him off was that phrase that said he wasn’t his type at all. Who wanted Y/n in his life? a stupid boy who made him feel nothing or he who always teased her and had seen how she reacted when she sat between her legs that was a little embarrassed also.

Heeseung moved nervously to make room on the bed, trying not to think too much about it as she tucked herself under the duvet with disarmingly natural ease. Y/n sat down next to him and made his feet touch his legs against his

"You’re made of wood, you know? Don’t tell me it’s the first time you've slept or that you’re in bed with a girl, nerd" you joked with Hee to embarrass him a little

«Sorry, I don’t share my bed every day with some girl»

"Really? You wouldn’t know it, you can even admit that you’ve never slept with someone you know" he slowly grinds, moving closer.

Heeseung was definitely tired from the constant grip of the cheerleader so he took off his sweatshirt because he was definitely dying from the heat in that situation and he lay down in bed and spread his legs a little because he did not want to feel Y/n’s legs intertwined with his. Y/n had leaned with an arm and was absorbing it and without thinking embraced the piece of wood next to her and a scent of citrus and spices invaded his nose, Heeseung seriously had a slender body but at the same time toned and felt from the shirt that he had strong abs, not bad for a nerd!

«Y/n, what did you take me for? for your giant teddy bear that you have in your room?» You laughed because even if you could not stand it sometimes it was nice to be in his company.

"Mmm, no my teddy is definitely sweeter and nicer than you, nerd. I’m hugging you because I’m cold and your temperature is too hot to not have the heat on" Heeseung ran his hands through his hair and turned off the lights, for a couple of minutes he no longer heard Y/n speak, and thought she had fallen asleep but before talking about the devil they sprang horns, felt the cold fingers of Y/n go under the shirt and roll them up their bare abs, He felt little shivers all over his body and cursed the heating not working.

«Y/n, stop it I know what game you are playing with me, I will not fall into your trap» you started to laugh even if he had turned off the light could imagine that he had slightly red cheeks and definitely had that super cute grumpy. You also put your other hand on its narrow waist and tried to go a little lower but a strong hand stopped you and now you had your arm over your head and Heeseung slightly above you holding himself with one arm.

«I repeat it again Y/n, I have all the cards in hand to pottery beat, if you are in need of attention go to your friend's football players, or swimmers with whom you do evening but not with me because otherwise, I could ruin you in an instant» You snorted and shoved Heeseung into the other side of the bed and you sunned yourself with your shoulders turned to him. "Sooner or later you will lose Heeseung, and I know for certain that it will be me who will make you lose your head" A small smile formed on your lips before you fell asleep.

Heeseung woke up a little later that morning, you were out of bed, you had gone to study somewhere or to work out. When he went into the bathroom and looked back he started to ride but I swore in all the languages of the world because you had left him a red lipstick stain with your lips engraved on his cheek and the more he tried to send away that joke, the harder it was to remove.

That Saturday went all wrong, the university football team had lost badly and even the show you had prepared to make the majors identify you as suitable to take the place of captain was a mess. Some freshmen had it all wrong and you were seriously pissed off and wanted to just smash yourself in ice cream and finally spend hours under the jet of boiling water they had repaired.

When you came in, you slammed the door of the apartment, with a face tense from anger. You dropped your bag on the floor with a thud. It had been a nightmare day. During the show before the match, a couple of girls continued to make you miss all the shots, and the coach took it with you in front of everyone because if you wanted to become the captain you had to be perfect and able to support also freshman line.

You were about to head for your room when you heard laughter coming from the living room. Heeseung’s familiar voice is clearly distinguished, and also that of Sunghoon one of his closest friends who was skating, and there was also another athlete Jungwon but along with them, there was also a girl. Y/n stood on the threshold, crossing his arms.

On the two chairs, there were Hoon and Jungwon, instead Heeseung was sitting with legs apart, bent forward to look at the screen and see how he smiled or squinted at Heeseung. She was way too close. She had Sunghoon in the same room who was one of the most beautiful guys I’d ever seen, but no she was attached to Hee.

"Well, look at that, our gamer has found someone who gives him a go," you commented in a deliberately sharp tone.

All turned to her. Heeseung seemed surprised, but he recovered immediately and saw that it was past 10 in the evening so the game had ended a long time ago. «Hey, Barbie. Difficult day? don’t tell me that the football team lost» he asked, with a smirk, and raised your eyes to the sky.

"Oh, don’t worry about me. It seems like you’re having enough fun already."

The girl next to Hee laughed, and for some reason, that sound irritated you more than it should have. <<If you want I can leave my place Y/n>> says Jungwon with a genuine smile, man how much gold would have paid to have as a roommate a person like Jungwon always nice and sociable with everyone that loser from Heeseung?

"No, no, quiet Jungwon I’m going to take a nice hot shower and some healthy skincare for my skin. I already greeted you all because I don’t know when I’ll get out of that bathroom" You went to the bathroom and felt the look of Heeseung in your body covered only by a shabby skirt and a light sweatshirt but you scrolled away all the slacks with a nice warm bath.

After almost two hours you left the bathroom in your pajamas and at the door, Heeseung’s friends were getting ready to go home, you were preparing a calming herbal tea but you watched the first girl named Luna greet Heeseung with a hug and then with a shy kiss on the cheek. That scene made you even more angry against the world, from what point did you get annoyed by girls around that nerd?

"Really, Heeseung? Bring people here without telling me? And then that girl... who the hell was she? We agreed that when I had a show when I came home I wanted to be at peace"

Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, an eyebrow raised but with a funny look

«Does it bother you that I had friends here? What should I say when you take your best friends to make your beautiful pajamas that scream or speak of everyone or is it only Luna who has bothered you because you have always made enough friends with all my friends?» You looked at the nerd in front of you and crossed your arms.

"Don’t be smart. I hate that you don’t even have the decency to tell me when you bring people. Aren’t we roommates?"

Hee barely smiled, a smile that seemed to know long.

«You and I are roommates, so why do you seem so... jealous and upset by the presence of Luna?» You looked at him furiously, approaching a few steps.

"Me? Jealous? Of you? Don’t make me laugh, you know you’re not my type."

«Then why are you so agitated?» he replied, standing up to approach you. Heeseung not only looked beautiful but also his height was perfect, you always liked tall guys and he with his 1.83 compared to your 1.65 was overtaking you. You felt the tension grow between you two. you approached again and pushed it slightly with a hand on your chest.

"Maybe because I can’t stand when you’re bragging about your "friends," I saw how comfortable you were and how you flirted with her. You pretend to be the "good guy" of the situation but we all know that underneath you love seeing girls lost for you"

Heeseung looked at you for a few seconds, then shook his head with an incredulous grin.

«You know what? You’re unbearable when you do that, what is it you want to always be the center of attention barbie? the world does not only revolve around you»

"Oh, stop it, you’re so annoying from the first day that I set foot in here with your little smirk cheeky" you answered with your face now a few inches from his.

Heeseung was definitely tired of your spoiled behavior and even as a child he did the last thing he expected to do but he wanted so much to silence you and put you in your place. You felt yourself by the wrists and Heeseung gently slammed you against the island of the small kitchen.

«Stop» he said in a rock and still voice. You looked at him wide-eyed, ready to reply, but the words stuck in your throat when he leaned over and kissed you. The kiss is initially decided, almost to silence you, but then it becomes sweeter as if he was also surprised by his own boldness. You were slightly still for a moment then you relaxed and carried your arms around his neck and brought him closer to you. You felt his big hands under your ass and in a few moments he made you lean on the kitchen island and began to kiss you again or not devour you «Fuck, the only way to make you shut up is this Barbie? , if I knew it before I would have made you quiet in other ways, Y/n» You absolutely wanted to reply but when it detached from your lips he plunged to give light kisses around the clavicle until reaching your neck, a little moan came out of your lips when it began to torture you a small section of your neck under the ear, you felt that it was licking and then biting. Your coach would kill you if she saw some suckers but at that moment you were too much at the mercy of Heeseung and what he made you try; "Hee, stop torturing me I can’t be seen with a" You did not stop talking that you sucked strongly another area of your neck and pulled as much as possible his hair.

What you were doing was absolutely nothing normal but you felt too excited to stand between him, you felt Hee come even closer to you and you perceived its hard length in the pants of the suit she wore, You tried to approach him and touch him but he took your arm and brought it back to the shed.

«I don’t give a fuck if your coach tomorrow sees you with some pacifiers and don’t try to touch me, I don’t let the bad girls put their hands on me, and this evening you were a bad girl rather you behaved like a child and spoiled» You felt the big hand of Heeseung to slightly bloom your pants and felt your panties slightly wet and Heeseung had an expression that you had never seen perhaps victory? His hands made little circles over your pajamas but never took them off because in his eyes you were definitely a bad girl that night without thinking touched your pussy and stimulated you until you felt that from there you would come like a loser with both pants and panties around, You leaned on him and when you felt that you were coming to the climax but he detached and looked at you with all red cheeks.

"It can’t be, you’re really an asshole Heeseung" Heeseung looked at you with a grin and whispered to you «We are already 2-0 for me Barbie, when will you start to understand that with me you’ll burn yourself?» You watched him drink a glass of water and then go to his room as if he had not almost made you come in your underwear and as if you did not exist.

It was a week after those kisses, either Y/n tried in any way to avoid Heeseung and the thing was mutual with him as well. His best friends Jay and Jake had invited him to the last half-season game and with him were Hoon, and Jungwon, But he did not realize that before the game there was the show of the Cheerleaders and in front of his eyes there was Y/ n who was warming with other dancers both male and female. He watched her carefully trying to do a handless somersault and after a few seconds Chan one of the best and most famous dancers on the entire campus took her by the hips and made her lightly jump off the ground and put it over his shoulder, He knew that Y/n was good because she spent hours and hours training but did not think that she had so much charisma and ease to make such a lot of acrobatic. Heeseung looked away from the beautiful cheerleader for a moment and saw Sunoo take it back and give him a hint with his thumb.

"Why are you filming Y/n?" Sunoo looked at the oldest boy in the group with a smile and continued recording

<<I’m making some content for her team’s tik tok and Instagram profile, she asked me the day before yesterday when I saw her in the library>> Heeseung looked at Y/n smiled at Chan, and hugged him slightly, Why did you ask Sunoo to be your little filmmaker and not him who lived on technology? And then why did he embrace Chan so often, relationships between athletes were forbidden but a sense of jealousy took hold in Heeseung, and watched from the edge Y/n field that he was fixing his makeup.

Y/n for her knew that Heeseung was watching her since she had left the locker room but she would not give him his attention for anything in the world because he was seriously an asshole.

<<Your favorite nerd can not take his eyes off you for 20 minutes and is throwing me some hateful looks as if he tried to kill me with an axe or a virtual gun>> You wake up to the joke of Chan and you squatted to pretend to lace your shoes and sunflowers Heeseung’s head and eyes were watching you and you saw him turn all red when you caught him looking at your ass even though it was barely covered by a short skirt the smiles and I made the mark of 2 with my hands because he was still ahead between you two but in added a 1 because even if he did not want to admit it would also sacrifice a game of those stupid tournaments to have you and to make you his, He winked and was petrified to watch you enter the locker room to give the charge to everyone and to start the show before the half-year game.

The game ended in a beautiful victory and you came home to take a quick shower, put on makeup, and dress up for the winter party. When you entered the house there was nobody and it seemed so boring and at the same calm, there were no screams of Heeseung, the laughter of his friends, There were no sounds of gunshots or moans of evil characters and this thing made you a little bit sorry you didn’t want to admit it but by now you were used to all that mess and see the apartment empty and without the blue lights of the computer or smart tv, you put a little sadness. When you left the bathroom you felt a delicious smell coming from the kitchen and at that moment you did not think that Heeseung could return so soon, You went to the kitchen, and Heeseung when he saw you dressed as you were, looked at you with a furious look but at the same time, he saw that it was hard to take your eyes off of how he wrapped your short skirt, a light crop top sweater and on your feet you had black loafers with ankle warmers.

«Where do you think you are going dressed like that? you studied all this morning and this afternoon you trained and not even two hours ago you blew up I don’t know how many times, It’s not better to ask for a break from your body and stay at home» watch Heeseung from the mirror you had at the entrance of the apartment with a grin and sprayed a little perfume and set up your cheerleader bow in your straight hair

"Wow, someone’s in a bad mood didn’t you like the show or the game? I’m going to a party. You know, those social things that normal people do for fun, to drink, to chat, or maybe to be in the company of a nice guy or girl!" You squinted at Heeseung and he had his arms crossed to his chest and wouldn’t stop staring at you «I know what Barbie parties are, just don’t understand why you have to dress like..» you approached him and looked at him with a smile, maybe for the first time in your life you had the knife’s handle on your side the nerd in front of you was seriously jealous.

"How what? A girl who knows she’s irresistible and wants to go out and have fun with her friends? How should I dress to go to a party, certainly not with a pair of sweatpants or a sweatshirt" Heeseung looked at you attentively and saw him blush as you pressed your breasts to her strong chest and flushed from that little touch with your body.

"Relax, nerd. I can handle the compliments myself. You don’t need to worry." You took your Chanel bag and went to the door and looked at Heeseung leaning against the wall with that adorable little grumpy and his deer eyes that didn’t leave a moment. " Don’t expect me awake. I might be late or not even come home."

Heeseung when he saw you leaving the house and leaving a sweet scent whispered «Oh, I will wait for you Barbie.»

When you came back to the apartment it was around one and a half at night, I took off my boots and sighing for fatigue went to your room but before entering I saw Heeseung sitting on the bed wiping his hair wet with a cloth, He had just come out of the shower because there was that citrus scent coming out of the bathroom and you raised a eyebrow curious to see him still awake, if you had made it clear to him that he could go to sleep.

"Why are you still awake? Didn’t I tell you not to wait for me? Don’t tell me you were worried about me and that you wanted to see me safely back home without anyone."

«I admit it I was just worried and wanted to see how you yourself said that you would come home with your legs»

"How sweet. I didn’t know you were so protective." You put your bag on the desk and sat down on the edge of the bed watching Heeseung while he rubbed his hair and stared at you with sneaky eyes Your legs were almost completely uncovered and how he showed you the curves especially your breasts that sweater shrunk

«It’s not protectiveness. It’s frustration. I can’t understand why you enjoy teasing everyone... including me. What do you want Y/n?» a small smile came out of your lips and to Heeseung’s surprise you put on horseshoes in his toned legs and carefully dried the hair half gone for how many times he had passed the cloth to dry them while waiting for you

"Am I the one who provokes? One week ago you almost made me come in my pants and then you left like a loser without completing the work." Heeseung tried to put his hands on your hips but you took his big hands and placed them over his chest, "Don’t dare touch me until I tell you, the last time I was acting jealous or maybe like a child but this night you were the loser of the situation that in order not to admit that you wanted me you left me to go to a mega boring party"

You helped Heeseung to take off her shirt and a little whistle came out of your lips "How can you have such a physique and not show it off?" You began to slowly rock over its width felt it under you become harder and harder and you started kissing its neck until you reached below the navel. Heeseung had dreamed of this moment from the first time he saw you enter his apartment, he would never admit it but masturbated even thinking of you and was seriously afraid to come if you would continue to swing with that miniskirt that now let you all the thighs uncovered and saw your black panties in lace.

«I need to hear you somehow or show you that I’m not a loser as you think Y/n, please let me make you feel good and let me finish what I had started; I hate to pause the gaming games the same thing goes for you Barbie» Heeseung with reddish cheeks and eyes half-shiny desire and gently laid you down in his place and bent down to make you feel good, you made the sign to take off your skirt but he did no head and a grin formed in his face «I want to make you come with this skirt of a bad girl and then you will take my dick» you were seriously shocked by Heeseung’s words that you wanted to tease him again but your voice stopped when you felt the fingers slipping into your still-dressed slot and Heeseung’s slightly wet hair buried under your skirt, You jumped at him as you felt his middle finger and ring slide down your pussy while with the other hand, he suddenly took off your panties in a provocative way. He looked at your panties for a moment and then dived back under your skirt and you felt her finger on your palm clit with her thumb. You crave the feeling, of holding tight to his arms, the longer he pleased your clitoris, the sooner you would lose control of yourself and that was what Heeseung wanted, to see you lost to him. And in the end, you were just giving in to what your body wanted: rubbing against that annoying nerd’s hand, you felt his fingers get inside of you for good, and little moans came out of your mouth.

«Fuck love to hear your moans, and groans for me Y/n, make everyone feel who is fucking you and who is ruining only with two fingers inside of you, I can not wait to see you ride my dick and be able to have you finally mine»

You pulled Hee’s hair and small moans came out of your mouth as fast as her fingers went inside you at that moment.

"Hee, I need" fuck was nice to be filled by his long fingers. You felt his fingers curl inside, and you closed your mouth with your hand, afraid to wake up anyone who was sleeping. Annoyed, Heeseung pulled his hand away from you and admired you as you had your mouth open, hair in his bed, and were standing up for him and not one of those stupid athletes who came after you.

«Come for me baby, don’t be shy» felt that you taunted your clitoris again and came moaning again the name of Heeseung, The nerd under your skirt slowly tasted the mess that had caused you and tasted your shiny white cum that polished your pussy. When he got up he looked at you and leaned to give you a little kiss on the forehead «Good girl», after a while you got your arms around Heeseung’s neck and kissed him with a hunger for him and pushed him back into bed and rode over him to his cock.

"I need you Heeseung" The guy in front of you interrupted the kisses you were giving and looked at you with a shy and sincere smile, «Fuck tell me that I’m not dreaming Y/n, it’s months that I want you close around me, for me this is not a game Y/n» You smiled at Heeseung and took off the light sweater you had and the boy in front of you cheeks turned red and took off your breast-holder with nonchalance and immediately took a bud from your breast and with the other hand held you and tickled the other breast.

"Not for me either Hee this is a game, I want it" A little moan came out of you when he sucked slightly your nipple and a little spit went down your left breast repeated this thing also with the other. You really needed him so you lowered his pants and at the same time boxer shorts and saw his cock semi-erect, caressed him slowly but after a while you started to pump him slightly, It was beautiful to see him swearing under the sensation of your warm hand, slowly pumping it and observing the way his tip leaked copiously liquid.

«I thought of you I don’t know how many times in these months in this exact position...» mumbles, slightly shivering, «please Y/n, I need you» A little laugh came out from your lips, you had never seen Heeseung in this state and it was only thanks to you.

"You know we’re tied right now Heeseung, you seem so desperate for me right now. If you want fuck me”. he sent you a charming smile before pulling down your hips with that slutty skirt still on you; he wheezes sweetly at the feeling of your pussy flying around her tip, already able to feel your exhaling excitement before you finally slowly sink over him.

"Fuck, oh shit Hee" You were seriously ecstatic by the length of Heeseung inside you, and slowly you moved to let it in and out so that your bodies lined up and went at a rhythm.

«God you are so tight» You felt his big hands under your ass and brought you even closer to him and you put your hands over his back to ride it harder. «Who is fucking you so well, Barbie?» You felt again his thumb rub your wet pussy as you took his cock up on the ground and hit exactly your G-spot to make you moan his name. " You, Hee, only you Heeseung"

Heeseung began to leave open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, climbing up, climbing up until finally reaching your ear, leaving a kiss behind it before whispering: «You are mine and from this moment I will not share you with anyone»

By the time he pushed back in you could already feel the tears ticking your eyes: you’re loud and cheeky in your sounds as he starts hammering you again because he knows it’s coming soon and he wanted to feel your body again, you felt your back curl from the way Hee’s hand started to rub your clitoris again, you could only groan softly for feeling, Allowing him to play with you as if you were his own game or even worse his favorite toy.

"Hee, I’m close."

«Come for me Barbie, I want to feel and see you with my sperm in all your beautiful pussy that right now is taking my cock»

Finally allows herself to come inside you, you can hear Hee sibilate softly for the sensation, triggering her orgasm while you whimper for all the sensations you had experienced thanks to that loser of your roommate. You’re hot and full to the point that it’s already started to leak out, and Heeseung swears he’s never seen a better show, and you’re burying your head in the hollow of your neck.

You felt Hee give you a little kiss on the head and then on the forehead and put you lying in her bed and after a few seconds of silence she went to get you some warm clothes and cleaned you from her cum and put you her clean boxers and her crumpled nerd t-shirt and brought you to my bride in your bed, Your cheeks were seriously all red and maybe you were also agitated because now things would go with him?

When he put you under the covers you saw him lay an arm around your waist and look at you smiling softly move a rebellious tuft from your face around your ear give you a light kiss on the cheek and lay down with his head leaning close to your neck and crossed your legs. You were seriously surprised by his attitude but maybe underneath he also felt emotions like a classic twenty-year-old boy and you embraced him a little timidly because you had never seen this act of Heeseung.

«We are 3-2» You started again with your joke but in your head, you were 2-2.

"What did I do this time to get you back in the game? It seems we are still 2-2" You felt his nose close to your neck and started laughing, he did not want to admit but for him that three were you. He would be able to skip a session of video game tournaments to make you happy and maybe he was falling in love with you but he would never admit it if you didn’t do it first, because the weak point of the situation was him not you.

Comments are appreciated:)🎮

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valyvinny · 3 months ago

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╰┈➤ ❝ Love and deepspace boys ⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ Love Languages ❞

PAIRING : Caleb x reader, Sylus x reader, Zayne x reader, Rafayel x reader and Xavier x reader GENRE : Fluff WORD COUNT : 1745 TAGS : sfw, fluff, minor self deprecation (only in Xavier's) A/N : Very fluffy headcannons for the boys! Really enjoyed writing this so I hope you like it :). The next piece of writing is probably gonna take a while because exammmsss ugh. Pray for me everybody.

The different love langauges of the LADS boys

──●◎●── Caleb ┆彡 Physical touch

Caleb is an absolute FIEND for physical touch. This is largely because he spent the better part of his life having to make do with patting your head, ruffling your hair, and holding your hand to ‘measure hand sizes’. Always having to exercise an immense amount of restraint when all he wanted to do was kiss you senseless.

The line between platonic and romantic was blurred since the very beginning. But Caleb wouldn’t dare tread that line, especially if it meant losing you. That he wouldn’t be able to bear.

But now you were his, and he’d take any excuse to have some part of himself touching you at all times. Whether that be a hand on the small of your back, little pecks throughout the day, cradling your face, massaging your sore muscles, he’d take it.

However, his favorite form of physical touch other than sex ofcourse was just holding you. Sometimes it would be when the both of you had a rare day off together. It would be a lazy afternoon, your head on his chest and his arm wrapped around you, lazing around on the couch.

Other times it would be late at night, after another grueling day of work. With him holding you close, your back to his chest.

Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night, another one of his treacherous nightmares plaguing his sleep. But the sight of you next to him would instantly put him at ease. He’d pull you closer to him, kiss your neck, and drift back to sleep.

With you in his arms, Caleb felt truly at peace.

──●◎●── Rafayel ┆彡 Quality time

Rafayel will do anything with you, as long as it meant that you were next to him. He wasn’t very picky with what the both of you were doing really. As long as he was doing it with you.

You were his muse. Many times, he’d ask you to simply sit around him while he paints. You’d be doing your own thing. Typing up work emails, writing your reports or catching up on your favorite series.

There wouldn’t be much conversation between the two of you. But somehow, your mere presence brought him inspiration to create. With you around, ideas came easy.

You’d often be subjected to his texts throughout the week.

“Hey cutie, wanna go on a walk with me”

Other times it would be

“I have an exhibition in Milan. Dun know if you wanted to come?”

(That’s a lie, he already has an extra ticket ready. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask right?)

And who were you to deny the Lemurian?

Sometimes however, your schedule didn’t allow you such luxuries. But that minor inconvenience didn’t stop him. He’d come over and help you do your laundry or even cook you a delicious meal if it meant just spending that extra bit of time with you.

Every now and then your work required you to take missions away from him. Sometimes even away from Linkon. It was pure torture for the merman. Sure, you’d video call occasionally, but it just wasn’t enough. He wished you were beside him.

And when you’d eventually came back to him, he’d pout.

“Look who finally decided to stop by”

But all that indignation would melt almost instantly as soon as you said “I missed you Raf”

──●◎●── Sylus ┆彡 Gift Giving

Sylus is a very busy man. One would be heading an organization such as Onychinus. There’s always a deal to make, meetings to attend and people to intimidate. But that never stops him from always having you on his mind. He’s a thoughtful man.

Sometimes you’d come home to find a package dropped outside the door to your flat.

“I was passing by a store and I thought this dress would look beautiful on you kitten” the note attached to it would say. And it did. It was tailored to perfection to fit your form, hugging all your curves in all the right places.

The dress would easily be several thousand dollars. Every time you’d admonish Sylus for spending so carelessly, he’d scoff in response.

“Money is nothing to me sweetie”

More often than not, you’d find a single rose on your window sill. When you questioned the silver haired man about it, he’d simply say “Well kitten, you shouldn’t leave your window open. It’s not safe. A little birdie may come in”

(But maybe that’s exactly why you did it)

But perhaps the most thoughtful gifts are the ones that Sylus gets you after you’d casually mentioned it in passing.

One such present, and probably your most cherished one, was your limited edition plushie. They had it in stock only in one store in the whole of Linkon. To make matters even more bleak, they were selling it only for a day.

“I really wish I could get it myself. But the Association just assigned a mission to me” you’d complained.

The next time you met Sylus, he’d be holding that very plushie in his hand.

“I have something for you sweetie”

Truth be told, Sylus doesn’t understand the allure of such toys. It seemed to be quite popular considering he’d stood in a queue for a grand total of three hours. But it was worth it, the look of excitement and surprise on your face is something that he replays in his mind every now and then, whenever he’s away from you. It brings him warmth.

Sylus would give you the world if he could, just to see you happy.

──●◎●── Zayne ┆彡 Acts of service

Zayne is a very attentive man. He’s almost fine tuned to your needs and wants. Sometimes you’d tease that he never really frees himself from his ‘Doctor mode’. He spoils you, really.

“I’ve ordered your favorite soup from the restaurant you like. It’s on its way to you. Please eat well” he’d text you when you were on your way home after another tiring day fighting wanderers.

It’s almost like Zayne was a mind reader. Somehow, he’d know exactly what you needed, when you needed it.

“I’m coming over to you right now. I have a tub of ice cream and chocolate in hand. Would you like anything else?” he’d ask you on the first day of your period.

For Zayne, your happiness and well-being were his priority. He’d go to any lengths to ensure that.

Once, after a particularly overwhelming week at work, you were dreading returning to your apartment. You’d left your place in a mess having had no time to clean up in between work days. You’d often find yourself coming home and collapsing into bed almost immediately.

But now you had to face the mountain of a task that was cleaning up. Especially now, considering you had the next few days off.

As you opened the door to your apartment, you were stunned. The entire place was neat and tidy. Not a hair out of place. From the kitchen, a delicious aroma wafted over to you, a pot of stew boiling away on the stove.

You stood there both in awe and confusion, when Zayne emerged from your room. He looked soft, clad in a pair of pajamas and an apron, a duster in his hand. He hardly resembled the same intimidating Dr. Zayne that had everyone quaking in their boots.

“I hope you don’t mind. I had some free time and used the spare key you gave me” he said.

“I thought you could use some help cleaning up. Once you freshen up, I can serve the rice and stew I made for dinner”

Zayne preened under your appreciation. Warmth creeping up his neck, dusting his ears a soft shade of red, as you littered his face with kisses and endless appreciation.

“It’s nothing” he’d say.

To him, it really was nothing. If Zayne could do anything to lighten your burden or even make your day just a tad bit better, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

──●◎●── Xavier ┆彡 Words of affirmation

Xavier truly has a way with words. He always knows exactly what to say, no matter the circumstance. This innate ability of his had the power to single-handedly turn your day around.

You wanted to be the best hunter there ever was. This ambition of yours would often push you to take up extreme and risky missions to prove your abilities. But sometimes, it made you reckless.

There was one such time, where you were battling a rather difficult Wanderer. You really tried your hardest. Used all the strength you could muster and everything you’ve learned from your years of training, but the Wanderer bested you. If it weren’t for Xavier fighting it off, you’re not sure you would’ve made it through.

“I’m pathetic” you’d say after. “I can’t seem to do anything right”

Xavier couldn’t stand it when you were like this. The self deprecation stung him a little. If only you could see yourself through his eyes. But in moments like these, he knew you needed an extra bit of support and affirmation.

“You did good my light. You were brave. No one else volunteered to take this mission but you did” he’d say, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your forehead.

“It was a difficult mission. The Wanderer was of an incredibly high level and you weakened it considerably. You’re stronger than you know. Sometimes, it’s okay to combine strengths and ask for help okay?”

And it not just what he says. It’s how he says it. Xavier says things with such surety and conviction, that you can’t help but believe him. You can’t help but take his words as law.

Your favorite part of the day is always the random text that Xavier would send you. It would always be at different times, owing to the fact that he would often fall asleep and wake up rather erratically. But the element of surprise made it that much better.

Each day was different. Sometimes it would be “You can achieve anything you set your mind to my love” other times it would be “I believe in you my light”

These messages meant more to you than Xavier would ever know. It comforted you, knowing that you had someone by your side to always root for you. It gave you the strength and the courage to face obstacles head on.

And for Xavier, praising and encouraging you came easily. You’re the strongest woman he’s ever known and he’d spend his entire lifetime reminding you the same.

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existence-is-a-pain87 · 3 days ago

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Can you Do Scraps Plz

Alrighty! As a warning, I haven't been fortunate enough to get enough things to play as Scraps in the game, so I'm going off the wiki. If I'm doing anything wrong regarding her in character or anything, please tell me immediately so I can go fix it!

Also, this story is written with the assumption those who read it have a pet cat. Because I have a cat and also think having a cat would have some unique benefits in the story. (Also I just like cats. And yes, you guys can have pictures of my cat if you ask <3)

There for You

Yandere!Self-Aware!Scraps x Reader

Warnings: Obsession and general yandere behaviors

--☆☆☆☆☆--

Scraps was one of the Toons who grew curious about you when she heard you.

She saw Goob's excitement, heard his curious rambles about you, his questioning if you liked hugs, how he really wanted to hug you since your voice made you sound like the most huggable person in the whole world!

She was a little more skeptical, worrying if you weren't a good person. What if you wanted to hurt her? What if you wanted to hurt Goob?

Then she heard you get excitement over having a Goob join your run. Heard you remark how you wanted to play as him but needed more research.

Even if you got frustrated whenever a Twisted Scraps or Twisted Goob appeared, she quickly figured out you just didn't like having to deal with being attacked at a range.

You cared about her and her younger brother.

So is it surprising she grew to care about you?

--☆☆☆--

Soon she started learning more things about you.

You liked to draw and create.

She would love to make arts and crafts with you! She hopes you know some good things to make!

You were airheaded and a bit forgetful.

Just like her! Hehe!

You liked other games too.

She just hopes Dandy's World is your favorite. She doesn't want you to get distracted and stop playing. That would make Goob sad!

And make her sad too...

And, much to her glee, you had a pet cat!

Even if she wasn't a cat, that meant you had to like her! Everyone calls her a cat anyways, so that means if you like cats, you like her!

She just hopes you'll like her more than your pet cat...

Why shouldn't she tell you about herself if she was able to learn so much about you?

When you finally managed to get her Toon form and play as her, it wasn't hard for the rest of your team to die and for it to just be you and her entering the elevator.

It was hilariously easy to say a new line, her commenting on how she wanted to try doing something new, and for you to speak.

To speak and be completely unaware of how she heard you.

You offered the idea of crocheting little animals into the shape of these cutesy little balls. How bees would be a great start.

She loved your idea. The moment you finished playing and left to do something else for a bit, she immediately got started.

She made all sorts of animals. She gave some to Goob.

Scraps loves your ideas.

She wants to hear more of them.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps hates seeing you cry.

One you played, quietly sobbing because something went wrong in your life.

Fortunately, you were playing as her.

So it wasn't hard to start saying new lines. One's you barely noticed were different.

But you started venting.

And Scraps listened.

She would do anything to help you.

That was the day she made her promise.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps made a little figurine of you.

She didn't know what you looked like, so she designed you off of what your voice sounded like.

You sounded kind, so she made you look kind.

You sounded creative, so she made you look creative.

Goob helped. He said you sounded like you were the most huggable person to ever be hugged, so your little figurine was perfect to hug.

Scraps even went and made little figurines of her and Goob to stay with your figurine.

She put them in a little shrine she made.

She always made sure to add new crafts to the shrine she made for you each and every day!

She loves you.

She loves you so much.

She promises one thing.

Her one promise she'll never forget nor break.

She'll always be there for you.

#endri yaps #yandere dandy's world #dandy's world x reader #yandere dandys world #dandys world x reader #self aware dandys world #self aware dandy's world #scraps #scraps dandys world #scraps x reader #yandere scraps x reader

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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

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do you believe me now?

in which fem!reader is insecure around spencer until she finally asks him to take matters into his own hands (literally)

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: inexperienced reader, fingering, softdom!spencer my sweet sweet beloved angel, sub reader, praise, you know he talks you through it, brief mention of drinking wine, i think that's it a/n: i hope u guys like this ! slightly different dynamic than my other stuff maybe but let me know what u think!! i love feedback and i love YOU!!!

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s the first thing Spencer has said since you two landed on his couch, exhausted from one of Rossi’s extravagant soirées. It was your first of many, if Spencer’s entire team is to be believed. More nights featuring Italian food and wine you could never afford don’t sound half bad—but for now you’re drained. You barely had the energy to kick off your heels and topple into Spencer’s lap five minutes ago. The silk dress still pools over his knees and your hair still falls in curls around your face. He brushes one aside as he continues.

“I mean—you always look beautiful. But I’ve never seen you all done up. You’re obscenely gorgeous.”

You groan awkwardly, burying your face in Spencer’s collar as your face heats. Taking compliments has never been your strong suit, especially from someone who you perceive to be so out of your league. The relationship you have with Spencer is relatively new, and sometimes you worry delicate; like one slip-up revealing the real you and he’ll go running. So far, though, he seems hellbent on proving you wrong.

His hand finds the bare skin of your arm, passing up and down gently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“…I do.”

It’s unconvincing. Spencer scoffs.

“No, you don’t. You never believe me when I compliment you.”

The cadence of his voice is light enough, but it’s evident that there’s some genuine frustration there, lurking just under the surface.

Your head lolls over his shoulder and he angles his neck to look down at you. Hair falls over his eyes, and you’d fix it if he didn’t look so damn perfect. Everything about him looks intentional, like he was designed by someone who took great pride in their work. Not at all like you—a collage of features and spare parts you guess whatever force created you had lying around. Nothing about you feels on purpose. But that’s a hard thing to explain.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s impolite. It just feels disingenuous to accept compliments like that.”

Goosebumps arise on your arm where he touches you.

“You being polite isn’t what I’m concerned about. I just wish I could make you understand that I mean it when I compliment you. You’d know if I didn’t. I’m a terrible liar.”

That earns a giggle from you. Your boyfriend smiles, sparkling eyes darting over your face like he’s trying to bottle the sound, the memory—and you realize he probably is. What a terrifying thought. You look away, abashed once more.

“I’m a woman, Spencer. I’m not allowed to like myself. That’s the whole thing with Eve and the snake and the apple and whatever. Eternal inescapable shame.”

“Are you trying to justify your self-loathing by making it biblical? You know I’m the last person that would work on, right? Both as an agnostic-leaning-athiest and someone who thinks you’re beautiful and wonderful.”

Another groan claws its way from your throat as you slide down in embarrassment.

“You’re killing me here, Spencer.”

“What can I do to do to make you believe me?” he murmurs, carefully brushing tangles from your hair as you now rest practically prone across his lap. The ceiling light stretches behind him, haloing him in a soft glowing crown and making everything a bit more hazy and tolerable.

“It’s not your fight.” It’s meant to be playfully dramatic, but it hangs from your lips with a painful amount of earnestness.

“If it’s yours, it’s mine. That’s kind of the whole point of a relationship, right? Being a team?”

His fingers are nimble and warm between yours as you interlace them, steepling and bumping them together as you speak.

“Well, if you know so much, why are you asking me? It sounds like you know exactly what to do to make me magically love myself.”

A dangerous twitch plays at the corner of his lips as he gazes sleepily down at you.

“Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m asking what you’d be comfortable with.”

“Whoa!” you blurt, giggling self-consciously, covering your face with your (and inadvertently one of his) hands. “Where did that come from?”

He smiles at your response to his mildly suggestive comment. “I lose my filter when I'm tired. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

You sigh gustily, dragging his hand down to fall over your collarbones. His fingers twitch over the delicate skin, like he’d graze it if your hand wasn’t weighing his down.

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you just… surprised me. I’m really bad at talking about this kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

You yelp, slinging your arm over your face and hiding in the crook of your elbow. “AH! Don’t say it!”

He laughs again, a little less reserved this time.

“What? You can’t even listen to me say the word?”

“No! Too scary!”

Eventually you peek out from under your arm to find Spencer still watching you. The humor has faded from his eyes and been replaced by a kind of serene calm. He brushes a lock of hair from your shoulder.

“Come here,” he says—a request more than a demand. With some wriggling and a bit of help, you manage to reorient yourself into a sitting position across his lap once more. His touch is warm even through the fabric of your dress when he kisses you, hand sliding over your waist before moving to trace your jaw and ending up on the back of your neck, urging you closer ever so slightly. You kiss him back without hesitation or restraint, as you delight in doing when he gives you the opportunity. What you may lack in experience and refinement, you make up for with affection and enthusiasm. He pulls away after a minute, much to your dismay, and brushes his thumb over your lips. For the first time, you think you see a hint of worry in his eyes. Guilt claws at your heart when he quietly asks, “you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No!” You assure quickly, looping your arms around his neck. “No, it’s not you. You’re perfect and I’m sure you really mean all of the nice things you say. But I just… sometimes I worry I’ll scare you away once you realize I’m not as pretty or… good as you thought.”

“That’s impossible.”

Once more you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “You don’t know that.”

His hand begins running up and down your back, soothing your sympathetic nervous system in a way that all the deep breaths in the world never could.

“I know that I really, really like you. And there’s not one part of you that I don’t find genuinely beautiful. I can’t imagine not feeling that way about you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you hum against him—a non-answer, but he doesn’t push it. Minutes go by quietly, ticking later into the night as he continues mindlessly rubbing your back and watching you breathe. “Do you want me to take you home?” He finally asks after a long while. Again, you don’t respond. He smiles. “I know you’re awake.”

The corner of your lip twitches as you attempt to suppress a grin. Spencer sighs.

“I guess if you’re already asleep you’ll just have to stay here. But it would be convenient if you’d sleepwalk to my bed so that I don’t have to carry you.”

When you begin stirring and sitting up (one eye cracked to navigate) he laughs, hands on your waist. “Would you look at that. Who knew she would be so suggestible in non-REM?” You snort as you push yourself to a standing position using Spencer’s shoulders to support yourself, and ruining the whole act. He smiles up at you like you’re something divine and lets his hands trail over your hips.

“I sleep with my eyes open.”

“Do you often have coherent conversations in your sleep, too?”

You shrug. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees, finally standing himself. “I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep in your dress?”

“I have shorts on underneath I can wear, but a shirt would be helpful.”

“Then we’ll get you a shirt.”

———————————————

Ten minutes later you’re in Spencer’s bathroom, wearing your shorts and one of his sweatshirts (you cannot imagine Spencer in a hoodie), and wiping black sludge from your eyes with makeup remover he claims was left by a friend after a particularly festive Halloween party. Hopefully he’s telling the truth—you can think of more dubious potential origins of the eye-makeup remover in his bathroom. No toothbrush—you use your finger and a generous amount of toothpaste until the red wine stains fade.

Spencer is fixing the pillows when you exit the bathroom. You hold up your hands which are completely obscured and then some by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Fits like a dream,” you say. A smile tugs at his lips as he finishes his task, before raising his eyes to you. The smile promptly fades and it’s like the sun disappearing behind an oppressive gray cloud. In an instant your stomach curdles and you feel like crawling out of your skin.

“…what?” you mumble, absolutely terrified that the thing he’d said was impossible just minutes ago has already happened. Without makeup, without a fancy dress, you’re just you, and maybe that’s not good enough.

“Uh…” He blinks, as if he’s buffering for a moment, before snapping back into action, and notably looking away from you. “It’s—it’s nothing. Do you, um—here, I tried to make it—“

“Stop. Just tell me what that was. You got all weird.”

Another pause—he looks back up at you reluctantly with a sigh.

“I did not get all weird.”

“Yes, you did. You’re still being weird. It’s freaking me out.”

He’s utterly unreadable, which drives you fucking insane, when he eventually says, “come here.” This time, you think with a chill as you shuffle on your knees across the bed to sit in front of him, it really sounds like a demand. Spencer grabs your face in his hands, studying you intently. “I know you think I’ve finally decided you’re hideously deformed, but it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to figure out how to keep things polite for you.”

Realization dawns on you and the swarm of new butterflies in your stomach. The usual molten gold of his irises has been encroached upon, masked by blown pupils. Your face gets hot and your voice caves when you speak.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he agrees quietly. “Do you believe me now?”

And to his credit, you really do. The hot skin, the vibrating cells in every fiber of your being, the racing heart—your body knows he means it. Part of you, the more confident, more desirous part, drags you closer to him, ghosts your lips over his. He chuckles.

“Now you’re getting brave?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?” you whisper, draping your arms over his shoulders.

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

The words make you shiver—the lowered, gravelly tone of his voice you’ve never heard before snaps your resolve and you lean into him, connecting your lips with a deep urgency. Spencer inhales sharply, hands wandering to your waist and bearing down firmly as you press against him. When you lean back, he follows you, insists without saying a word that you don’t stop kissing him. It sends a thrill down your spine and between your legs, which both gives you pause and eggs you on. In the end, after a very brief internal struggle, curiosity and desire win. You drop to the bed and drag him down with you—he, your willing follower, blindly searches for purchase on the plush comforter. Now he’s on top of you, legs slotted together so that his thigh is temptingly close to your core. Too shy to actually do what you want to do, you clamp your thighs around his and tilt your hips, desperate for friction. He exhales heavily, slowly pulling his lips from yours like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, not enough to ache but enough to draw your attention to your movements.

“What are you doing?” he asks, firmly, but not like you’re in trouble—it’s a probing question. He’s trying to figure out if you’re aware of the way you’re nearly riding his leg.

“I don’t know,” you admit breathlessly.

“You just told me you couldn’t even listen to me say the word sex,” Spencer reminds you. “You said it was too scary.”

A frustrated whine seems to catch him by surprise, and he laughs.

“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”

“Is that what happened?” he teases.

“Honestly, I’m just really turned on right now, please—" you cut yourself off, crashing your lips into his once more. And he almost relents.

Almost.

“Slow down.”

He ceases kissing you for a second time and you’re starting to really get annoyed.

“What?” you groan. “I thought you wanted this.”

His thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, demanding your attention.

“I want you. In every sense of the word. If you make a bad choice tonight and it means you don’t like me anymore tomorrow, that is the opposite of what I want. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking you to think about it for a second.”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and attempting to steady your mind and see beyond the thick fog of lust. What you find is a (mildly surprising) complete lack of fear. You’re not scared, like you thought you’d be; you feel utterly safe underneath him, with his hands on you and his heartbeat against your chest. This is a kind of intimacy you want to have with him.

Your eyes open to reveal his, close enough you can see the tiny flecks of green. And so much warmth. Everything about him is warm.

“This is what I want,” you assert. “I promise.”

His gaze flits between yours for a moment, pulling the truth from your soul like he might be able to find an imperfection there. But you mean it—and he seems satisfied. He trusts you, like you trust him.

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief never quite finds completion before he’s kissing you again. Immediately the fire is stoked once more, the heat between your legs getting warmer when he experimentally pushes his thigh against you. You breathe into the kiss, pressing down on him and surrendering to the unconscious rhythm of your hips. He lets that go on for a minute or two until you’re so distracted that you can’t kiss him back.

Unexpectedly he pulls away, disentangling himself from your legs. You stammer in frustration until his fingers hook under the soft material of your shorts. “Hips up.”

Wordlessly you comply, succumbing to his gentle words and touch. He bows to kiss you as he slides the fabric down unhurriedly. Once the shorts are gone, he sits up, and carefully lifts one of your legs over his lap, gaze unabashedly glued between them.

“Eyes up here,” you try to joke, but it’s steeped in self-consciousness and your heart is pounding. He manages, stroking the inside of your knee with a thumb as he leans down again.

“But you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, before he’s kissing you again. “Just like I knew you would be.”

You whimper when his hand skates over your stomach, lower, and lower, and—

“Tell me one more time, sweetheart.”

Your plead is just as hungry and yearning. “Please, Spencer?”

It works for him.

When his knuckles brush over your clit, you forget to breathe. When they barely skim your entrance, collecting arousal to drag back upward, your brain malfunctions. It is not enough, maddeningly so, but when he finds a careful, introductory rhythm, it’s immediately bordering on too much, too good.

Your stomach tenses and you are surprised by your own sighs and hesitant gasps as you try to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s hand between your legs.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Mhm,” you chirp. Slow but insistent circles elicit a cry that gets caught in your throat, melting into a hum. Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the smile in Spencer’s voice.

“You’re sensitive, huh?”

“S—sometimes.”

He hums contemplatively.

“Sometimes? Can you tell me about that?”

You can’t hardly think around those gentle movements of his hand, let alone speak. He touches you like you’re something delicate. It’s torturous and perfect. But you try to answer anyway, managing to keep the stammering to a minimum.

“About what?”

“I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.” The smooth words in tandem with an incremental increase in pressure earn your first real moan. Timid and unpracticed, but very genuine.

The answer comes immediately afterward; thoughtlessly and on a shuddering exhalation.

“You.”

“Yeah?” he smiles. “Good answer.”

Your eyes open fractionally to study his expression. You’d felt so much shame every time you’d imagined him in your bed late at night.

“Really?”

“Really. And now look at you. Letting me do it for you.” As if to remind you, he speeds up the motion of his hand. On instinct you bring your fingers to your lips as you moan through a closed throat, partly to stifle the noise and partly because you don’t know what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the duvet. “Do you only touch here?” His fingers slide down to your slick entrance and your hips buck, mourning the loss of stimulation. “Or do you touch here, too?”

You shake your head, breathing hard as he teases a finger around the soft place you’ve never really bothered to explore. “Never feels good when I try.”

“We’re gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod hesitantly, leaning back into the pillows when he kisses you again.

His lips are so distracting, so intoxicating you almost forget what he’s doing until he does it. It’s a foreign sensation—not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. For a moment or two your brows furrow as you focus on the feeling, worried that maybe you’re broken just as you thought—until you feel a slight stretch and you realize he’s pushing a second finger into you now. A kiss lands on your cheek when you grab his arm with a choked gasp, and he mutters, “deep breaths,” into your ear. “I know it’s new, honey, just breathe.”

“Fuck,” you whimper as you look down, and you didn’t realize you were going to say it until it’s already passed between your lips. Pressure begins melding with the promise of pleasure, and something about watching his hand move between your legs—the tendons flexing and wrist bending as he eases into what is clearly a perfected motion—arouses you so much you moan at the sight alone. Flipping pages is all you thought that hand was meant for. It’s like a secret revealed as you watch it do something so salacious, and to you.

A hot spark of pleasure flares deeper in you than you’ve ever felt. It catches and grows faster than you’d of thought—suddenly you can feel everything and it all feels better than you thought possible. Your jaw drops and a surprised huff of air blows a strand of your hair away.

“Oh my god,” comes your breathy little whisper, unprepared for and intimidated by how good he’s making you feel. Filthy noises come from between your legs and you clench around his fingers. You had no idea you could make those noises. You had no idea you could get so wet.

“Yeah, there we go.” His voice sounds a little further away now. You manage to tear your eyes away from all the action to his face. Much like you, he’s transfixed by the sight, brow furrowed and pretty lips parted in what could be concentration, or some sort of empathetic pleasure. His face has more color to it than usual and his breaths come heavier—it’s a very pleasant sight. Suddenly his fingers brush against a spot deep within you and your hips cant upward, a mewl pulled from the depths of your throat that has more control over you than you do it. Spencer’s eyes flash back to you, a grin playing at his lips. He does it again, looking right into your eyes, and you whine so pitifully your face flushes.

“Too much?” he asks. You shake your head firmly, arching your back when he unconsciously slows down. At your response his fingers begin rutting into you again, committing to that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “Of course not. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You’d do just about anything for him right at this second. Spencer holds an immense amount of power over you in this moment, and potentially in all future moments moving forward. But you trust him with it.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. I just want you to feel good. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

But it’s really not too much. It’s exactly right. Your verbal capacity is acutely limited right now, so you can’t exactly say it, but you lock eyes with him and whine shamelessly, hips twisting against his hand. You think he gets the message.

Hair falls over his face and he doesn’t fix it, opting instead to alternate his gaze between your cunt and face, cursing to himself lowly. You wouldn’t want him to stop and fix his hair—what you want is this, for him to keep pushing you toward that elusive edge and to keep looking at you like you put all the stars in the sky.

“Look at you, my pretty girl. I’m so proud of you. I know this isn’t easy. I know you were scared. Thank you for letting me do this, honey.”

It’s the unexpected tenderness of the words, perfectly misplaced in the context of the moment. It’s the devotion, the honesty in his eyes, shining through the haze of lust, which makes your stomach drop and all your muscles tense. A million thoughts jumble in your head, dizzying and thrilling and confusing, but mostly all you can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. Is this how it always is? Your hands tangle in the sheets—and then all the thoughts vanish. Everything is warm and fuzzy and sparkling clean, no worries, no lingering thoughts, no self-awareness at all. It’s nirvana. It’s revelatory. It’s ridiculous that he did this all in under five minutes and you haven’t been able to do it once even with very concerted effort.

Slowly you float back into your body, breathing hard and watching through half-lidded eyes as Spencer gently pulls his hand away. Without him you feel weirdly empty and cold, like he should have been there all along. But his touch isn’t absent for long—he runs his hand over the bridge between your hips, little finger dipping into the crease of your thigh.

“That’s never… I’ve never done that before,” you admit, slurring your words only slightly.

His perfect features contort into a half-frown, half-smile.

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” You nod. His head tilts. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“When would I have told you?” you laugh, finding his waist with your hand and encouraging him to settle his weight on you. He does, burying his face in your neck and exhaling heavily.

“Well?” you ask shyly, skating your fingers over his back. “Did I do it right?”

Spencer snorts, but presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to the curve of your neck.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice smaller than you’d have liked. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and kisses you softly.

“Then we both did it right.”

“But…” you stare up into his warm honey eyes, searching for any bits of hidden truth you can find. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, utterly unconcerned. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he agrees, “and I’ll say this because I know otherwise you’re going to worry about it forever.” He studies your face reverently for a moment, before parting his lips to speak. The words are slow to come, like he’s trying to figure the sentence out as he goes along. “You… are going to be, problematic, for me.”

Your whisper is almost as small as you feel under his heavy gaze. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean,” Spencer begins, voice low, “I think I liked that too much. Do you see why that’s troubling?”

The flame you thought had been quenched flickers back to life like a pilot light. Your thighs press together to alleviate a growing ache in a still sensitive area and you answer, “no,” with a small shake of your head. His thumb tenderly traces your jaw, ever-patient despite the fact that you’re obviously playing coy.

“Because I can’t have you all the time.”

“Yes you can,” you say without hesitation, though your eyes are fluttering. “You can have me whenever you want. Right now.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Not tonight. You’ve had enough. You’re tired.”

“I’m wide awake,” you slur, tangling a hand in his hair even as you lose the battle against your eyelids.

He sighs good-naturedly, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist and brushing his lips over the delicate skin.

“You’re shockingly precocious.”

You hum.

“You just unleashed the beast. You’re like Doctor Frankenstein.”

He chuckles, sitting up and finding your shorts. You manage to be semi-helpful, lifting your legs at appropriate junctures as he tugs your clothing back on. “And you’re a nerd.”

“I don’t need to take that from you of all people.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Spencer says, and the smile in his voice makes you smile, a quarter asleep as he leans over to turn off the lamp on your side of the bed before tugging the covers over both of you.

He pulls you close in the dark, releasing a deep sigh as you curl into him. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, his arms warm around you. You can imagine making a home for yourself here. And you don’t know if he’s thinking it, but you hope he is, as you are silently repeating to yourself with every beat of his heart;

I love you

I love you.

part two

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine

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emmyrosee · 5 months ago

Note

SAKUSA ANGST??????❤️

By the time Kiyoomi gets to home, the moon is halfway past the skyline and high in space, and the bright light trickles through the blinds, carving your disappointed features while Kiyoomi jumps at the sight of you, standing firmly in the living room.

"Jeez," he snickers, putting his keys on the counter. "You scared me, baby, what're you doing up-"

"I know, Kiyoomi."

His brows furrow in confusion, but behind his dark pools, you see shame. And his eyes always gave him away. “What? What’re you talking about?”

You blink lazily, “I saw Hinata. You weren’t with him. Told me you never even texted him.” You shake your head, “if you’re going to commit adultery, make sure you have all your bases covered.”

He stays silent for a moment, letting his eyes cast down and avoiding your judgmental, hurt gaze. A hand comes up to scratch the back of his head, pick at a hangnail, jam into his pockets, anything and everything to not meet your betrayed looks.

“How long?”

“Baby, I-“

“Do not pull that manipulative shit on me,” you say exhaustedly. “Don’t start with that nonsense. I want to know how long. And I want to know who.”

He finally meets your eyes, “I made a mistake-“

“No no. New couples make mistakes,” you snap, hoping that by yelling out your frustrations you won’t cry the hot tears swelling in your waterline. “We’ve been together three years, you don’t get to make those kinds of mistakes, you don’t get to tell me not to worry about one person, then cheat on me.”

When he slowly lowers his hands, guilt struck in his gaze, you feel bile rising up your throat.

“It’s… your PR manager. Isn’t it?” You chuckle. “Your “work babe”? The one you assured me was over and done with?”

“No no, you’ve got to listen to me-“

“After I specifically begged you to tell me it wasn’t true, after you assured me nothing funny was going down, after you told me you’d gone to their house to fire them-“

He looks away. Darts his eyes again. Your hands come up to cover your mouth, “oh my god… you… went there to be with them- YOU WENT THERE TO BE WITH THEM WHILE I WAS HOME? WAILING OVER YOU?!”

He says nothing to defend himself, and you scream and jump up and out of your seat, grabbing the nearest pillow and smacking him with it. He shields himself with his arms, ducking slightly from your swings, but he doesn’t say anything. Nothing to change your mind, sway your thinking or deny, deny, deny anything.

“You lied to me!” You sob, finally losing your composure. “You lied square to my face, for what! For THEM?!”

“Baby, listen-“

“DONT FUCKING CALL ME THAT, SAKUSA!” You shriek, throwing the pillow down and meeting his teary eyes with your enraged ones. “Don’t FUCKING start with me!”

He calls your name in an attempt to calm you down, extending his arms to create distance, “it was a mistake, I made mistakes.”

“And that’s a crock of shit.”

“I thought I was missing something, and I thought they could give it to me! Honest! It meant nothing, just meaningless dates and kisses to try and fill something inside that I needed, and-

“You are not helping yourself right now, Sakusa,” you pant.

“I wanted to leave them, I swear on my mother-“

“And you couldn’t manage to do that.”

“So now what?” He chokes. “So-So-So are we just done? Three years just gone?”

“Because of you.”

“I’m not going to let this happen,” he sobs, collapsing to his knees and wrapping his arms around your legs. “Please, don’t leave me. I’ll fire them. You can go with me.”

“Clearly firing them isn’t going to make a difference,” you snarl. “Since your tongues been down their throat and god knows what else.” You shake him off your legs and continue to look down at him in distain, “I’ll have the boys send for my things. I’m staying with Osamu. Do not contact me anymore.” You shake him off your legs, and he looks up at you like a kicked dog.

“No-“

“Yeah, you don’t get to say no, anymore,” you snap. “Since clearly you had a hard enough time doing it for them. I’m taking control of the situation now. You will never make a fool out of me again.”

“Please,” he begs, “I hated it, I hated all of it, I-“

“Stop lying, Kiyoomi,” you shake your head. “It’s not worth it. You’re not going to sway me.”

At that, Kiyoomi stops. His eyes blink a line of tears down, his hands rest in his lap, and his bottom lip trembles. You take a deep breath, “please let Osamu in when he comes for my belongings.”

He says nothing. He merely continues to stare up at you desperately, pleadingly, and you scoff before making your way down the hall to grab your packed bag. “Unreal,” you hiss. “You are unbelievable.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he chokes. “You can stay here, I’ll leave, I’ll go to Bokuto’s, he’ll-“

“He’ll let you in and stay with him after you have the nerve to cheat on me?” You scoff. “Bokuto is not an idiot. He’s not going to just ignore the shitty things you do because you’re his teammate.”

Kiyoomi knows that if you walk through that door, you’ll never come back. You know it’s tearing him up inside, you see it in his exhausted features and you know it in your soul.

Good.

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

Wake up (part 2)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky will not abandon you unconscious while hoping for answers about what viciousness is running through your body. After all, Hydra always takes everything a person has to offer.

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s past; Bucky is going through some emotional shit here; Hydra; vomiting; seizure; guilt and self-blame; medical setting and distress; grief; PTSD; anxiety; panic attacks; so much angst

Author’s Note: A second part to Wake up has been the winner of my poll, so here we are. I’ve been sticking with the angst of the first part and I'm not gonna lie, this might have been the hardest thing I’ve written so far. So, please read the warnings before diving in and be beware that this does not end well. (I really don’t believe that all hope’s lost but read for yourself) But I actually do like how this turned out despite it hurting me so much lol. Let me know what you think ♡

part three

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

Bucky Barnes has lost a lot in his long life.

He has lost pieces of himself - some torn away violently, others slowly dissolving in his grasp no matter how hard he tried to keep them.

It was torturous and agonizing, prolonged over time, creating empty voids where something complete once used to be.

He has lost the weight and warmth of his own limb, his left arm stolen from him under the most excruciating circumstances, only to be replaced by a piece of metal that messed badly with his nerve endings.

His body bears the evidence. Scars marrying his flesh, muscle and sinew replaced by cold and unfeeling vibranium.

His mind has suffered even worse. Memories shattered, rewritten, erased. A name that once meant something - James Buchanan Barnes - reduced to something foreign, something he had to claw his way back to.

He has been unmade and remade too many times to count, his identity fractured into a thousand pieces. Each one holds remnants of the pain, of orders barked in languages he barely recognizes, of faces he was forced to forget the moment they fell.

His past is an open wound that never quite heals, no matter how much time passes. He has lost friends, family, freedom - every tether to the life he once lived.

But he survived.

Somehow, despite the things Hydra did to him, despite the decades of blood staining his hands, despite the decades of his limbs moving to another brain, despite the guilt slithering through his veins and dragging its nails down his spine. He survived.

He fought his way back. For you. Because of you. You helped him get himself back.

And that’s why this loss - your loss - would be different.

He doesn’t even acknowledge this with dramatics, doesn’t try to make it sound noble or poetic. It’s not something to be proud of. It’s just the truth. A certainty.

If you leave him, he will not survive. He would not even try.

A simple fact that is not simple at all.

It’s the most devastating, soul-crushing fact of his existence.

Because if you never open your eyes again - if those beautiful, expressive eyes, the ones that soften whenever they land on him, the ones that twinkle like stardust only for him because you love him so much - stay closed forever, then what reason does he have to go on?

If he never sees that smile again, the one that makes his knees weak, that makes his chest feel too small to hold everything he feels for you - the smile only made for him because you love him so much - then what point is there in taking another breath?

If you never wrap your arms around him again - never squeeze him so tightly he can feel your affection seep into him, warming the coldest, most forgotten parts of him, because you love him so much - then what is he supposed to do with himself?

If your lips never touch his again, never press against his skin, never ghost over his own in those kisses that steal his breath even if it is a simple peck, or if you end up breathlessly clinging to each other, all because you love him so much - then he might as well have nothing at all.

And if your voice - your sweet, adoring, and grounding voice - never speaks those three words again, the ones that leave him on this world, the ones that remind him that despite everything, despite all that he has done and all that he has lost, he is still capable of being loved - if he never gets to hear those words again, then there will be nothing left of him.

Because without you he is just a man with too many ghosts and too little purpose. A man trying to walk on broken legs, reaching for something, grasping at something, hoping for something, that will never be found.

He would not survive it. Not again. Not this time.

Bucky doesn’t remember the run to the med bay.

It went so fast but also way too slow.

Moments before, he was in your shared room, shaking you, begging for you to wake up, and then, he was barreling down the hallways, your body limp in his arms.

His boots slammed against the floor, his breath coming in ragged rasps. His grip around you was so tight that if you had been awake, you would have told him to ease up, that you weren’t going anywhere with that soft and gentle voice of yours. But you weren’t awake. It was only him.

He doesn’t remember how many doors he crashed through, doesn’t recall how many people shouted his name as he stormed through the compound like a man possessed.

All he could focus on was you, your weight in his arms, the unmanageable silence coming from you. It was too quiet. Too still.

You were and still are the only thing in his focus. The only thing in his mind.

The moment he bursts into the med bay, Bruce is already moving, eyes wide behind his glasses as he takes one look at Bucky’s desperate face - at you - and points to the nearest examination table.

“Put her down. Now.”

Bucky hesitates for only a second.

“Barnes!” Bruce snaps, voice sharp.

And Bucky moves, his hands trembling as he lowers you onto the cold metal table, his touch lingering longer than it should have, afraid you will leave him the moment he lets go.

Then Bruce is there, hands on you, tilting your head, checking your pulse. Bucky feels something inside him snap.

Bile surges up his throat, hot and acidic, and before he can stop himself, he staggers backward, barely making it to a medical waste bin before his stomach heaves violently. His whole body shakes with the force of it, his metal hand clutching the edge of the table so hard it groans under the pressure.

He only hears someone - Tony - mutter behind him. “Jesus. Alright, Barnes, maybe you should-”

“No.” His voice is hoarse, sore. He doesn’t even look up, just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his entire body coiled so tightly he feels like he might snap in half.

He is not leaving.

He doesn’t hear whatever else is said because Bruce is calling for Dr. Cho, his voice tight, controlled but urgent. She appears within moments, already shrugging into her white coat as she assesses the situation with a practiced eye.

“Tell me everything,” she demands, moving beside Bruce as they work over you.

“She was exposed to something - some kind of airborne agent.” Bruce says quickly, Bucky not able to get a word out. “Came back from the mission fine, but then-”

“Then she wouldn’t wake up,” Bucky rasps, his voice barely above a scratchy whisper. He forces himself to step closer again, his fingers jerking at his sides. He wants to touch you, needs to touch you, but Bruce has already started attaching monitors to your chest, your temples, your wrist.

So Bucky can only stare at your unmoving face, and his gut contracts dreadfully, twisting like a wrung-out rag. A breath flees his mouth in a rough gust.

Because you are lying here, looking as if you are fading further away by the second.

Bucky is grateful that no one is paying him any mind.

Every ounce of attention in the room is on you, and that’s exactly where it needs to be. No one spares him so much as a glance, and hell, he is thankful to be ignored.

Because if they looked at him, they would see the way his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Even the metal seems to be quivering, the nerve endings in his shoulder acting up. They would see his chest rising and falling too fast, his breaths sharp and strained like he is moments from shattering into something unrecognizable.

But none of it matters. Because you are still lying there, too still, too limp, too silent, too pale against the stark white of the medical bay’s harsh lights.

The color has drained from your face, your lips slightly parted, your breathing faint but regular. It’s the only sign of life you give.

Your head remains tilted unnaturally to the side, strands of hair sticking to your cheek from the moisture of Bruce’s sensors as they gather data, searching for something that might explain what the hell is happening to you.

Tony is somewhere behind him, speaking hurriedly into his earpiece. “Yeah, well, tell me something useful, here, Fitz!” His voice is sharp, frustration a part of it, but there is something else there, too - something too close to fear. Bucky doesn’t hear that in Tony often. “I don’t care what Fury’s saying - no, I don’t care - just get me those samples analyzed faster.”

There are agitated voices somewhere to his left. Steve and Natasha. Steve is trying to get to him. Bucky knows it without turning around. He can feel his best friend's presence, hear the urgency in the way his boots scruff against the floor, the way his voice lowers as he mutters something to Natasha, arguing. But the redhead doesn’t budge, Steve doesn’t reach him, and Bucky is left standing in place, barely keeping himself upright.

Bruce and Dr. Cho are working in tandem over your body. Bruce adjusts the monitors, his fingers hovering over your wrist for a moment, measuring something by touch alone. His jaw is tight, his usual steady hands moving just a fraction quicker, his eyes switching between the data on the screen and your unmoving form.

Dr. Cho is settling up and IV, her hands deft as she inserts the needle into the delicate skin of your forearm. The bag above you fills with something clear, something Bucky doesn’t recognize, but he trusts her. He has to. She murmurs something to Bruce, and he nods, glancing at one of the monitors before adjusting the oxygen mask now resting over your face.

“We need a full toxicology scan,” Dr. Cho says, voice firm but calm. Something Bucky can’t manage right now. “Start running a metabolic panel and check for neurotoxins. If this was airborne, we need to know if it’s still in her system.”

Bruce is already moving, tapping rapidly at a tablet screen. “Her vitals are stable, but they’re low - lower than they should be. She’s there, but barely.”

Bucky’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms, he is sure even the metal will have marks. His head is spinning, everything outside of you irrelevant to him. There is too much movement, too many sounds, too many people talking, but none of it matters because you still haven’t moved. You still haven’t opened your eyes.

His bones feel like they are collapsing. Like a house of cards caught in a slow fall.

And Bucky swears that if you don’t wake up soon, he won’t be able to breathe at all.

The waiting for results is maddening. He is hardly moving, hardly breathing, only able to wait for someone to say something that will make sense of this.

Bruce is the first to speak. He pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, squinting at the tablet in his hands like maybe if he looks at it long enough, the numbers will rearrange themselves into something different. Something fixable.

“There’s nothing,” he says, voice quieter than before. Stunned.

Bucky blinks, his body stiffening. “What?”

Bruce glances at Dr. Cho, but she is already busy studying the results on a separate screen, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Nothing toxic in her blood,” Bruce continues, carefully neutral. “No neurotoxins, no foreign substances - nothing that should be causing this.”

Bucky’s insides lurch, churning like a sea under a violent storm. He tilts his head forward as if he misheard, his mind running. “No. No, that’s not-” He gestures uncoordinatedly to where you still lay, unmoving, breath slow but there. “Look at her! There’s gotta be something.”

Dr. Cho finally speaks, measured but voice set. “Medically speaking, she should be awake.”

Bucky got shot in the chest once.

He still doesn’t know how he survived. It hurt like hell.

But those words are the bullet that will tear through his heart, make him crumble, kill him.

Should be awake.

But you fucking aren’t.

“You’re saying she’s fine,” he grits out, his tone steely, voiced with something dark. The same darkness that knots deep in his belly. “But she’s not moving, not waking up, not-” His voice breaks, and he presses his mouth closed so tightly to make a sound stop from boiling up. His head shakes vehemently. “There has to be something.”

“Bucky-” Bruce tries, but Bucky doesn’t let him finish.

“Check again.” His voice is lower now, dangerous, but everybody surely hears the desperation in his tone. “Check again, check everything - you must’ve missed something.”

Bruce exhales, rubbing his temples. “I’ve run the tests twice-”

“Damnit, then run it a fucking third time.” Bucky’s voice rises.

“We’ve checked everything. There is nothing wrong-”

“Then why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky roars, and suddenly, everyone in the room is dead silent.

Tony looks between Bucky and the doctors, his expression grim. Steve, who had edged closer, takes a careful step back, but looks at Bucky warningly, yet still utterly sympathetic. Natasha has just the slightest sheen over her eyes herself, but tries to keep her composure. Sam is standing in a corner, watching without a single remark. That’s new for him.

Even Bruce and Dr. Cho pause for just a second, eyes falling to him.

Then Dr. Cho exhales sharply, snapping her gloves off with quick, almost harsh movements. “Everyone out. Now.”

Tony raises a brow. “You kicking us out, doc?”

“Yes,” she replies curtly. “You’re all in the way. We need to focus. Here are too many people. This won’t help us and it won’t help her.”

Steve hesitates but eventually nods, throwing one last glance at Bucky and at you before stepping out, Tony following behind. Natasha slips out almost quickly, searching for a place to be alone. Sam leaves without a word, expression stony. The room empties.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

“Bucky,” Bruce says, softer now, as if he is speaking to a wild animal, careful not to startle it. “You should go too.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Dr. Cho frowns unpleased, crossing her arms. “You’re not helping her by being here. You’re just getting in the way.”

“I’m not leaving,” Bucky grinds out, planting his feet like a goddamn mountain. His breathing is too rough, his pulse too high, but he doesn’t have time to care. The only thing he cares about is not to leave you.

Dr. Cho lets out a breath through her nose, but she doesn’t argue further. There is no time to fight with a stubborn ex-assassin who looks like he’s one wrong word away from losing his mind.

“Fine,” she relents, turning back to Bruce. “Then stay out of the way. We have work to do.”

Bucky doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Guilt sits in his chest like something rotten. It is an anxious tangle of nerves and dread and agony that curl in his stomach, inescapable. It’s as if his body is rejecting him all over again.

It feasts on every nerve and every cell and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws, hollowing him out from the inside.

He let himself believe that you were fine. That this is just his paranoia, just his need to keep you wrapped up, shielded from every possible danger - the worry he always feels for you, the way he clings so much.

But your chest rises and falls so slow and mechanical, and it’s not right. Your color is drained to the point that you look ghost-like. It’s as if your body is just pretending to be alive. As if it’s just waiting for something, stalling.

You look like you are already knocking on death’s door.

And they try to tell him there is nothing wrong.

The words make his scull vibrate with rage, but even more so with fear. Such a gripping and burning fear. His pulse is a single beat he can feel all along his skin.

Because what if there really is nothing? What if there is nothing to fix and you are already half gone?

His hands are trembling so hard, not even forming a fist can stop it.

He should have brought you here sooner. Should have forced you here the second you got back, should have ignored your reassurances, your sugary and alluring voice telling him that you feel fine and that you love him and there is nothing to worry about.

But he did worry.

He did have that awful, gut-deep feeling, a whisper in the back of his mind, telling him that something was wrong. But he convinced himself that it was just him. That you are fine. And you would be fine. And this was nothing. And there was nothing to worry about. That you would wake up and smile that soft smile at him and wish him a good morning, honey. You sleep well? with your endearing morning voice and all would be fine because you would be there and awake and with him and in his arms and the sun filtering in would illuminate your body and make you gleam in your ethereal glow and he would tell you you look beautiful and you would giggle and you would kiss him and you would tell him you love him and he would repeat it a thousand times over and-

He wants to throw up again, feeling the nausea rise. He wants to undo whatever led you here, wants to rip apart the universe until he finds the moment where he should have acted, should have saved you, should have known better.

Because things like that happen to Bucky Barnes.

The voices are there. Bruce and Cho speaking in hushed and clinical tones, words slipping past his ears. He hears them. Knows they are saying things that should matter. Should mean something.

But he can’t focus.

Because the only thing his brain registers, the only thing anchoring him to anything right now, is the slow and rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

It pounds in his eardrums, in the space behind his eyes, sinks beneath his skin. Unchanging. It should be a comfort. A reassurance. But it’s not.

It sounds too artificial - as if it’s the machine keeping you here instead of your own will. Instead of you.

His heart seems to try and outrun a fate that has not been decided yet. His hands flex and curl, doing nothing else. He is so helpless. Drowning in the air, like a scream caged behind his ribs with no way to escape.

Bucky is not a man who would ever think about praying.

But for you, he would sink down onto his knees and beg, beg until his lungs give out, plead until his voice dies, and him with it.

He wants to move. Wants to do something. But all he is forced to do is watch. Watch the way your body doesn’t stir, the way your lips remain slightly parted, breath scarcely there. You seem asleep in a way that isn’t right.

Bruce says something. He doesn’t catch it.

Dr. Cho responds, sharper this time, with a note of urgency in her tone. But Bucky still can’t process the words.

Because the beeping is the only thing.

The only proof that you are still here.

The sole factor preventing his thoughts from plunging into a darkness he can't drag his way out of.

The sound of your heartbeat, manufactured and distant, is the only thing between him and utter ruin.

And then it stutters.

Just for a second. A fracture of a hesitation, a hiccup in the mechanical pattern.

But it is clear.

And Bucky’s breath seizes, every nerve ending in his body lighting up under a fire that might just burn him to the ground.

Another stutter.

He lunges forward without thinking, knocking something over in the process, metal clattering against tile. Bruce shouts his name, Cho curses, but Bucky doesn’t hear anything.

Because something is happening.

The beeping stutters again. Then again.

Then your body jerks. A sudden, unnatural motion, like a puppet with its strings, yanked too hard. Your chest arches up, limbs jolting, fingers curling in on themselves like they don’t belong to you anymore.

The heart monitor lets out a rapid sequence of beeps, the steady pattern broken, discordant - like a song ripped apart note by note.

A seizure.

Bucky doesn’t even have time to feel the utter terror pumping up his belly and rushing up to his face in less than half a second, only that it is propelling him forward. He doesn’t care that Bruce and Cho are already moving, doesn’t care that there are hands trying to hold you down, voices shouting instructions.

He drops to his knees by your head because his legs won’t hold him up anymore. His hands reach instinctively - one cradling the back of your head, the other threading into your hair, gripping almost too tight, as if he can keep you here just by holding on. He never should have let go in the first place. Another thing to hate himself for.

“No, no, no, baby, baby, please-” His voice is wrecked. Shattered and gravelly, rasping against his throat like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. The words barely make it past his lips, broken things gasped between strangled sobs.

“Stay with me, doll. Please. Please, don’t- don’t do this, you don’t get to do this, not to me, not to me-”

His breath is failing him, catching on every desperate syllable, every plea. His chest aches and caves under the panic and horror, he can’t hold himself up properly anymore. His forehead presses against yours, his tears hot where they land on your skin, his entire body shaking against you.

He is crying, saying things not even he understands. His voice is a single crack, a sound so undone it doesn’t sound human. He begs and begs and begs, but you continue to cramp.

A sob rips through him, brutal and loud, and he sucks in a desolate breath between the wreckage of his words.

He doesn’t know the way Cho and Bruce are working frantically, doesn’t hear the sounds of other people in white coats hectically running around.

All he knows is you.

And the way your body seizes beneath his hands, the way your face remains slack, the way your breath catches as if your body itself is deciding whether to keep you here or let you go.

Bucky grips you harder and presses his lips to your temple in a way that is almost rough.

“Stay with me,” he whimpers against your skin, voice not even a real whisper, hoarse and thick with cries. “I can’t lose you. Won’t survive. I won’t survive.”

You gasp.

Your body stills. Limbs falling back onto the hard table with a sharp clang.

And his world is falling apart, into itself, collapsing, crumbling. His eyes fail, not showing him the whole picture anymore, burning his vision away and replacing it with cruel pictures. He falls into an abyss so deep he won’t ever meet the ground and the reprieve of shattering into the floor-

Beep.

A single note.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It’s rhythmic. It’s there.

Your heart is still beating.

The sound sends a shockwave through his chest, his heart, his core, him. It rattles his ribs.

Bucky shudders. A deep, guttural sob rips through him and he buries his face against your hair, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it’s as if he’s trying to fuse you to him, trying to force the universe to let him keep you.

He chokes on a sound, nothing more than a shattered breath. His body sags, overwhelmed, drained, but his hands refuse to loosen their hold on you, careful of the cables attached to your body.

The chaos of the room dims just slightly, shifting to more focus.

“That-” Bruce analyses in a clipped tone. “That wasn’t just a seizure. That was an autonomic collapse. Her body just shut down.”

Bucky is still swimming in the aftershock of nearly losing you, he can’t comprehend anything other than the smell of your hair and skin.

“That’s not possible,” Cho considers, voice low, but there is just the tiniest hint of concern in her voice now. “Not without something triggering it.”

There is shuffling around him - machines being adjusted, readings being analyzed. But Bucky stays right there, forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones as if you were made of glass. “Come back to me,” he breathes, pleading. “Please come back, please. I can’t- I can’t do this without you. Can’t do anything without you. Y/n, please!”

Bruce releases a breath somewhere nearby. Bucky lost all his senses.

“I need to see the chemical breakdown of that gas - now,” he instructs.

“Come back. Come back to me, baby, come back,” Bucky croaks out, still not addressing the two discussing your situation, his voice rough and barely working. His lips don’t move from your temple.

Cho’s hands move over the tablet, scanning your vitals. “Her body didn’t just react to it. It adapted to it. And now-” She pauses, face tightening as she processes the data. “It’s waiting for something.”

Bucky heaves up a breath, a sick and swirling tension writhing in his stomach like a nest of snakes. “Waiting for what?” he finally acknowledges.

Bruce’s gaze flicks up, something apologetic and utterly pained behind his eyes. His voice is careful. “A command.”

Silence slams into the room like a sudden, vicious drop in pressure.

Bucky grows cold. The sickening sensation in him spreads. His hands tighten around you in instinctual protection.

Fucking Hydra.

“This wasn’t just some toxin or experiment,” Cho continues, flipping through the data, her expression darkening. “This was programmed. Her nervous system - her brain - it’s been put in a dormant state. Not a coma, not unconsciousness. Something else.”

Bucky is shaking his head before she even finishes speaking. “No. No, she - she’s right here, she’s breathing, she-”

But he can’t deny it. Can’t ignore the chilling, creeping terror worming around his spine, despair festering it. Because he knows this. Knows the way Hydra takes people and twists them, programs them like machines, like weapons, like him.

His stomach sinks, drops, falls - down, down, down. Falling into the abyss. Never to land. Never to return.

Nausea rolls over him in sick ways. But he can’t let him heave it up again. Because therefore, he would have to let go of you. And he will not do that.

“It’s got to be some kind of activation sequence,” Bruce says grimly. “A failsafe. Whatever was in that gas, it did something to her. Put her into a kind of-” he pauses, carefully glancing at Bucky, “-standby mode.”

Bucky’s jaw is hard, it would hurt if he could feel it. “Then wake her the fuck up.”

“We’re trying,” Cho snaps back, stress sharpening her usual calm tone. “But this isn’t just a medical problem, Barnes. It’s neurological. It’s programming.”

Bucky flinches. His fingers tangle in your hair and he tucks you impossibly closer. “She’s not a machine,”he spits out, voice shaking, harsher than he means it to be but not able to change it. “She’s not like-”

He stops himself. The words She’s not like me nearly escape, but he forces them back down his throat, though it burns.

Bruce and Cho exchange a look.

And that’s when Tony speaks up from the corner of the room - seemingly having allowed himself to come back inside - voice resolved, hard. “Then we need to figure out what the hell they were trying to turn her into.”

No. Please, god, no. Not her. Not you.

Bucky is unaware of his movements, of the way he is clutching you tighter, the way his body trembles, the sting in his throat from how ragged his breathing has been for the last couple of however long he’s been here already.

He can’t keep you from this. Can’t protect you from something that has already taken root inside you.

Just like it did in him.

His vision is a hot fog. The room nothing but a smear of sterile white light and moving shadows, the voices of Banner and Cho turning into indecipherable noise as they scramble for answers.

Tony is heading to his lap to probably run every scan known to a man on that goddamn gas. Steve is speaking too. Where did he come from? Since when is he here again? But Bucky doesn’t care. He doesn’t listen.

Because you are still motionless in his arms.

They are talking about activation sequences. Standby modes. Neurological programming. They’re using all these terms, these medical, scientific explanations - but none of them are saying what it really means.

Hydra did something to you.

Hydra put something in you.

And if there’s one thing Bucky knows, one thing that has been burned into his very being, it’s that Hydra does not give. It does not take halfway. It does not leave things unfinished.

They only ever take everything.

And only with a little bit of smoke in the air, you have been exposed to for mere minutes.

A rough, strangled sound makes its way up his throat, and it takes him a second to realize it’s even coming from him. A horrible, cracking noise of grief and rage and devastation. His fingers dig into the warmth of you, your neck, your back, your thigh, needing to feel you, needing to have you here with him even though his mind is screaming at him that all the parts of you he had are gone already.

But he won’t accept that.

Shaking fingers card through your hair, pushing damp strands away from your face, his metal hand cradling your cheek.

His voice is an aching whisper. “You’re stronger than me, you know that?” His breath shudders over the words, his quivering lips brushing against your forehead, lingering there. “You always have been.”

His thumb gently strokes over the hollow beneath your closed eye, his jaw clenching hard as he takes in the deep stillness of your body. His chest tries to draw in air but is constricted.

He can’t see you like this. You are never this still. Never motionless. You live in the moment - in bright, uncontainable energy.

“You’ll get through this.” Each word drags thickly from his throat. It hurts so much. Everything hurts so much. “I know you will. You always do. You always pull me with you, too.” His laugh is soft and hollow, broken like the man he is in process of becoming again. “Even when I didn’t want saving, you just-”

He swallows hard, squeezes his eyes together, and takes a deep breath filled with your scents. But it mingles with the sterile smell of that moisture and clinic. A tear slips past his lashes. Another follows.

“You never let go.”

His head bows, his forehead against your temple, a shallow gasp slips from his lips.

“And I won’t either.”

His flesh thumb presses lightly to your neck, enough to feel your pulse. He hears the beep of the monitor but he needs to feel it.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He presses his lips to your temple, to your cheekbones, to your forehead, your nose, everywhere he likes. Everywhere he has to. He lets himself feel the warmth of you, the thumps of your heartbeat against his fingers.

Another tear slips past when he presses another strained whisper to your skin.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice finally meets his ears, but it sounds too damn soft. As if he is talking to a wounded and aching creature.

As if he expects Bucky to break. He might. He will.

Bucky snaps his head up, and the look on his face must be something terrible because Steve actually takes a step back.

“You think I don’t know what this means?” Bucky growls, his voice a debris of sound. His hands shake so hard against you, he can’t even hold you as tight as he wants to anymore. And for the first time in his life, he hates the warmth of his flesh. Hates that the metal doesn’t run through both arms, because maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel this overpowering helplessness.

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel human enough to understand what it means to lose.

Maybe then he could just return to be the machine he was supposed to be all along.

He already feels himself going back to him.

“She’s not like me,” he snarls, voice catching on the words, breaking them apart. “She’s not going to be like me.”

No one answers him.

No one says no, of course not, she’s going to be fine, we’ll fix this, we’ll wake her up and this will just be another nightmare we all wake up from.

Because no one knows if that’s true.

Bruce’s fingers move over his tablet. “Whatever Hydra did… it’s not finished yet. We need to be prepared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky’s voice is lethal, pure steel dipping into panic.

“It means,” Bruce hesitates, glancing at Steve for help but the blonde doesn’t seem to know better, so he continues. “We don’t know in what state she is in. This could have done anything to her-”

A low, animalistic sound rumbles from Bucky’s chest. “Then we stop it.”

Bruce looks at him, eyes trying to soften, but he seems too remorseful. “We don’t even know what it is yet.”

“We stop it,” Bucky repeats, harsher this time. Because the alternative is something he can’t think of.

He sways, a choking sense of deja vu inching up his spine. He knows this feeling. He’s lived this feeling. That moment, the harsh, dizzying drop into nothingness, when you realize you don’t know yourself anymore. That you never really did.

And now, Hydra is doing that to you.

Cho stiffens suddenly, eyes rapidly moving across the screen in front of her. “Wait - something’s changing-”

Every muscle in Bucky’s body locks as his gaze snaps to you, his breath stalling.

Your fingers. The barest twitch. A tiny, nearly imperceptible movement against his chest.

But it’s there.

Bucky sucks in a breath so sharp it burns. “She’s-”

Before he can finish, your entire body spasms intensely.

Alarms shriek. Machines stutter to life. A sharp, erratic beeping floods the room.

Your scream tears through the space. Guttural and fervent and wrong.

Bucky’s blood freezes mid-flow, turning to shards of ice beneath his skin.

Because you are screaming like you are dying.

And suddenly, everyone is rushing around. Bruce and Cho are lunging forward, Steve is cursing under his breath.

Bucky can’t move.

Frost crackles through his veins, leaving only numbness behind.

You continue screaming. It sounds like it’s affecting your vocal cords.

There is winter inside of Bucky.

His arms tighten around you, his body moving on pure instinct, pressing you to him.

“It’s okay, baby,” he gasps out, not even sure if you can hear him, but he can’t help it. He cups your face between his hands, hoping to still the way you thrash around and bump your head against the metal beneath you. “I’m here. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But your screams don’t stop.

Your hands claw weakly at your own chest, at your throat, as if trying to get something out, as if your own skin is suffocating you. Your nails leave scratch marks on your collarbone.

And Bucky loses it.

“Do something!” he yells, his head whipping around to Bruce and Cho, his voice shredded with desperation. “Help her!”

Bruce quickly injects something into your IV, Cho adjusts the monitors as they beep wildly.

But Bucky doesn’t see any of it.

He only sees you.

His world narrows down to your face, to the way your lips part on a strained gasp, the way your body shakes in his grip, the way your screams turn to whimpers and then stop altogether.

Then, your eyes snap open.

Bucky stops breathing. Stops moving. Only stares agape.

Your gaze is on him, wide and glassy and soaked in terror.

But you look at him in a way you never looked at him ever before.

You look at him like you are not yourself anymore.

You look at him like you don’t know him.

You look at him like you don’t recognize him at all.

“Without you, the world means nothing to me.”

- Emily Brontë

Part three

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