#it’s actually been like two weeks and i’m fine now but the point still stands

[gregmarriage]

chronic pain can go die in a hole x

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

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

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

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

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

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

You know, a Lemurian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do my neck too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you wanted to see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked better, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once he began to create, however...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

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

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Receptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently they had.

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

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

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

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

Which was dry.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

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

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

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

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, this man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

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

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

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

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

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

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

It was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not until you.

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep going like this.

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

And you had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So adorable. So endearing.)

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

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

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

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

“…Rafayel?”

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

He could… He could skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a weak man.

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep being like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Focus.)

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

And then. The tug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

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

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

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

His robe.

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

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

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

He felt a push at his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you bit him.

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? Now?

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

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

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

More than this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a homecoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

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

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

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

“Or, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was that easy to change his mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just returning to the original plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth wide open.

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

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

"Pffft!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel.”

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

“Rafayel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke first.

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

Then you yanked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a reward for that?”

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

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission to talk?”

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

“Go ahead, handsome.”

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

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

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

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

"Are you really asking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Just how pent-up was he?

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

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

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

"Rafa—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was beyond insatiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, did he listen well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel just smiled.

[areislol]

hsr!men with a reader who 'stresses' them out to see if they actually like reader that much or not >< HSUDHNS like testing them! kind of. during a post-confession stage where they both kind of know but haven't put any labels on it yet........

AHCK IM SORRY IF THIS IS ODDLY SPECIFIC LOL

pairings. jing yuan, dan heng, blade, welt, sampo, gepard, luocha, caelus, dr ratio, aventurine, boothill, gallagher, moze, jiaoqiu, sunday x gn! reader

warnings. just fluff

a/n. i love this idea sm omg!! this is so cute and adorable, thank you so much for popping in!

wc. 10.6k

synopsis. testing the hsr men to see if they really like you or not...

recommend listening to: blue - yung kai

caelus

✧ caelus is feeling a mix of patience and confusion. mostly confusion.

✧ you’d stress them out by acting overly distant or cryptic with your words. of course, this would be a bit too mean but.... you needed to know whether or not he truly liked you or not!!!

✧  now caelus always has this quiet confidence about him, a grounded presence that somehow keeps you both intrigued and comforted. you’ve been walking the line between friendship and something more for weeks now—soft smiles, lingering touches, and late-night conversations that stretch into the early morning. but neither of you has made the leap to define it, and the uncertainty starts to gnaw at you.

✧ so, you decide to test him. not out of malice, but out of curiosity—does he care as much as you think he does? or are you misreading everything?

✧ it starts small. you "accidentally" forget your jacket during a particularly chilly day on the xianzhou luofu. "it's fine," you say, feigning nonchalance as you rub your arms. "i’ll survive."

✧ caelus, who notices everything, doesn’t hesitate. without a word, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders. it’s warm and smells faintly like him—clean and earthy.

✧ "you’ll catch a cold," he says simply, his expression unreadable. but the way his fingers linger at your shoulder for a moment longer than necessary sends a shiver down your spine.

✧ okay, you think. that’s a point for him.

✧ but you don’t stop there. later, as the two of you work together to sort some scattered archives, you sigh dramatically. "i’m so bad at this," you say, even though you’ve already figured out the system. "caelus, can you help me? i think i’m doing it all wrong."

✧ he glances at you, eyebrows raised slightly. he knows you’re capable—you’ve proven it plenty of times.

✧ "really?" he asks, his tone soft but teasing. "you seem like you’ve got it handled."

✧ but he still moves to your side, explaining the process again with patience and care. you can’t help but notice how close he stands, the way his arm brushes against yours.

✧ another point, you mentally tally, biting back a smile.

✧ the final "test" happens that evening. the two of you are sitting on a bench overlooking the bustling streets below. you lean your head back, sighing loudly.

✧ "caelus," you start, your tone heavy with faux melancholy, "do you ever think... maybe we’re wasting our time? like, maybe this—whatever this is—isn’t worth it?"

✧ his head snaps toward you so fast you almost laugh. his usual calm demeanor falters for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something raw in his amber eyes.

✧ "what are you trying to say?" he asks, his voice lower than usual.

✧ suddenly, the air feels heavier. you weren’t expecting such a serious reaction, and it makes your chest tighten.

✧ "i mean..." you hesitate, suddenly feeling a little guilty for pushing him. "i don’t know. it just feels like maybe we’re stuck in this limbo, you know?"

✧ he stares at you for a moment, his gaze searching. then, he exhales softly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "if you think this isn’t worth it," he says, his voice steady but quiet, "then tell me. but don’t assume i feel the same."

✧ your heart stutters at his words.

✧ "you don’t?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns to look at you again, his expression soft but serious.

✧ "no," he says firmly. "you mean a lot to me. more than you realize. i’m just... waiting for you to figure out how much you mean to me too."

✧ and just like that, the test is over. you realize you didn’t need to test him at all—he’s always been steady, always been sure. it was you who needed the reassurance, and he gave it to you without hesitation.

✧ as the silence stretches between you, you feel the weight of his coat still draped over your shoulders. you finally let yourself smile, leaning closer to him.

✧ "okay," you murmur. "i get it now."

✧ he doesn’t say anything, but the small, satisfied smile that tugs at his lips says enough.

gepard

✧ poor gepard takes your “test” far too seriously.

✧ (his face falls immediately, and he starts overthinking everything he’s ever done. he’d even try to change his habits, stumbling through awkward attempts to “loosen up.” “i—i can be fun! watch this!” (proceeds to try something clumsy.))

✧ testing gepard’s feelings feels almost unfair. he’s so earnest, so genuine, that you almost feel bad for trying to push his limits. but a little part of you—it’s that gnawing insecurity, that need for reassurance—wants to see how much he’s willing to handle for you.

✧ it starts during a routine patrol around belobog. you walk beside him, pretending to be engrossed in your surroundings, but you’re really watching him out of the corner of your eye. his posture is as perfect as always, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

✧ "gepard," you say suddenly, interrupting the calm. he turns to you immediately, his expression softening. "yes?"

✧ you fake a dramatic sigh. "do you ever think you work too hard? like... maybe you’re so busy being a model captain that you don’t have time for other things?"

✧ his brows furrow slightly, clearly not expecting this question. "what do you mean?"

✧ "i mean, what if someone in your life needed more of your attention? would you even notice?"

✧ he stops walking, turning to face you fully. there’s a flash of concern in his blue eyes, and you almost feel guilty for how well this is working.

✧ "if someone needed me," he says, his voice steady but laced with worry, "i’d do everything in my power to be there for them. are you... trying to tell me something?"

✧ you wave your hand dismissively, laughing lightly. "oh, no, just a hypothetical. don’t worry about it." he doesn’t look convinced, but he nods and resumes walking, though you notice he stays closer to your side after that.

✧ later, you decide to push a little harder. when the two of you are back at the overworld base, you feign exhaustion, slumping dramatically onto a nearby bench.

✧ "i’m so tired," you complain, rubbing your temples. "today was so stressful. i don’t think i can even move."

✧ before you can say anything else, gepard is already at your side. he crouches slightly, his hands hovering awkwardly as if he’s not sure whether he should offer to help you up or just sit beside you.

✧ "you should have said something earlier," he says, his voice full of concern. "if you’re overworked, you need to take a break. here, let me—"

✧ you cut him off with a teasing smile. "what are you going to do, carry me around belobog like some kind of knight in shining armor?" he freezes for a moment, his cheeks flushing pink. "i mean... if you needed me to, i would."

✧ you weren’t expecting such a sincere answer, and it throws you off balance. your heart flutters, but you’re determined to keep the act going.

✧ "you’re too sweet, gepard," you say with a grin. "but don’t worry, i’m fine. just testing you a little." his blush deepens, and he shifts nervously. "testing me?"

✧ "yeah," you admit, leaning back against the bench. "just wanted to see how far you’d go for me."

✧ he frowns, clearly conflicted. "you don’t need to test me," he says quietly. "if something’s bothering you, you can just tell me. i’d rather you be honest than try to figure things out on your own."

✧ his words hit you harder than you expected, and you suddenly feel a little guilty.

✧ "you’re right," you mumble, looking down at your hands. "sorry, i didn’t mean to make you worry."

✧ he sighs softly, then sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "it’s okay," he says after a moment. "i just... care about you. a lot. and i want you to know that you never have to doubt it."

✧ you glance at him, his expression as open and honest as ever, and your heart aches in the best way.

✧ "thanks, gepard," you say softly.

✧ he smiles, and it’s so warm and genuine that you know you didn’t need to test him in the first place. he’s always been exactly who he says he is—steadfast, caring, and utterly devoted.

✧ “please, don’t do that again. my heart can’t take it. but... i do care about you more than anything.”

dr. ratio

✧ dr. ratio sees through your “stress test” almost immediately, being as perceptive as he is.

✧ testing dr. ratio feels like trying to rattle an unshakable pillar—he’s sharp, meticulous, and composed to the point where you’re almost certain he’ll see through you immediately. but your curiosity gets the better of you. you want to see if the normally calm and collected doctor could ever crack, even slightly, under your antics.

✧ you decide to start small, choosing to "stress" him out during one of his intense research sessions.

✧ "dr. ratio," you call out from across the lab, your tone light and teasing.

✧ he doesn’t look up from his holopad. "yes?"

✧ "can you explain this to me again? i swear i just don’t get it."

✧ you hold up a tablet displaying a simple analysis you’re perfectly capable of interpreting. it’s the third time you’ve asked him about something today, and you’re sure he’s starting to notice.

✧ he sighs, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "are you sure you’re not just overthinking it?"

✧ "maybe," you say, shrugging. "or maybe you’re just bad at explaining things."

✧ that earns you a sharp look, and for a split second, you think you’ve actually pushed too far. but then his lips twitch, a flicker of amusement breaking through his usual stoicism.

✧ "bad at explaining things?" he repeats, setting his holopad down. "are you testing my patience, or are you testing my intelligence?"

✧ "both," you reply with a cheeky grin. he chuckles softly, shaking his head. "if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked."

✧ despite his calm exterior, you notice the subtle way he shifts closer to you, his focus entirely on you now. you can’t help but feel a small thrill of triumph, though you know you’re playing with fire.

✧ later, you decide to up the stakes. while he’s meticulously organizing data, you lean against the desk, deliberately placing your hand over one of his charts.

✧ "do you ever think about taking a break?" you ask, tilting your head at him. "you work so much, it’s like you’re married to your lab."

✧ he arches an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to your hand covering his work. "and if i am? does that bother you?"

✧ "a little," you admit, your tone teasing. "what if you end up ignoring more important things?"

✧ he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studies you. "and what would those ‘important things’ be?"

✧ his voice is calm, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes you feel like you’ve walked right into his trap. "me, obviously," you say, trying to maintain your confidence.

✧ he hums thoughtfully, as if considering your words. then, without warning, he reaches out and gently flicks your forehead.

✧ "you’re not very subtle," he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

✧ "ouch," you say, rubbing your forehead with a pout. "was that necessary?"

✧ "completely," he replies smoothly. "if you’re going to test me, at least make it challenging."

✧ his words leave you flustered, and you quickly retreat from his desk, muttering something about needing fresh air. but later, when he finds you in the lounge, he sets a cup of tea in front of you without a word.

✧ "what’s this for?" you ask, looking up at him.

✧ "you seemed tense earlier," he says simply. "and since you’re so concerned about me ignoring important things, I thought I’d remind you that you’re one of them."

✧ your heart skips a beat at his casual declaration, and for once, you’re at a loss for words. he smirks at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself, before walking away, leaving you to process his unexpected yet reassuring gesture.

✧ turns out, dr. ratio isn’t so easy to test—but he makes it clear that he’s always paying attention.

✧ however, he sits you down for a serious talk afterward. “you don’t need to test me. i like you—that much should be obvious by now.”

aventurine

✧ aventurine takes your antics in stride but is clearly not one to tolerate nonsense for long.

✧ but in all seriousness it feels like you're trying to move a mountain. his steadfastness and confidence make it seem impossible to throw him off balance, but you’re determined to see how deep his patience and affection run. you tell yourself it’s just curiosity, but deep down, you crave the reassurance that this larger-than-life man truly feels the same way you do.

✧ it begins subtly, during one of his routine mineral inspections. he’s meticulously cataloging a haul of rare crystals when you decide to “help.”

✧ “aventurine, what’s this one called?” you ask, holding up a dazzling gem you already know the name of.

✧ he barely glances up, his deep voice calm and measured. “that’s a starshard geode. its structure is—”

✧ “wait, wait,” you interrupt, turning it over in your hands. “are you sure? it kinda looks like... a moonstone?”

✧ his head finally lifts, and he looks at you with a mixture of amusement and mild disbelief. “a moonstone? not even close. are you trying to challenge my expertise?”

✧ “maybe,” you tease, placing the gem back in the wrong compartment.

✧ he sighs, but there’s no frustration in his expression, only a patient shake of his head as he moves the gem back to its proper place. “you’re impossible,” he mutters, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

✧ later, you decide to turn up the heat. as he’s polishing a massive chunk of raw celestium, you sit nearby, swinging your legs off the edge of the table.

✧ “aventurine,” you say sweetly.

✧ “mm?” he responds without looking up.

✧ “do you ever get tired of being around me?”

✧ that gets his attention. he pauses mid-polish, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he turns to face you fully. “what kind of question is that?”

✧ you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “i mean, i can be annoying sometimes. don’t you ever just... wish for some peace and quiet?”

✧ he sets the celestium down with deliberate care and crosses his arms, his imposing figure suddenly feeling even larger.

✧ “you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he says plainly, his voice as steady as the ground beneath your feet.

✧ “what? me? no way,” you reply, trying to sound innocent.

✧ he steps closer, leaning down so his face is level with yours. his expression is serious, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

✧ “if i wanted peace and quiet, i wouldn’t be here,” he says firmly. “do you really think i’d waste my time with someone i don’t care about?”

✧ his straightforwardness leaves you momentarily stunned, and he chuckles softly at your silence. “you don’t need to test me, you know,” he adds, his tone softening. “if you have doubts, just ask. i don’t like games, but i’ll always give you the truth.”

✧ you feel a pang of guilt for pushing him, but his reassurance warms your heart. “sorry,” you mumble, looking down. “i just wanted to be sure...”

✧ he reaches out, gently lifting your chin so you’re forced to meet his gaze.

✧ “then let me make it clear,” he says, his golden eyes unwavering. “you matter to me. and that’s not going to change, no matter how many gems you mislabel.”

✧ you laugh softly, the tension melting away as his words sink in. it was clear that his affection for you is as solid and enduring as the earth itself.

boothill

✧ boothill is rough around the edges but has a soft spot for you, so your little test catches him off guard.

✧ boothill's unmovable, stone-faced, and never shows signs of cracking, no matter what you throw his way. but that’s exactly why you’re so curious. you’ve seen his stoic side, his professionalism, and his dedication, but does that mean there’s any space for you in that heart of his? you decide to try and test the waters.

✧ it begins in a quiet moment, after a long mission. you’re both back at the base, sitting side by side on a bench. boothill is cleaning his weapon, his focus so intense that it feels like nothing in the world could distract him. you watch him for a moment, then decide to start.

✧ “boothill,” you call out softly.

✧ he doesn’t look up, but you see his fingers pause for a fraction of a second before he resumes cleaning his weapon.

✧ “yeah?”

✧ “do you ever wonder if you’re too... distant? i mean, you’re always so focused, so serious. don’t you ever need to relax a bit?”

✧ he glances at you now, his piercing gaze meeting yours for just a second. but he doesn’t answer right away, instead just continuing with his task.

✧ “relaxing isn’t exactly something i prioritize,” he replies with his usual calm. “there’s work to be done.”

✧ you scoff lightly, pushing your luck a little. “work, work, work. what about you, huh? when’s it your turn to... i don’t know, enjoy life? have some fun?”

✧ he looks at you then, and there’s something almost unreadable in his expression. his eyes soften just a fraction, and he lets out a small sigh.

✧ “if you think i don’t enjoy life, you’re wrong,” he says, voice low but surprisingly tender. “i just don’t need distractions.”

✧ you press a little more, feeling a mischievous spark inside you. “so, you’re saying you don’t need me to distract you?”

✧ boothill stops what he’s doing for a moment, and this time, he stares at you, really staring. for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. but then he leans back, folding his arms across his chest, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

✧ “testing me, huh?” he says, his voice laced with dry amusement. “you’re a little more persistent than i expected.”

✧ you shrug nonchalantly, hoping your nonchalance hides the fact that your heart is pounding. “i just want to know if you care, boothill. i mean, you’re so... detached sometimes. how do i know it’s not all just professional to you?”

✧ his gaze softens, and for a brief moment, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that catches you off guard. then, without warning, he reaches out and gently grabs your hand, pulling it into his lap.

✧ “care?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in slow, deliberate movements. “i care more than you know.”

✧ your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the weight of his words settle over you like a blanket. the walls he’s built around himself are still there, but now, you realize that inside, there’s room for you.

✧ “you don’t need to test me for that,” he adds, his voice low and reassuring. “just... don’t expect me to show it the same way as everyone else.”

✧ you can feel the sincerity in his touch, in his gaze, and something inside you finally clicks. boothill’s love is subtle, understated, and a little rough around the edges, but it’s real.

✧ “i get it,” you whisper, squeezing his hand gently. “sorry for making you doubt me.”

✧ he chuckles quietly, a rare sound that makes your heart flutter. “you’re relentless. but that’s why i like you.”

✧ and there it is—he may not always wear his heart on his sleeve, but boothill’s love for you is unwavering, and that’s something you can rely on, even if it’s not always obvious.

gallagher

✧ gallagher is as easygoing as they come, but even he has limits.

✧ it starts innocently enough—just a playful attempt to poke at his carefully maintained composure. he’s in the middle of preparing a meal, the scent of fresh herbs and sizzling meat filling the air as he moves about the kitchen with his usual precision. you, however, are seated at the table, tapping your fingers lightly against the wood, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

✧ “gallagher,” you start, your voice casual but laced with curiosity.

✧ “hm?” he replies, glancing at you briefly before returning to his task.

✧ “how do you always manage to keep your cool? i mean, don’t you ever get tired of being so... well, perfect?”

✧ he doesn’t look up this time, but there’s a subtle shift in the air, like he’s sensing you’re trying to test him. his movements are smooth and measured, and he doesn’t skip a beat as he finishes plating the food.

✧ “there’s no point in losing composure over things that don’t matter,” he says matter-of-factly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “chaos doesn’t make for a good meal.”

✧ you bite your lip, leaning back in your chair. “so, you’re saying everything has to be ‘in its place’ with you? even with people?”

✧ his hands freeze for just a moment, and you catch a flicker of something in his expression—maybe amusement, maybe something else. but it’s gone as quickly as it came. he finishes plating the meal with a soft sigh, setting the plate in front of you.

✧ “i’m not a machine, if that’s what you’re implying,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “i’m not perfect. i just prefer things to be organized—helps with focus.”

✧ you raise an eyebrow, pushing a bit more. “oh? and does that mean you like it when people don’t mess with your focus? or is that just a ‘you’ thing?”

✧ gallagher pauses, studying you carefully. for a moment, the air is thick with tension, but then he smirks slightly, a glimmer of teasing in his eyes.

✧ “messing with my focus?” he repeats, his voice playful now. “is that what you’re doing? because, if i’m being honest, it’s working. you’ve got my attention now.”

✧ you blink, taken aback by his response. you expected him to brush it off, but instead, he steps closer, his presence a little more imposing now.

✧ “you know,” he continues, his tone lower, “you’re not as subtle as you think you are. but i’ll give you points for persistence.”

✧ you try to recover, but there’s something about the way he looks at you that leaves you speechless for a moment.

✧ “persistence?” you murmur, a little breathless.

✧ he nods, his smile softening just enough to show you that it’s genuine. “you’ve got a lot of questions, but i don’t need to play games with you. if you want answers, just ask. you don’t have to test me to find out if i’m interested.”

✧ his words hit you harder than you expected, and you realize that gallagher isn’t someone to hide his feelings. it’s not that he’s cold—he’s just direct. he’ll never say it in the way you might expect, but his actions speak louder than anything else.

✧ “i guess i’m just used to waiting for things to fall into place,” you admit, trying to play it cool.

✧ he leans in slightly, the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. “you don’t have to wait with me. i’m already here.”

✧ his tone is simple, but it carries a weight of meaning that makes your heart skip a beat. gallagher doesn’t do drama, but when he gives you his attention, it’s clear that he’s all in, no matter how much he might downplay it.

moze

✧ moze is a man of few words, and your antics genuinely confuse him. 😰😰

✧  he's calm, composed, and always so serious, which makes you determined to break through that cold, unreadable exterior. you’ve decided to test his limits, just to see if you can get a real reaction out of him.

✧ it starts on a typical day after a mission. you’re sitting across from him in the common room, watching as he pores over some data logs. your usual routine involves making things just a little more interesting for him, because let’s face it—moze needs to lighten up.

✧ “moze,” you say, a grin tugging at your lips.

✧ he doesn’t look up, but you can see the slight twitch of his eyebrow. “what is it?”

✧ you make a show of examining the ceiling, tapping your chin dramatically. “have you ever wondered if the world is actually upside down? like, maybe gravity's all wrong, and we’re just... stuck to the floor by pure luck?”

✧ moze pauses for a split second, probably wondering how you can turn a perfectly normal moment into this. then, without missing a beat, he glances at you, deadpan.

✧ “if the world was upside down, i assume you'd be the one stuck on the ceiling by pure luck,” he says flatly, already returning to his work.

✧ you burst into laughter, but moze doesn’t even flinch, just continues typing, his expression still as composed as ever. he’s like a stone statue, and it’s honestly a little impressive.

✧ “okay, okay,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “let’s try something different.” you lean forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “do you ever get bored? you know, just sitting there all serious, pretending like you’re too busy to talk?”

✧ this time, he doesn’t even look up from his work. “bored? No. Are you trying to see how far you can push me before i snap?”

✧ you nod, trying not to smile too widely. “yep! How’s it going so far?”

✧ moze lets out a soft sigh, clearly unamused but still managing to hold his ground. “i’m doing great. You, on the other hand... are a handful.”

✧ “a handful? me?” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. “I’m hurt, moze. I’m just trying to keep things interesting around here!”

✧ his lips twitch ever so slightly, but it’s almost imperceptible. “you’re making it interesting... in the same way that throwing a tantrum in a library is interesting.”

✧ you tilt your head, pretending to consider this for a moment. “so, you’re saying you don’t like chaos?”

✧ “i like order,” he says, never looking away from the screen. “but if you’re asking if you can test my patience, then yes, you’re doing a very good job of that.”

✧ you giggle, thoroughly entertained by the way he’s handling you. "oh, come on, just admit it. you love the chaos! You secretly think it's hilarious when I mess with you."

✧ moze looks up at you for the first time in a while, his expression still all business but with the tiniest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “if by hilarious, you mean mildly irritating, then yes.”

✧ “mildly?!” you gasp in faux offense. “I’m doing my best here, moze! how could you rate my efforts so low?”

✧ he leans back slightly in his chair, finally breaking his stoic routine. “honestly, i’m impressed you’re still going. most people would’ve given up by now.”

✧ “well, i'm not ‘most people,’ am I?” you reply with a cheeky smile.

✧ he smirks ever so slightly, though it’s mostly to himself. “no. clearly.”

✧ you can’t help but giggle, because while moze definitely isn’t as easily rattled as others, it’s clear he’s starting to find the humor in your antics.

✧ “admit it, moze,” you tease. “i’m the most fun you’ve had all week.”

✧ he raises an eyebrow, finally closing the data pad and turning his full attention to you. “if by ‘fun’ you mean ‘annoying distraction,’ then yes.”

✧ you stick your tongue out at him playfully. “you love me, admit it.”

✧ moze chuckles dryly, though it’s far from his usual serious tone. “you’re impossible. But for some reason, i don’t mind.”

✧ “there it is!” you exclaim, pointing dramatically. “the confession! finally!”

✧ he sighs, but there’s a hint of fondness in his eyes now. “don’t push your luck. i’m still not letting you off the hook for the chaos you’ve caused.”

✧ you grin, leaning back in your seat, satisfied. “you can’t get rid of me that easily, moze. get used to it.”

✧ “i’m already used to it,” he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

jiaoqiu

✧ jiaoqiu is calm and composed, but your “test” slowly chips away at his patience.

✧ his idea of "testing" his patience feels almost like trying to mess with a finely tuned recipe—you know that if you push too far, something could spoil, but you can't resist seeing how he’ll react. the thing about jiaoqiu is that he’s blind, but that doesn’t stop him from being as sharp as a knife when it comes to his senses. especially when it comes to cooking—his true passion.

✧ you’ve noticed something about him, though. the more you “stress” him, the more attentive he gets, in his own way. it’s kind of like the game’s in his favor, and you’re slowly realizing he might be playing right along with you.

✧ one evening, you’re hanging out in the kitchen with jiaoqiu, and you’ve already decided to take your "testing" to the next level. as he prepares some of his signature dishes—no surprise, they're the most complex meals imaginable, even though he can't see a thing—you're doing your best to throw him off.

✧ “jiaoqiu, are you sure you don’t want me to help with that? it looks... dangerous,” you tease, noticing the steam rising from the pot in front of him.

✧ “dangerous?” he repeats, clearly amused but not thrown off. he moves deftly around the kitchen, the sound of his chopping board in the background. “my dear, cooking isn’t dangerous unless you’re trying to make something impossible.”

✧ you laugh softly, leaning against the counter. “so, you’re saying if I started pulling the wrong spices out, you wouldn’t even notice?”

✧ he pauses, then lets out a small chuckle of his own. “i might not see it, but i can certainly smell it. and don’t think i don’t know when you’re reaching for something you shouldn’t be.”

✧ you feign shock, dramatically holding your hands up as if caught in the act. “i would never! i have complete respect for your culinary expertise!”

✧ jiaoqiu hums, as if pondering your words, but then he continues his cooking with that quiet confidence he always carries. “you’d be more convincing if you didn’t have that mischievous glint in your eye.”

✧ your grin widens. it’s clear he’s onto you now, but you still try to push. “well, how would you know? You can't see, after all.”

✧ “true,” he replies calmly, “but i know the sounds of the kitchen well enough. if you were to drop something, or mess with the ingredients... i’d hear it. the rhythm of it all gives me a good idea of what’s happening.”

✧ you blink, stunned. you had been testing him, but jiaoqiu seems to always be one step ahead. how does he know? how can he be so confident?

✧ “and,” he adds, his voice still soft but with a hint of playfulness, “i know you, [your name].”

✧ you laugh, finally admitting defeat. “okay, okay! you got me. but seriously, how do you do it? how do you know where everything is?”

✧ he pauses his cooking and turns toward you, his voice warm yet full of humor. “let’s say i’ve had a lot of practice. and when you love something as much as i love cooking, you learn to rely on all your senses, not just sight. even when you can’t see, your other senses fill in the gaps.”

✧ you watch him work for a moment, and despite his lack of eyesight, he’s a master in the kitchen. it’s clear that his expertise comes from much more than just the act of cooking; it’s a connection to the ingredients, the textures, the sounds of each step.

✧ “okay, but what if i really messed something up? what if i did something totally wrong, just to mess with you?”

✧ he raises an eyebrow—something that’s only visible through his voice, but you get the feeling he’s smirking. “well, if you did that, i’d probably just end up fixing it before you even noticed. and then i’d make you do the dishes.”

✧ you groan, defeated but also thoroughly entertained. “you’re way too good at this.”

✧ “you’re the one testing me, not the other way around,” jiaoqiu reminds you, returning his focus to his cooking. but this time, you can hear the faint warmth in his tone, a reassurance that’s just for you. “but don’t worry, i’m not going to let you ruin dinner. even if you try to be a little mischievous.”

✧ there’s something comforting in the way he handles it all—the teasing, the games you play, even the mess-ups you deliberately throw his way. he may not be able to see you, but you know he can feel your presence, your energy, and you can’t help but feel safe in it. despite his teasing, despite the quiet confidence, jiaoqiu has a way of making everything feel just... right.

✧ “next time,” you say, grinning, “i’m going to really throw you off.”

✧ jiaoqiu just laughs softly, shaking his head as he finishes up his dish. “i’ll be waiting, [your name]. i’ll be waiting.”

✧  “but uh, next time, just ask me. there’s no need for this kind of... drama.”

sunday

✧ sunday is all sunshine and joy, but even he can get flustered when you start testing him.

✧ sunday is a halovian, with those distinct small fluffy wings nestled around his neck—adorably soft and always twitching with his every mood. you’ve learned that while he might seem all chill and sunny on the surface, he’s got his own quirks, and if you push him far enough, he’s more likely to play along than snap at you.

✧ one day, you’re lounging in the living area, and sunday’s sitting across from you, lazily flipping through a book. you can’t resist; it’s time for some mischief.

✧ “hey, sunday,” you call, trying to hide your grin.

✧ “yeah?” he replies, looking off guard. "have you ever been nervous before? like, nervous nervous?"

✧ “nervous? me? c’mon, i’m practically impossible to ruffle.” he gives you a lighthearted shrug, but you can see the playful challenge in his eyes. he’s used to keeping things breezy, but you’ve caught his attention now.

✧ you press on, deciding to have a little more fun with this. “oh really? well, let’s see... I’ve got a whole list of ways I could mess with you.”

✧ sunday doesn’t seem fazed at first, but you notice the way his fluffy wings twitch a little more with each word you say. it’s like a radar for his mood—you know he’s still calm, but there’s something in the way his feathers ruffle when he’s listening to you.

✧ “well, you’ll have to be a lot sneakier than that if you want to get under my skin,” he says, flashing you that signature grin of his, but now you can see a little spark of competitiveness in his eyes.

✧ you, of course, aren’t backing down. “let’s see if i can. hey, sunday, do you ever get tired of being all... perfect?” you ask, making air quotes around "perfect" with your hands.

✧ sunday’s wings flutter again, and this time, you catch the faintest shift in his posture. “perfect?” he asks, trying to play it off, but there’s a subtle twitch in the fluff near his neck. “you’re really gonna call me perfect? what’s wrong with that?”

✧ oh, he’s biting now. perfect. you lean in, voice teasing. “well, it just seems a little... too easy, don’t you think? i mean, you’re always so relaxed, always in control. how do you even do it?”

✧ you can see sunday’s lips twitch in amusement, and his wings give an exaggerated little flutter, like they’re bristling. he’s definitely aware now, but the best part is how he's trying to play it cool, still acting like he’s the one in control.

✧ “you really think i’ve got it all under control, huh?” he responds, a bit of a challenge creeping into his tone. “well, i guess i am pretty awesome. i mean, who could resist all this charm?” he gestures to himself dramatically, his wings fluffing out like he’s proud of the effect they have.

✧ you laugh, but don’t let up. “oh, i’m sure the charm works, but... do you ever get tired of being this smooth?” you tease, pretending to think it over. “i mean, surely you get a little flustered once in a while, right? just a little bit?”

✧ that’s when you see it—a small, barely perceptible shift. sunday’s wings twitch against his neck, brushing lightly as he tries to keep his expression neutral, but you catch it. there’s a softening in his demeanor, a slight heat creeping into his tone.

✧ “huh. so now i’m too smooth?” he teases, but it’s a little less confident now. “maybe you’re just getting good at finding my weak spots.”

✧ you smile, leaning back triumphantly. “maybe. or maybe you’re just too easy to read, sunday.”

✧ he narrows his eyes playfully, but you catch the small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture as his wings flutter just a little more. it's like they’re signaling his internal shift—he’s starting to realize you’re not just playing around.

✧ “okay, okay,” sunday says with a dramatic sigh, his wings now fully unfurled behind him like a soft, fluffy halo. he rubs the back of his neck and gives you a teasing look. “you wanna stress me out, huh? well, guess i’ll have to turn the tables a little.”

✧ with that, sunday leans closer, grinning mischievously. his wings brush against his neck again, this time on purpose, causing a soft, tickling sensation that makes you jump a little.

✧ “how’s this?” he asks, and now, you realize—he’s playing his own game. “i think we’re gonna see how you handle me.”

✧ sunday’s easygoing nature mixed with his unexpected turn in this little game makes it all the more fun. as he continues to toy with you, you can’t help but laugh at how well he’s handled your antics.

✧ “alright, alright,” you admit, finally letting the game end, “you win. i’ll stop testing your patience... for now.”

✧ his wings flutter triumphantly behind him as he gives you a mock salute, his grin still wide and playful. “you’re welcome to try again any time, [name]. but you should know—I don’t get flustered that easily. unless...” he pauses, giving you a teasing look, “...you do something even crazier next time.”

✧ you can’t help but smile back. sunday’s laid-back nature might be hard to crack, but it’s clear—he does enjoy the game, and in the end, he’s always up for a little bit of fun at your expense.

jing yuan

✧ jing yuan usually keeps his composure, but when you start “testing” his patience, he begins to crack ever so slightly.

✧ jing yuan is the epitome of calm, controlled elegance. he carries himself like a well-balanced scale, measured in his actions and words, always composed, always unfazed. but when you start testing him that balance teeters, just a little, though he’s careful to maintain his outward serenity.

✧ you know he's a man of patience, but every person has their breaking point—and you're curious to see how far you can push his.

✧ it all starts innocently enough, a bit of teasing and mild mischief on your part. you might "accidentally" misplace his paperwork, or maybe ask him endless trivial questions when you know he’s buried in his work. you’re not being cruel, of course—just playful, testing the waters to see if he’ll falter.

✧ he humors you at first, a chuckle escaping his lips when you ask something particularly silly. “what is it, my dear?” he asks, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, his golden eyes never leaving his work. “another question for me?”

✧ but as the questions come one after another, you start to notice a shift. his pen slows, and for a moment, his fingers still. he leans back in his chair, gaze lifting to meet yours.

“you’re playing a dangerous game, my dear,” he says, his voice low, but laced with amusement. “are you testing me to see if i’ll lose interest? because i can assure you, i won’t.”

✧ there’s a sharpness to his tone now, the calm facade slipping just slightly. it's subtle, but you catch it—a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes. his gaze darkens with an unreadable emotion, and for the first time, you wonder if you've pushed him too far.

✧ but you’re not one to back down easily, so you keep going, shifting the game into a new gear. you become a little more persistent, trying to get under his skin without being too obvious. you ask more ridiculous questions, throw in more distractions, all in the name of seeing how he reacts. surely, a man like jing yuan, so steady and composed, would get annoyed eventually, right?

✧ you watch him for a long moment, his gaze steady and unwavering. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the desk, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

✧ "is that what you're after?" he asks, his voice softer, but with a certain challenge in it. "you wish to see how far i'll bend? to see if i can be swayed by such... antics?"

✧ your breath catches in your throat, and you wonder if you’ve finally crossed the line. but instead of growing irritated, jing yuan does something entirely unexpected. he sets his pen down with a deliberate motion and stands up, walking around to your side of the desk. his presence looms over you in the most comforting, yet commanding way.

✧ before you can even react, he reaches for your hand, his touch warm and steady. “i can’t help but wonder…” he begins, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more affectionate than you were prepared for. “did you think you could test me without consequences?”

✧ you blink up at him, the playful tension suddenly replaced by a sense of vulnerability. there’s something in his eyes now, a deep knowing.

✧ without waiting for an answer, he leans down, his lips brushing lightly against your ear. “you’re not the only one who can play games, [name],” he murmurs, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

✧ you’re thrown off balance. the tables have turned, and now it’s you who’s feeling slightly flustered. where you were once testing him, now he’s testing you. he’s suddenly more attentive, more affectionate, drawing you in with every word, every touch.

✧ he chuckles softly when he sees your reaction, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “you didn’t think i’d let you have all the fun, did you?” he teases. “i must admit, i’m rather enjoying this.”

✧ you open your mouth to respond, but all you manage is a soft laugh, caught between trying to keep your composure and wanting to give in to the sudden wave of warmth he’s throwing your way.

✧ “alright, jing yuan,” you say, trying to maintain your cool, but failing miserably. “i’ll admit defeat... for now.”

✧ his smile widens, a gentle but confident grin. “defeat? no, my dear. this isn’t about defeat. this is about knowing where we stand. and now that i’ve shown you, i expect no more games.”

✧ his words hang in the air like a promise, and you realize he’s not just testing you—he’s reassuring you, in his own way. with him, you never had to worry about being lost in his affection, because it’s clear: he’s always there, steady as ever.

✧ and just like that, the game you started has ended—only now, it’s more than you ever expected.

dan heng

✧ dan heng is the embodiment of calm and collected. his reserved nature and stoic expression almost never crack, even under the most trying of circumstances. it takes a lot to throw him off balance, which is why you’ve made it your mission to see if you can break that calm demeanor of his—just a little.

✧ at first, you start small. maybe you ask him to help you with something you’re perfectly capable of doing yourself, like reaching for a book you’re clearly just a bit too lazy to grab. you catch him off guard, but as expected, he’s kind enough to help without comment.

✧ “thank you, dan heng,” you say with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

✧ he gives you a short, quiet nod, his expression unchanged. “it’s no trouble,” he mutters, though there’s a faint suspicion in his voice.

✧ you smile innocently, but it’s not lost on you how quickly he’s growing aware of your game. so, you keep at it, asking for more and more “help” with things you’re fully capable of doing on your own. every time he obliges, you see his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and you can almost feel the gears turning in his head as he processes what's going on.

✧ “dan heng,” you ask one day, leaning into the playful tension between you two, “could you pass me the salt?” the shaker’s right in front of you, of course.

✧ there’s a long pause. his gaze flicks over to the salt shaker, then back to you, his brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. “you’re not really that helpless, are you?” he asks, his voice quiet but sharp.

✧ you feign surprise. “i’m not? you sure?”

✧ he doesn’t respond right away, his fingers tapping lightly on the surface of the table. you can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

✧ “i know you’re not,” he says finally, voice even but tinged with a little irritation now. “so, what are you trying to prove?”

✧ you chuckle softly, realizing you’ve definitely gotten under his skin now. but it’s more out of curiosity than malice—you want to see how far you can go before he snaps, how long he’ll let you test him before he turns the tables.

✧ “oh, nothing,” you say innocently. “just wanted to see if you’d do it without asking questions.”

✧ dan heng’s eyes narrow, and for the first time in this little game, he seems to truly study you, as if trying to gauge your intentions.

✧ “you’re not as subtle as you think,” he finally says, his tone firm but not unkind. “you’re trying to get a reaction out of me, aren’t you?”

✧ you grin, leaning back with a satisfied look. “maybe... what’s the harm?”

✧ dan heng stands up from his seat, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he slowly gathers his things. you know you’ve pushed him a little, but you’re unsure if he’s genuinely upset or just playing along.

✧ “fine,” he mutters. “you want a reaction? here it is.”

✧ you blink as he steps closer, his usual reserved demeanor slipping as he looks down at you with a slight, almost imperceptible frown. “if i didn’t care about you, i wouldn’t even be here, helping you with these ridiculous requests. so, stop trying to push my patience.”

✧ you freeze for a moment, surprised at how direct and blunt he’s being. there’s no anger in his words—just a quiet frustration, the kind that comes from realizing how much you’ve been testing him.

✧ he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what he’s dealing with. “honestly, i’m not sure if you’re trying to get me to lose my patience or just see how far you can push me.”

✧ you smile sheepishly, knowing you’ve been a little relentless with your “tests.” “i guess a bit of both,” you admit, but there’s a softness in your voice now. “i just wanted to see if you’d care enough to call me out on it.”

✧ dan heng sighs deeply, but now there’s a warmth to his expression that wasn’t there before. he steps closer and places a hand gently on your shoulder, the touch more tender than you expected. “i care enough to call you out, even if it means putting up with your nonsense.”

✧ it’s quiet for a moment, but you can feel the sincerity in his words. you’ve definitely ruffled his calm, but in a way that shows just how much he’s paying attention, how much he truly cares for you.

✧ you laugh lightly, not expecting him to be so honest about it, but secretly glad to know you’ve gotten through to him. “i’ll try not to test you so much, okay?”

✧ dan heng shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “i’ll believe it when i see it.”

welt yang

✧ welt, being the mature and experienced gentleman he is, notices your little “test” immediately.

✧ the man is used to dealing with delicate matters, whether in his long history of research, his time as a historian, or the countless responsibilities that come with leading in times of crisis. so, when you start testing his patience, you know it’s going to take a lot more than a small inconvenience to shake him. that being said, you enjoy challenging him, just a little, to see how far you can push him.

✧ you start off small, of course. asking him the most trivial questions when he’s in the middle of reading one of his ancient books. “hey, welt,” you say sweetly, “do you think this book is boring?” the book’s not even in your hands, and he knows that you’re probably more interested in him than in the actual content of the text.

✧ at first, he doesn’t mind. he chuckles softly and lowers the book, humoring you with a small smile. “if i’m being honest, i would say it depends on your taste in reading. but you do know i can’t really afford distractions right now, right?”

✧ you smile, but this isn’t nearly enough to throw him off. you push again, dropping little hints like the fact that he’s been at his desk for hours on end and could probably use a break. you make a comment about how he’s always so serious, so focused, and maybe you should help him lighten up.

✧ “you know,” you tease, “you work too hard. you should take a break. come on, just for a minute?”

✧ welt sets the book down and looks at you, raising an eyebrow. “i’m not sure if i would call it ‘work’ if i’m doing something i enjoy, but i do appreciate the concern. perhaps you have something else in mind to keep me occupied?”

✧ his tone is light, playful even, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests he’s well aware of your intentions. he’s not the type to get easily upset, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t picked up on your little game.

✧ “you really know how to throw me off track, don’t you?” he says with a smile, clearly amused by your antics. “is this your way of seeing how far i’ll go before i lose my cool?”

✧ you grin, not backing down. “maybe. you seem so calm all the time. i wanted to know if i could make you flinch, just a little.”

✧ welt lets out a soft laugh, leaning back in his chair. “you’re testing me now, aren’t you? i suppose i should’ve expected as much from you.”

✧ you notice his hands move to the side of his glasses, adjusting them ever so slightly, and that’s when you realize: he’s fully aware of what’s going on.

✧ “you know, it’s cute that you think i’m impervious to distractions,” he continues, clearly enjoying your playful attempts. “but perhaps you underestimate how well i’ve learned to focus in the midst of chaos.”

✧ you can’t help but laugh at that, realizing that no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to make him flinch. he’s too smooth, too used to handling these kinds of things.

✧ “maybe i should stop testing you,” you say, a bit sheepishly. “you’re just too good at staying calm.”

✧ welt smiles knowingly. “i’ve had plenty of practice, but if you really want to test me further, i’m sure there are other ways to do so.” he leans forward, raising an eyebrow, his voice turning just a bit teasing. “but i’m not so easily caught off guard, dear. if you want to see me lose my composure, you’ll have to be a little more creative.”

✧ you blink in surprise at how easily he flipped the situation on its head, and then it dawns on you: you’ve just been outplayed.

✧ he notices the realization in your expression and gives you an amused glance. “now, if you’re really interested, i can give you some advice on how to keep your distractions less obvious in the future. but don’t expect me to fall for it again so easily.”

✧ you can’t help but laugh. “alright, alright, you win this round.”

✧ welt chuckles softly, picking up his book again. “it’s not about winning or losing, but about knowing how to handle what comes your way. and if you ever need a distraction, you know where to find me.”

✧ “but do you know, if you want reassurance, you only need to ask. i don’t play games when it comes to my feelings for you.” my man does NOT play when it comes to you!! 🙅‍♀️ 🙅‍♀️

blade

✧ he is stoic, so basically this feels like poking a sleeping tiger. you’d try to stress him out by being overly affectionate in public or daringly teasing him in front of the stellaron hunters.

✧ blade is a man of few words, and even fewer smiles. so when you start poking at him, trying to get a rise out of him, you know you’re walking a fine line. but that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? to see just how much you can push before he cracks.

✧ it starts with small, playful jabs. teasing him about his stoic nature, of course. you know he’s not the type to express himself easily, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to bring out something more from him.

✧ “blade, do you ever smile? i think i’d faint if i saw it.”

✧ you say it with a mischievous grin, watching for any sign of a reaction. his first response is the usual – a glare that could melt steel. but there’s something else in his eyes, a flicker of something that tells you he’s holding back a smirk. deep down, you know he secretly enjoys your antics.

✧ “you’re really trying to get me to laugh, aren’t you?” he says, his voice low and steady, though it has a hint of something playful beneath it.

✧ you push further, though, not willing to let up so easily. “come on, blade. you can’t possibly be that serious all the time. it’s like you’re stuck in permanent brooding mode.”

✧ and that’s when the situation takes a turn. before you can even process it, he grabs your wrist with surprising speed, pulling you close, his voice dropping even lower, sending a shiver down your spine.

✧ “you think i’d waste my time with someone i didn’t care about? don’t test me.”

✧ his words come with an intensity that you didn’t expect, his presence so overpowering that it almost takes the air out of your lungs. you blink, momentarily taken aback, but you don’t back down. the playful teasing lingers in the air, even though you can tell that you’ve crossed the line.

✧ but blade, in his own way, seems to realize that. after a moment, he releases his grip on your wrist, letting out a quiet sigh. the edge of his tone softens, just slightly.

✧ “you’re important to me,” he mutters, his voice low but genuine. “stop doubting that.”

✧ there’s no grand declaration, no flowery words. just the blunt honesty of a man who’s difficult to read, yet in his own way, he’s showing you something far deeper than what words could ever convey.

✧ you watch him for a moment, realizing that, despite all his coldness, there’s a warmth buried deep beneath the surface – one that he’s not so quick to reveal, but it’s there, unmistakable in its own quiet way.

✧ “i guess i’ll just have to take your word for it, huh?” you say with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood once more.

✧ blade doesn’t respond with a smile, but the slightest hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. and maybe, just maybe, that’s his version of a win.

sampo koski

✧ sampo loves games, so he immediately plays along with your little “test.”

✧ sampo has always been the life of the party, the one with a smile on his face and a witty comeback ready for anything. so when you start throwing him off with your uncharacteristic seriousness, it’s like throwing a wrench in his well-oiled machine of flirtations.

✧ you don’t laugh at his jokes, you don’t play along with his flirtations, and you certainly don’t give him the usual banter he’s used to. instead, you respond with an almost eerie level of calm.

✧ “oh? no witty comeback today? you’re scaring me, sweetheart,” he teases, leaning back, watching you with an exaggerated frown as though he’s genuinely concerned. you can see the twinkle in his eyes, but he’s trying to hold it together.

✧ at first, you don’t budge. you just stare at him, deadpan, giving nothing away.

✧ he blinks a few times, clearly thrown off. then, he lets out a dramatic sigh. “oh no, what’s happening? is this… a breakup? did i mess up somehow? what did i do wrong? i can change! i swear, i’ll stop with the flirtations—i’ll even stop trying to steal your snacks!" he says, eyes widening as though he's on the verge of a crisis.

✧ the way he overacts is so ridiculous that it’s hard to keep a straight face. but you’re committed, your expression still unreadable as you let him stew in the nonsense he’s coming up with.

✧ when you finally can’t hold it in anymore and let out a soft laugh, his entire demeanor shifts. in an instant, his playful grin is back, and he pulls you into a sudden hug.

✧ “sweetheart, if i didn’t like you, i wouldn’t stick around this long. but nice try!” he says between chuckles, his voice playful and warm.

✧ you can’t help but smile at his antics. he may act like he’s been genuinely stressed out, but deep down, you know he’s been enjoying every minute of your teasing.

✧ he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling mischievously. “you really had me going there for a second. but hey, now i know you care enough to test me. i’ll take it as a compliment.”

✧ you shake your head, still amused by his dramatic performance. “don’t ever change, sampo.”

✧ he winks at you, his usual grin returning in full force. “don’t worry, sweetheart, i’m never going to change… unless it’s to make you laugh more.”

luocha

✧ luocha is patient and gentle, but even he has his limits. you’d try to test him by asking endless hypothetical questions about relationships or intentionally making vague statements about your feelings.

✧ when you start throwing questions his way, testing his patience with doubts about his feelings, you know he’ll handle it with the same serenity he always exudes. but the longer it goes on, the more you start to wonder if you’re pushing him too far.

✧ “what if someone better came along?” you ask casually, watching his expression for a hint of reaction. it’s a harmless question in your mind, but you can tell he takes it seriously.

✧ he pauses, his hand resting gently on his chin, thinking it through before answering with his usual calmness. “if someone better came along, then you’d deserve to find happiness with them, just as I would wish for your happiness no matter the circumstances.”

✧ his response isn’t what you expected. it’s thoughtful, selfless, and it makes you question your own intentions. but you can’t help yourself – you press on, seeking reassurance in the form of his steady words.

✧ “but what if you don’t feel the same as you did before? what if you find someone who catches your eye more than me?”

✧ luocha’s gaze softens as he listens to your words. there’s no anger in his eyes, no irritation. only concern, as if he’s trying to understand why you would even think such a thing. his voice remains calm, but now there’s a slight edge to it, as if the question weighs on him more than you realize.

✧ “are you trying to test me?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his brow furrowing just enough to show he’s genuinely curious. “i hope you know i mean every word i’ve said to you. my feelings are not something i take lightly.”

✧ you’re taken aback, your mind racing as you realize just how much this is affecting him. you weren’t trying to hurt him; you just wanted to see if he truly cared. but now, the weight of your questions hangs heavy in the air.

✧ seeing the uncertainty in your eyes, he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. he reaches out, taking your hand in his, offering you a reassuring smile that radiates warmth.

✧ “there’s no need for doubt,” he says softly, his voice gentle yet firm. “my feelings for you are genuine, and they won’t change based on fleeting insecurities. you are the only one i see, the only one i care for.”

✧ his words carry a weight that resonates deep within you, his sincerity undeniable. you feel a warmth spread through your chest, a sense of relief washing over you.

✧ “i’m sorry,” you say, a little embarrassed by how far you’ve pushed him. “i didn’t mean to make you doubt how much i care.”

✧ luocha chuckles softly, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. “it’s alright,” he says, his voice filled with understanding. “i know you’re just seeking reassurance. but i hope this is enough to put your mind at ease.”

✧ you nod, grateful for his patience and the depth of his affection. his unwavering calmness and the way he handles your doubts only make you feel even more certain that, with him, you never need to worry about someone else coming along.

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had. 

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you. 

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.” 

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered. 

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.” 

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse. 

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!” 

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains. 

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest. 

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away. 

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you. 

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive. 

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours. 

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second. 

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds. 

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood. 

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through. 

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did. 

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming. 

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips. 

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest. 

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them. 

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas. 

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar. 

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too. 

Everything would be done if another city fell.  

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry. 

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down. 

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him. 

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another. 

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm. 

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike. 

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that. 

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do. 

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness. 

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up. 

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did. 

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears. 

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!” 

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock. 

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious. 

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream. 

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static. 

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead. 

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out. 

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t. 

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life. 

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.” 

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile? 

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky. 

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him. 

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine. 

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact. 

Your face gains heat. 

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment. 

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow. 

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?” 

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began. 

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died. 

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar. 

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found. 

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.” 

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls. 

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.” 

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around. 

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more. 

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water. 

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering. 

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet. 

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important. 

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything. 

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course. 

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious. 

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years. 

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place. 

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet. 

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds. 

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?” 

You weren’t going to stop until you found it. 

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet. 

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him. 

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you. 

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you. 

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard. 

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?” 

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it. 

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.” 

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.” 

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after. 

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question. 

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile. 

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building. 

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told. 

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood. 

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch. 

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago. 

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system. 

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real. 

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three. 

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices. 

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.” 

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible. 

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet. 

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?” 

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years. 

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?” 

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh. 

The man forces a weak huff. 

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you. 

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same. 

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you. 

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck. 

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?” 

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.” 

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you. 

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon. 

TAGS:

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[p0orbaby]

I have an idea for Leah. Maybe Leah preparing to propose to reader? Like picking out the ring, arranging the plans to do it & what to say. Being super stressed that it goes well.

-

The engagement ring is currently sitting in the drawer of Leah’s bedside table. It’s been there for three days. That’s seventy-two hours of her life spent mentally cycling through increasingly absurd ways to ask you to marry her—none of which feel remotely good enough. Yesterday, she briefly considered hiring a flash mob but abandoned the idea when she realised she couldn’t name a single person in her life who would willingly agree to dance in public.

The ring itself is a masterpiece—or, at least, Leah tells herself it is, because the thought of you hating it makes her chest constrict like a bad asthma attack. It’s a gold band, delicate but not fragile, and the diamond is small but impossibly bright, practically nuclear under artificial light. It reminds her of you. Elegant, unassuming, but blindingly brilliant. She spent hours debating between gold and platinum, flipping through online forums and texting Beth for advice, only to be told: Mate, just get what she’ll actually like. Helpful.

She chose gold, naturally, because you once mentioned in passing that platinum felt too cold. You probably don’t even remember saying it, but Leah does. She remembers everything. Like the fact you can’t stand carnations (“soulless flowers”) and that you always eat the crusts off your toast first because it’s more “structurally satisfying.” She’s built this proposal on a foundation of your quirks and preferences. It’s practically a thesis at this point.

Her plan is a dinner reservation at that restaurant—the one with the hand-written menus and waiters who always remember you like your wine dry. She’s already called them to arrange for a quieter table in the corner, away from the clatter of silverware and the prying eyes of other diners. She’s even considered what to wear: a crisp, white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of her forearms (which you once confessed makes her look “obnoxiously fit”) and tailored trousers she had altered just last week.

But even with all this planning, Leah feels like she’s holding a ticking bomb. She’s stressed in a way she hasn’t been since that penalty shootout against Brazil. She’s pacing the flat now, her steps echoing faintly on the hardwood floor. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath. “It’s just a question. Four words. Five if I add a ‘please.’ Six if I say her full name.”

“You alright there?” Beth’s voice crackles through the speakerphone, equal parts curious and entertained. Leah forgot she left her phone on the kitchen counter, still connected to the ongoing call.

“I’m fine,” Leah says, glaring at her phone like it’s personally betrayed her.

“No, you’re not. You’re spiralling”

“I’m not spiralling”

“You’re literally pacing like a dad waiting for news in a hospital drama”

Leah stops pacing. “I just… I want it to be perfect”

“It will be perfect. She loves you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, but what if she hates the ring?”

“She won’t”

“What if she says no?”

“She won’t”

“What if I say something stupid like, ‘I can’t wait to do your taxes together’?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Beth’s laughter bursts through the speaker like an explosion. “Honestly, that’s probably exactly what she’d expect from you”

Leah groans, rubbing her hands over her face. “This isn’t funny”

“It’s a little funny”

She ends the call before Beth can continue her unsolicited pep talk and sits down on the sofa, staring at the box in her hand. It’s absurdly light, considering the weight it carries. She snaps it open, then shut. Open, shut. Like the world’s most expensive stress toy.

You walk into the flat a few hours later, shrugging off your coat with a small sigh. Leah, who’s been pretending to read the same page of a book for the past twenty minutes, immediately tenses. The ring box is hidden in her pocket now, a phantom weight pressing against her thigh.

“Hey,” you say, dropping onto the sofa beside her. “You alright? You look… weird”

She blinks at you, heart pounding. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like you’ve seen a ghost or just remembered you left the oven on”

She laughs nervously, her hand twitching towards her pocket. The words are there—Will you marry me?—but they stick to her throat, stubborn and immovable.

“Leah?” you prompt, looking at her curiously.

And just like that, she panics.

“Do you want takeaway tonight?” she blurts, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m thinking Thai”

You raise an eyebrow but nod. “Sure. Thai sounds good”

The proposal will have to wait. Again.

[ccazimi]

Nightingale (pt. 4)

Read pt. 3

CW: stepcest, noncon, partial p in v, choking/breathplay, dacryphilia, namecalling (sweetheart, cockslut, etc.), degradation, dirty talking, sadism, cock worship, blowjob, throat/facefucking, cumplay (?), lmk if i missed anything else

WC: 3.5k

a/n: please! pay attention to the warnings! i'm gonna proofread this tmr so excuse any mistakes... also i think this miniseries will have one more part as the last one

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You hate those stupid words that he’d uttered because now you can’t get them out of your head.

With bated breaths and timid glances you sneak at him you wait patiently, wondering if he really meant what he said.

Those stupid words that kept you yearning in a way that was unfamiliar to you- if not to feel his tongue or his touch again then that damned toy he’d used on you.

The orgasm it gave you kept you up for nights, only heightened when you thought of him using it on you.

But Sukuna had been working long hours lately, and you had no idea how to even bring this up to him- as if you would, even if you knew how.

Amidst your thoughts being infected with him, you somehow didn’t feel the want to go on anymore dates. You gave excuses- that you were busy with schoolwork or that your parents were strict, because the truth was gross.

You wanted your perverted stepbrother to fuck you, use you, make you feel good in ways that had you questioning your sanity. That he’s tainted you till the point you get wet when he calls you his little sister.

These days disgust and discomfort are hard to differentiate from want and dark desires.

Still, you wondered if something had shifted in your dynamic with him since that night. He seemed a bit less antagonistic these days the few times you saw him, still teasing and taunting but in a more playful manner, and you felt yourself easing up with his presence, like you weren’t a stranger in your own home whenever he was around.

Any amiability came to a stand still not even a week later, when the situation regarding your finances came up.

Maybe it partially arose from the fact the Mr. Itadori had stepped up in his paternal role, happily offering to pay for your expenses including your college tuition. It was no secret that he was smitten with you, maybe because having a daughter was a nice change after raising two sons his whole life.

Even this would still be fine if he didn’t make Sukuna - the only other earning man in the household - pay for your expenses as well.

You insisted otherwise but Mr. Itadori was set on making his older show up for you, perhaps thinking this would show him how to act or how to be a real brother to you.

And that’s how you arrived with Sukuna having to pay your credit card bill, which clearly pissed him off to no end.

“Seventy-eight thousand yen?! Are you fucking serious?”

You stood awkwardly in the doorway of Yuuji and Sukuna’s shared room, feeling guilty enough as it was going up to him and asking him if he could pay your bill since Mr. Itadori told you to go to him for it.

Honestly, you’d try to postpone this meeting for as long as you could but your bill was due very soon.

“It was over the course of one whole month, okay?” You reply defensively, thinking you’d actually done a decent enough job budgeting this month.

Sukuna’s lip curls in irritation as he looks up from the statement to glare at you. “You don’t fucking get it do you? Spoiled fucking brat, you’ve just had everything handed to you your whole life.”

His words sting, like they always do. You’re tired of hearing this same tirade from him over and over again- and to act like he knows you or whatever the hell your life was like?

It grates your nerves.

“Don’t act like I’m the problem just because you’re miserable.” You finally spit back.

“You are the fucking problem, you just enter our fucking lives and start leeching off of us.” He seethes, creases etched into his face that’s twisted in anger. “Getting coddled like you’re a damn toddler while the rest of us actually have to work.”

“I’m a full time student, you know this!” You step closer, done bowing your head and putting up with his bullshit. “And you have no right to act like you’re a fucking saint just because you have a job, after all the things you’ve done to me.”

You despise the way your voice breaks just a bit after you hiss out the last part, the way his expression contorts with something mocking, condescending.

He scoffs. “Done to you, huh? You keep playing this card like you don’t fucking love it,” He leans closer, “Like you don’t fall apart under my touch as if it’s the only good thing that’s ever happened to you. I bet you even fuck yourself on your fingers at night pretending they’re mine, don’t you?”

Sukuna watches you try to hold yourself together and keep your composure as you stubbornly deny him what both of you know is the truth, acutely aware of how close he was and that glint in his eyes. “I don’t. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Sweetheart, you’d probably get on the floor and do it in front of me right now if I asked you to.” He smirks. “If I promised you I’d make you feel so good, if you did. You don’t have nearly as much shame as you pretend to.”

You push down the lump in your throat, fingers curling inwards and unfurling again as you’re rudely reminded of the situation you’d been dealing with this whole fucking week, how even now your craving mind wonders if this is an offer.

“Make me feel good….how?” You murmur under your breath, heat seeping through your body and across your cheeks as you look down and away from his face and towards the long fingers that were pumping inside you.

You’re ridiculously horny for him.

He laughs, a callous sound that rips through and yanks you out of your stupor.

“God, you were really fuckin’ gonna do it, weren’t you? Pathetic bitch.” He sneers.

Tears of resentment, anger, and humiliation prick at your eyes and before they have a chance to fall your hand is suddenly flying through the air and slapping him squarely across the face.

“Fuck you, fuck, I wish you’d never entered my fucking life!” You yell, hating how your hit seemingly does nothing to him, or that sleazy grin on his face. “No wonder your mom left, it was probably because of you, her fucked up shit-show of a son.”

Whatever mirth lingered on his expression quickly disappears as his face hardens.

You know you’ve crossed a line, even before he stands at his full height reminding you of just how much bigger and stronger he was then you.

You’re still angry and honestly it felt good spewing that venom at him, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling something new right now like cold water in your veins.

It turns icier when he smiles again, the kind of smile that signals you should leave now.

“Maybe you’re right. Wanna see how much of a ‘fucked up shit show of a son’ she gave birth to?” He prowls closer, agonizingly slow as you continue to back further and further away until you’re near his door.

You really shouldn’t have gotten yourself into this situation while the only other person at home was Mr. Itadori who was contentedly asleep in the living room sofa while the tv plays loudly in the background.

Finally you swivel around, though you know it’s pointless.

You’ve played this game before- Sukuna will always be bigger, stronger, faster.

And just like that he’s in front of you, shoving you away from the door as a condemning click tells you there’s no getting out of this now.

It alarms you, enough that you’re leaping across the small expanse of the room, though you know it won’t do anything, confirmed by a tight grasp around your wrist before you’re shoved face first into the dark covers of his single bed.

It all happens so fast, you feel the immovable weight of him above you as you struggle uselessly and panicked tears are wet on your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Sukuna, I didn’t mean it—”

His hand is around your throat in an instant, pressing the air out of your words as he pushes your head back till your neck is straining. “Shut up, just shut the fuck up. You had it fucking coming.”

You stop trying to fight back, with both wrists held together behind your back in just one of his hands and another that could choke you out at any time, you were only just wasting your energy.

He leans in, breath hot and humid as it ghosts across your ear. “I really held out on this, you know. But you’ve pushed your luck too far this time…”

A sickly feeling curdles in your gut when he shifts so you can feel the hardness in his pants, rubbing along the curve of your ass. “So let me show you what a mean older brother I can be.”

Your breath turns shaky as you feel him undo his pants, shifting around to free his erection before crudely yanking your own bottoms and panties down, just enough that you can feel air brush against your exposed ass and cunt. “No, no, no, I’m not ready Sukuna, please you c-cant,”

His fingers tighten back up around your trachea, the uncomfortable pressure and your anxiety letting only a scant amount of oxygen to make it to your lungs.

“I can, and I will. Besides, you were ready that night, huh? Just to lose it to some random guy you barely even knew, if it came to it.”

You feel it then, the hot and leaking tip of his cock rubbing against your pussy. You try to swallow but you can’t. You want to yell, say something, anything, but not a single word can make its way up your squeezed throat.

“Oh fuck, you’re wet.” He chuckles lightly, exhaling audibly as his cock slides further into your lubricated folds, sliding it back and forth in your slick. “You like this or something? Is this turning you on? God, you might just be as ‘fucked up’ as me…”

His grip loosens slightly on your throat, allowing you with some much needed air as you find yourself getting even more worked up, despite the fear and bitterness that boiled in you.

Your stomach tightens when you feel him stop his movements to prod his tip against your entrance. “St-stop Sukuna, I won’t be able to take it,” You whisper as fresh tears fall, “You’ll tear me up.”

“Just take a deep breath.” He says flatly, not a hint of concern in his voice. “Or don’t, I don’t really care either way.”

He presses himself further into you, and you can already feel the pain gathering as he’s barely even inserted himself.

“No-”

Your cry of protest turns into a wincing gasp as he pushes himself further into you, just the tip of him forcing its way past your entrance.

“Oh shit, you’re tight,” He groans.

It hurts. A painful burn that felt like you were being ripped open as he tries to inch himself deeper into you.

Your body’s tensed in pain, breath labored while you let out feeble whimpers as tears stream and stream, trying to just get through it, remembering how you were always told that there would be pleasure after the initial pain.

Even if it doesn’t seem like this pain would ever be worth it.

He can’t honestly be more than an inch in, but you feel him stop moving.

He’s looking at you.

A second passes before he sighs. “Fuck.”

And with that there’s another sudden burst of pain before it’s gone all together and you realize he’s pulled himself out of you.

His hand leaves your throat, relief flooding your veins when you feel his weight lift off you.

As soon as you can, you quickly turn over, harshly pulling your own pants up to see he’s already tucked himself back in as well.

You scoot farther away from him on his bed until your back is to the wall.

He’s looking down at you with a scornful look of frustration with a gaze that makes you feel small before finally breaking the silence. “Get on the ground. You’re gonna have to make me cum another way.”

“Wh-what?”

“Are you dumb? Get down and on your knees. Now.”

You do as he says, slipping off the edge of his bed and slowly lowering yourself till he knots a hand in your hair and pushes down on your hear till you’re at his crotch level.

“And take off your top.”

You hesitate.

It doesn’t make sense for you to be shy about this, especially after everything else.

You swallow and grab your shirt by the hem to pull it up over the top of your head before pausing and looking up at him.

“Don’t make me fucking say it.”

Well, at least you tried your luck.

Slowly you unclasp your bra and take off the straps before throwing it to the side to expose your bare chest to him.

Sukuna’s eyes roam over your tits as your nipples harden in exposure to the air and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“That’s what I like to see.” He hums before gripping your head tightly again to push you forcefully into the large bulge in his pants so that he can grind it on your face. “Feel that? You’re gonna take all of it down your dumb little throat and you’re gonna love every single second of it. Understand?”

Tears sting your eyes and your face burns in equal parts shame and arousal as you nod obediently.

“Say it. Haven’t I taught you how to use your words?”

“Y-yes, I understand.” The words come out muffled by his clothed erection pressed against your mouth.

He pulls away. “Strip me.”

For a second you pause before quickly getting to work, unable to look up at him in the eye as you do so.

You unbutton his jeans and pull them down, the outline of his hardened cock through the black boxers sucking the air out of your lungs. Your fingers brush against his skin as you hook them around the waistband and peel them down to release his swollen dick.

Your stomach coils again.

Maybe it’s just the angle but you swear it looks even bigger than last time, with a vein running around the underside that you hadn’t previously noticed.

There was no way in hell you could have possibly taken that thing inside you and survived.

“Look up at me.” He orders as he grasps his cock with one hand.

You tilt your chin, round tear eyes meeting the hungry ones above you, watching his pupils blow out even more when he slaps his blushed tip against your face, making you wince softly.

That wicked leer of his only grows, the one that always means bad news.

“Kiss it. Show me how much you love my cock.”

Your eyes widen slightly, laying your hands around the dark tattooed bands encircling the muscular tops of his thighs before placing a chaste kiss right on his slit.

“Ah, fuck,” He exhales as he rubs the leaking tip of his dick up against your lips, smearing the precum all over them like it’s lipgloss. “That’s a good girl. Keep this up and you might actually make up for before.”

You resist the urge to bite his dick off.

He taps his cock on your mouth. “Open up.”

You comply, entirely confused by how much you hated this, especially after what he’d just tried, yet found yourself just as desperately wanting to taste him.

He immediately begins to slide his length through your opened mouth, groaning at the contact against your wet tongue, continuing to go deeper and deeper till it was uncomfortable.

You try to fight your gag reflex from being triggered but it happens anyway, with something so long and large being pushed down your throat. You grip his thighs pathetically and try to push away from him as your throat convulses around his cock, trying to squeeze it out.

You’re offered no mercy because it only hardens his dick more, and with a cold laugh he harshly shoves your skull further down his length till your nose is pressed against his pelvis. “Oh come on, you’re being dramatic.”

Dramatic?

You can barely breathe, growing dizzy when he finally pulls out and peers down at you as you cough a bit and regain your breath.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re such a sensitive little thing, because fuck, it turns me on to see you all pathetic like this.” You wish you could ask him to be gentler but you know by now that there was a good chance he’d likely just do the opposite. So instead you wipe your tears and determinedly take his dick in your hand to put it into your mouth again- though this time not all the way.

Sukuna let’s you do this without shoving himself back down your throat, watching your face and fighting the urge to let out a moan as you swirl your tongue around his swollen tip.

You gaze up at him and he inhales sharply when you dig your tongue into the divot of his frenulum, dragging your soft tongue up from it over his tip, and back down his shaft again.

His breathing grows heavier, no longer able to fight the urge to thrust in and out of your warm, wet mouth in time with your motions and the way your tongue laves so sensually all over his dick. “Shit, you like this you little cockslut? You like sucking off your big brother?”

You moan around his dick without even thinking, and Sukuna grins again. “Wow, you really are messed up.” He rasps. “Now suck my balls like a good little slut, yeah?”

He pulls his wet length out of your messy mouth, smeared with precum and saliva. You hold his cock up and close your lips around his heavy scrotum, sucking and lapping gently at the soft flesh while you stroke his shaft with your hand.

The last restraints of his control begin to crumble at the sensation, at how fucking filthy you look like this. “Ah -fuck- god, you really are nothing more than my obedient little dog, huh? I can make you do -hah- whatever the fuck I want you to…”

His grip in your hair suddenly tightens and he pulls away to shove his cock through your parted lips, unable to control the urge to fuck your mouth any longer.

The pressure is sudden and before you can adjust he’s gripping your hair so tightly you feel pinpricks on your scalp. That pain is quickly overshadowed when he begins snapping his hips back and forth at a brutal pace.

You struggle to keep your mouth open while you try not to choke on the cock slamming into the back of your throat over and over again.

“Ah, shit, you pathetic, stupid, needy little thing. You’re -hah- really worth nothing more than being a -fuck- a cocksleeve for me to use.”

You don’t notice tears are falling again, running down your cheeks and only adding to the ness of spit dribbling obscenely down your chin from where he mercilessly thrusts in and out of your mouth.

It hurts, your jaw aches and you feel like you’re suffocating on his cock abusing your throat, hoping it won’t be long till he cums because you don’t think you can keep this up much longer.

And like your prayers have been answered, suddenly he snaps his dick all the way out of your mouth and jerks it above your face before cumming with a hiss, ropes of thick hot cum spurting out and painting your whole face white. They keep coming for a few seconds more, and by the time he’s down you feel the viscous fluid dripping lewdly down your face.

He pants, eyes drinking in the sight of you kneeling with cum all over your face, and it almost makes his dick harden again. “God, you look perfect right now, sis.”

You can barely look up at him, thinking it would’ve been a lot less degrading for him to just cum down your throat than this.

Sukuna furrows his brows in mock confusion. “Where’s your gratitude? Show some thanks and lick that shit up like a properly trained mutt.”

You don’t even think, just moving automatically to swipe your fingers in the semen drying on your face, and sucking them clean. He watches you do it over and over till of it is gone into your stomach, and you look expectantly up at him.

He’s tucked himself back in, reaching forward to pet the top of your head. “Good girl. I guess you’ve earned me paying your bill, huh?”

[runnning-outof-time]

I’m (Not) Alright with a Slow Burn | Tommy Shelby x Reader headcanons

Request: yes by anonymous

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader (headcanons)

Summary: How Tommy would go about being stuck in a slow burn with someone he's falling for.

Warnings: mention of death of grandmother, slight season 2 spoilers

Word Count: 2537

A/N: I really enjoyed this request! umm…I’m not sure if these are 100% written like headcanons - I wrote them like I was spewing out ideas lol. Kacey Musgraves’s song Slow Burn was also running through my head while I was writing this, hence the title. Also how the hell do you actually spell headcanons?? Is there 1 ‘n’ or 2?? Lol . Enjoy! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!

Comment/Message me if you want to be tagged!

• (Y/N) was one of the few Shelby Company Ltd. employees that Tommy didn't hire. She was brought on board while he and the boys were off at one of the races. Polly saw the potential in her and immediately welcomed her into the company.

• when Tommy returned from said races, he was pleasantly surprised to meet her.

• and Polly clocked that immediately. She was able to tell by the lack of a fight - Tommy was always able to find something to pick at when she made decisions within the company, no matter how minuscule. But there was nothing to pick at with (Y/N).

• Polly also wasn't surprised to see (Y/N) completing more and more tasks that came directly from Tommy. They'd be tasks that Polly hadn't even known about...but for some reason Tommy trusted (Y/N) with them.

• (Y/N) didn't think anything different about it. She'd been hired into the company and one of her bosses was asking her to do things. That's what was supposed to happen, right?

• although she did find it odd that it was Tommy asking her to do these things when she'd originally been hired to help Polly with sorting out the books and the like.

• things persisted like that for a few months. (Y/N) would happily and eagerly help him with whatever he needed to have done around the company. He'd look out for her, making sure that she was happy in her position and just in general. And in return, (Y/N) would (try) to keep up the same for him. She'd show that in the smallest of ways and attempts, but he would notice. Over those few months and because of those small acts, Tommy's thoughts and feelings towards (Y/N) evolved.

• he can still remember the day when that switch began - because it haunted him every day after.

• she came into his office like it was any other day for her...but it wasn't any other day for Tommy.

• he'd been working under Campbell for a few weeks at that point, and it'd become apparent that he'd be dead at the end of the arrangement. Tommy wasn't afraid to die, but the thought of getting everything in order and making sure his family could go on without him was now plaguing his mind.

• so when (Y/N) asked him what he had for her to do today, Tommy rattled off his list without as much as looking up at her. He was fully expecting her to turn and exit the second he finished speaking.

• she didn't. Silence reigned for a moment or two before "are you ok, Tommy?" came quietly from her. This made Tommy look up, and when he did, all of the noise in his mind ceased. Sure he looked at her before - he'd looked up like this thousands of times, but he never saw her like he did when he looked up this time. It was this otherworldly experience that he'd only been through twice before. Which meant he knew exactly what was happening.

• even though he brushed her question off and told her that he was fine, he hoped that things wouldn't change between them.

• and thankfully they didn't because hell, Tommy Shelby was certain that he was falling in love.

• he began testing the waters carefully at first. (Y/N) was a good woman and he wasn't about to make her leave the company due to his actions. He couldn't stand to lose her.

• so he started by making sure she was being heard; by actually listening to her whenever she'd share ideas or tell him how things played out with what he'd asked her to do.

• then he emphasized making sure that she was safe - having blinders on her block, sticking around on the days where she and Polly would be in the shop tallying the winnings, and also personally offering to take her wherever she needed to go.

• (Y/N) reacted bashfully to these offers. She felt that the other company employees would think that she was getting special treatment or something — well...she kind of was...but she deeply appreciated Tommy doing these things.

• in regards to feelings, Tommy was putting his out there as best as he could (which, well I'll let you be the one to decide on how well that is) He really tried to make a more personal connection with her; to get to know her as her and not just another employee...and in turn he let her know him.

• (Y/N) stayed professional. He was one of her bosses after all. But she couldn't deny that she enjoyed being in his presence. Her friends found that crazy, too...how can she be happy to be spending time with Tommy Shelby? She swore it off as strictly work related until she couldn't anymore.

• the evening started like any other...(Y/N) went home after work with the intention of doing what she did every other evening. But something was waiting for her at home. Something that turned her world upside-down. She found out that her grandmother had passed away. The post had come and one of the letters was from a sibling of hers, sharing the news. She didn't know what to do.

• after exhausting all of her options, she found herself at the Garrison. Tommy had invited her there in the past, but she never accepted it due to wanting to stay professional.

• she asked around for him and the second she found out that he was in the snug, she made her way to it and opened the door. He was in there, but so were his brothers. "This was the last place I could think of," she blurted out. "Everyone out," was all Tommy needed to say before it was just the two of them in the room.

• (Y/N) quickly sat and let everything out. Tommy listened intently, something no one had ever done for her in the past. They sat in the snug for hours, (Y/N) talking and Tommy listening. Her ability to share her grandmother's story helped her immensely.

• from that evening, (Y/N) saw Tommy in a different light. The fact that he sat and listened to her as she lamented to him and not once did he even think of leaving meant the world to her. No one had shown her that sort of worthiness or attention.

• all at once it felt like she was head over heels for him. Like all of those little instances he'd shown her before had all culminated into this one, major display of devotion. It had her realizing that maybe it wasn't solely because she was his employee...maybe it was much more than that.

• and so when he went out of his way and made sure to check on her the next morning - she knew this because Polly commented on the fact that he was supposed to be in London by sun-up - and he couldn't get him off of her mind no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't beat around the bush anymore...she'd fallen for Tommy Shelby, hard.

• but things didn't hit off right from that moment.

• no, it took a rather long time for those feelings to actually come out.

• there was a lot of dancing around the other - the smaller gestures and moments still occurred, but neither one was willing to make that jump over the edge and confront the other about it.

• yes, you read that right...Tommy Shelby was actually keeping his feelings for her close to the chest.

• mostly it was because of the position they were in. He'd offer to take her to dinner and she'd politely decline (even though she really wanted to go) because she was worried the other company employees would suspect something.

• Tommy wasn't exactly into the dancing around it (he hated it at times actually), but he honored her choice.

• but that doesn't mean he wasn't taking every chance he got to spend time around her. To check in on her and see how things were. To walk her home if she stayed later. Anything to show her that he was serious...without actually saying that he was serious.

• he was hooked on her though, there was no doubt about it. All he needed was for her to really show that interest back to him, and then he'd know for sure that he could act on it.

• and then Polly's birthday came.

• the company/family decided to host a party at the Garrison. Of course (Y/N) was invited.

• a man named Louis was one of the men who worked the shop floor daily. He saw (Y/N) almost every day that she was also on the floor, and he made it a point to seek her out as well.

• much like with Tommy, (Y/N) kept things between her and Louis strictly professional.

• but this party is when Louis decided that he was going to make his move...to try and woo her.

• maybe he should have thought this through...

• (Y/N) was sitting at one of the tables, chatting with some of the other women who worked within the company. It was a surprise that she wasn't with Tommy, considering he sought her out almost immediately after she arrived. But Tommy was still present though.

• Louis had this plan to put everything right on the table. He smoothly walked over to her and, equally as smoothly, slipped into the booth that she was sitting in. (Y/N) was polite, but it was obvious that she wasn't feeding any more into it than a simple, friendly conversation.

• but of course Tommy didn't pick up on that. From where he was standing it looked like Louis was a little too close to her for comfort. So he quickly intervened.

• and he was anything but subtle with it. He was quickly able to make Louis feel uneasy and clear him out.

• (Y/N)'s confused, but happy to have the man she'd hardly talked to gone. She sends Tommy an appreciative smile and that's just about enough to bring Tommy to his knees. But that doesn't happen...instead he gives her one of his signature, lop-sided smiles and nods at the ladies sitting with her before going back to where he previously was.

• this interaction didn't go unnoticed though. Polly and Ada were watching from off to the side. These two know Tommy better than anyone, and they've rarely seen him react this quickly and in this sort of way. So it's glaringly apparent to them that something's going on here.

• and this becomes increasingly apparent as time goes on.

• also as time goes on, (Y/N) manages to move up in the company. She's basically right underneath Polly in terms of power, becoming her 'right hand man’ in the treasurer position.

• having this position means that she's more involved in the inner circle and is at all of the meetings.

• the entire family swears by the fact that Tommy is softer with her than he is with anyone else.

• you can literally see the change the second she shares her thoughts on a matter or even enters a room. The switch is practically on a dime.

• but these two keep dancing around each other - they've been doing it for close to a year at this point.

• and those who know of it are baffled. They are obviously in love with each other...why hasn't one budged and made things official?

• the suspicions on this topic all come to a climax on the first year anniversary of (Y/N) joining the company.

• Tommy invites her out to dinner. (Y/N) agrees this time mostly because she knows what day it is...and she knows that the Shelbys like to celebrate such things.

• but she's surprised when she arrives at the upscale restaurant and is escorted to a table for two. Tommy can't help but smile at the face she pulls when she sees that he's sitting there, waiting for her.

• but she gets comfortable very quickly. It's Tommy we're talking about here...she's never been more comfortable with anyone in her life if she was being honest. And the same goes for him too.

• the dinner lasts hours. They talk about everything and anything. Work's off the table, but yet they still manage to not have more than a moment of silence. Both are surprised at how freely the conversation flows.

• eventually Tommy brings up the subject they've been dancing around.

• he lays everything out on the table this time. There's no sense in holding back. He tells her how she makes him feel, how she's made him feel from the moment he first saw her.

• he also mentions the fact that he's felt this way for a while now, and that he can't continue dancing around it any longer. He honored her desire to stay professional for this time, but he wants her too much, loves her too much to keep going like this for even a day longer.

• at first (Y/N)'s shocked. She's not oblivious...she'd been catching the little hints that he'd been leaving all this time, but she was truthfully too hesitant to ever bring the subject up to him.

• but now that he's put it out there, she figures why should she hold back her feelings any longer?

• so she lays it all out for him as well. Tells him how she feels about him, how she's felt about him for some time now.

• Tommy can't contain his happiness as he hears this. He's grinning like a fool.

• so really there's only one last thing for them to do now...make it official.

• Tommy wastes no time in doing that.

• he asks her properly though. That's what she deserves, especially after all this time that's been invested.

• he stops them just down the road from where she lives. He tells her that he really likes her (he won't use the 'l word' just yet - even though the two of them are so clearly in love) and that he can't wait a moment longer to make her his.

• (Y/N) quickly agrees with the sentiment after everything that had been shared during their dinner.

• Tommy can't help but smile at her response, and he just barely nods his head in his Tommy fashion before continuing to walk her home.

• they share their first kiss at the front door, and it's absolutely magical.

• they then proceed to do a terrible job of hiding it while at work. Tommy's waited this long to be with her, he's not going hide his affection for her any longer.

• their definition of 'in secret' is soooo far from the actual definition. They think that they're being sneaky, only stealing kisses in empty hallways and in Tommy's office, but it takes Polly literally only two days to catch onto it.

• no ones upset with it though. Honestly everyone’s happy that they’re finally together.

• well everyone except Louis…Louis is a little bummed about the whole thing. But Tommy and (Y/N) don’t care about that in the slightest.

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @emotionalcadaver @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @cillmequick @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @garrison-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @raincoffeeandfandoms @dragons-are-my-favorite @forgottenpeakywriter @cljordan-imperium @brummiereader @red-riding-wood @everythingelseisextra @little-diable @thomashelbyswife @shaddixlife

MASTERLIST

[purinfelix]

Joao with actress reader 👀

just an act ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ - joao felix

pairing: actress reader x joao felix (established relationship) summary: in which your boyfriend's possessive tendencies are put to the test warnings: none! w/c: 1.1k

a/n: take a shot everytime i apologise for being ia challenge !! also this is a teensy bit rushed and i'm not entirely happy with it but, i hope it's alright !! tysm anon for the req (and for waiting for so long for me to answer it 😭)

“Joao, you’re sure you’re okay with it?”

“How many times are you going to ask me that?” your boyfriend huffed, “I’m fine! Really!”

“You literally skipped out on training to follow me to work,” you reminded him, with a slightly teasing tone.

“So?”

You let out a sigh for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour and tried your best to maintain your composure. Around you, the atmosphere of an active film set roared with its flurry of light, noise, and movement. Neither your hair nor makeup were close to being done, and you were still standing wrapped in the plush white robe the costuming staff had given you before you changed into your outfit for your scene. Somewhere to your right you watched the director and his entourage of nervous interns scrounge around the perfect the set’s lighting, and push all of the cameras and mics in their right places. Behind you, your costar sat on his chair, waiting impatiently, ready for the scene the two of you were shooting today.

And yet, the only thing you found your attention being drawn to was the boy that stood in front of you, with floppy hair and pleading eyes and a pout that was just too hard to deny.

“So, are you sure you’re alright with this? With me kissing another man?” you repeated, slowly, growing more aware of how little time you had until the cameras were set to start rolling.

When you had come home a couple of weeks ago with the news - that the new movie you were starring in would involve a kissing scene between you and your costar - you were nervous, to say the least. You knew Joao was the type to value your career just as much as you did, and would never do anything to stop you from achieving your dreams. However, you were equally aware that he had possessive tendencies, as much as he pretended not to. Of course, he had acted casual about the news at first, telling you that as long as you were comfortable with it, he was too.

But now that the time to shoot the scene had actually come, it seemed like he was having second thoughts - evidenced by the fact he had insisted on following you to work and had spent the past hour or so hovering around as you got ready, expression equal parts nervous and stern. Despite this, you knew he’d rather die than admit how he really felt, even if you prodded him a thousand times just to say what was clearly on his mind.

“Yep! Totally fine!” he chirped out in a falsely cheery tone. The way his eyes flickered anxiously between you, and your costar waiting in the distance, seemed to suggest otherwise.

You could only rub his arm reassuringly though, offering a look that you hoped conveyed your gratefulness at the fact he trusted you enough to not get in your way, but also cared enough to be so watchful. Still, the staff around you waited for no one, and soon enough you were ushered back into your makeup chair, from which you watched your boyfriend linger behind the cameras, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

“Joao, baby.”

You were starting to feel like a broken record at this point.

The scene had gone well, and you had only had to reshoot it a couple of times because of either you or your costar forgetting or stumbling over your lines. But the two of you had done your best to maintain an air of professionalism surrounding the intimate scene - your boyfriend however hadn’t been so well.

“I’m fine.” His tone, and the fact that his back was facing you as the two of you lay in bed together, told you otherwise.

The kiss - or kisses as Joao had corrected you - had only lasted seconds, nothing more than quick pecks in fleeting moments. You hadn’t thought much of them before, during, and now after them but it was clear he didn’t share the same sentiment.

“You said you were okay with it,” you sighed softly, trying your best to push the understanding tone in your voice.

“I am.”

“It doesn’t really seem like it.” Whilst it seemed like the bare minimum for him to let you go ahead with something your job required of you, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for him putting aside his feelings for you - or at least trying to. A part of you found it slightly adorable as well, that he was trying so hard to hide his slight jealousy - evidenced by his moody demeanour the entire afternoon after you got back from shooting.

“What makes you think that?” You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely clueless or whether he was just messing with you. Struggling against your mattress, you pushed yourself up and leaned over to him, resting your chin on his shoulder - from where you could see his side profile, and furrowed brows.

“Hmm, I wonder,” you hum, fingers moving to gently interlace his fingers with yours as a silent way of saying I know something’s wrong.

“It’s just,” he began, and you felt a weight lift off of your shoulders at finally breaking through to him, “that costar of yours, Andy or whatever his name is, seemed a little bit too into it.”

You had to stop yourself from giggling, given how sincere his words were, but you couldn’t help but find his jealousy a little bit adorable.

“Joao, his name is Andrew,” you corrected him, “and he has a girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and she’s lovely,” you chuckled softly, relief washing over you as you watched your boyfriend break into a small smile for what felt like the first time all day. You could physically feel the tension in his shoulders melt away as he let out a sigh of relief he must’ve been holding ever since you had come home with the news.

“Thank God,” he finally mumbled, turning back around to face you as he pulled you in close. You felt his grip tightly around your waist as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, sighing deeply.

“Plus, it’s not like he would pose much competition anyways,” you added, laughing softly as you wrapped your arms around him. He only hummed in response, not saying much more. You pecked the top of his forehead, relishing the fact that you had finally managed to heal his mood. After all, whilst acting was your job, you knew that at times like this - away from any cameras and in the comfort of your boyfriend’s arms - none of it was an act.

[syuga-s]

i made my fiancés tinder profile

w.c. 8.5k pairing. non-idol!jeon jungkook x fem!reader genre. cute and angsty friends to lovers <333 a/n. idk guys i wrote this like a month ago but I JUST GOT THE ENERGY TO POST IT so i apologize in advance if you find mistakes here and there, ALSO i made the playlist that inspired me to make this fic so i'll just leave it here if you want to give it a listen or save it don't look at my other playlists tho they're a mess 🦦

You always thought you were pretty good at giving dating advice. It’s easier when you’re not the one doing the dating, right? That’s how it all started with Jungkook. You two were chilling at your apartment one lazy Sunday afternoon when you suddenly blurted out, “Why are you still single, Jungkook? You’re amazing, good-looking, and fun. You should at least be on like three different dating apps.”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair in that effortlessly cool way he always did. “Dunno' just haven’t found the right person,” he said with a smile that made you heart do a weird little flip. “I don’t think I’m good at dating, haha.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you shot back, sitting up. “Let's make you an account. We’ll get you some matches in no time.”

He hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “Sure, let's do it.”

And that’s how you ended up setting up his profile, not realizing that this would be the beginning of the end of your denial and the start of a love story you never saw coming.

You grabbed his phone and he settled onto the couch next to you. “Okay, first things first. We need some killer photos. Let’s start with your main picture.”

You opened the camera app. You sat there, looking at his phone for a minute before he let out a loud laugh.

You looked up. “What is it?"

He grinned, pointing at something behind you. "It's just Tae taking a picture of us setting up a dating profile," Jungkook said, chuckling.

You turned around to see Taehyung standing in the doorway, holding his phone up with a huge grin on his face. "Don't mind me," Taehyung sang out, winking at the two of you. "Just capturing this for posterity."

Tae showed Jungkook the picture and a fit of laughter erupted again, now from the two of them. "Your face! You look so focused and super serious right now."

Rolling your eyes, you lightly smacked his arm. "This is serious business! We need to find the perfect picture to reel in all the potential matches."

Then you started browsing through his photo gallery to curate the most attractive selection of pictures.

There you had him on the gym doing weights, him on his boxing gear, with his dogs, him doing the dishes with a strangely tight black shirt, a few selfies on his car, with his motorcycle. You could sell a whole album with his photos, how on earth would you do him justice and only choose 10 of them?

"Why is this so hard?"

Jungkook chuckled. "Because you're not choosing photos for a profile, you're trying to find a reason to stare at me and my body for too long."

"Boy, I'm trying to help you here, and if I'm gonna do it, I might as well do this like a professional matchmaker." You retorted.

His eyebrows furrowed. "When have you ever paired someone up?"

You smiled smugly. "That's none of your business, Jeon."

"It is, actually, since you're helping me with this thing."

"Fine, if you must know, I hooked up one my friend's older sister with my college roommate."

"Really? How did that go?" He asked, curious.

"Pretty well, they've been together for a couple years now." You answered, still going through his photos.

"Wasn't your college roommate that guy with the blue hair?" He asked, his tone changing slightly.

"Uh-huh, why?"

"Wasn't he the guy you were dating during our third year?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that."

"How can you forget about him?" He sounded annoyed. "You spent an entire week crying in my bed because he broke up with you."

"Oh my god, did I? I don't recall." You were playing dumb, of course you remembered but there was no need to talk about that. "What do you think of this one?" It was a shirtless picture, point blank.

"I think you look kinda slutty but everyone's gonna eat it up, you'll get a date in no time." You continued.

"I am not posting a shirtless picture, are you crazy?" He snatched the phone from your hand.

"Well, it's not like we're gonna sell the damn picture, it's just your torso and the picture is really nice, you look good, I don't know why you're making such a fuss."

He didn't say anything, just looked at you.

"What? I'm complimenting you, it's the truth." You rolled your eyes.

"Okay, thank you." He was blushing.

"Are you blushing?" You asked, amused.

"No, it's just really hot in here." He took off his hoodie, throwing it somewhere in your living room.

You didn't even realize how close he was sitting next to you. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd been on your couch, but something felt different today. It was strange.

All the photos that you chose showcased different aspects of Jungkook's personality. Each photo told a story about him - his love for his dogs, his passion for staying active, his playful side with silly selfies. As you scrolled through his gallery, you couldn't help but notice the genuine smile on his face in many of the pictures, a smile that seemed to light up the whole world.

After him putting up a fight on choosing his favorite photos of him, next you had to write him something for his bio.

Jungkook leaned in closer to read over your shoulder.

"This is stupid, what do you want me to write? My name, my age, my occupation?" He was whining.

"Yes, those things obviously, but also things like, I don't know a joke or something to sum up your personality. I want them to know you're fun and cute, mind-blowingly good at everything, something along those lines."

"I am mind-blowingly good at everything." He said, his tone confident.

You rolled your eyes.

"So let's say, what if I write 'shit i'd date the hell out of me', you like it?" You asked him with a smile.

He laughed. "I do, I really do."

"Okay, it's settled." You wrote down the phrase, and a bunch of things about him.

"Now we just have to add something that will hook them up."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, just be honest. Just, don't write that you're looking for a girl to have sex with."

"But I am looking for a girl to have sex with." Blank expression on his face.

"You are so dumb sometimes." You threw a pillow at his face.

He caught it mid-air. "God, you know I'm not look— this was YOUR IDEA IN THE FIRST PLACE!" He yelled, trying to defend himself.

"Yeah, but, just write something that will make you look not like a manwhore."

He thought for a moment. "I know, I got it."

"Okay, shoot."

"I'm a manwhore." He had the brightest smile.

"Oh, for the love of..." You couldn't help but laugh at his antics. "Alright, fine. If that's what you want to go with, who am I to stop you?"

You two were done, and he was already getting notifications.

"Woah, that was... surprisingly fast." He was surprised, and you were proud of yourself.

"Of course, you're hot and cute. We don't see your type in dating apps very often."

He gave you a weird look, you couldn't quite figure out. "Thanks?"

"No worries, I'm sure you'll find someone in no time." You patted him on the back as you were getting up and ready to go to the kitchen and make some dinner. "See who you like and I'll help you on how to ask them on a date."

"Okay." He smiled.

"What are you smiling at? Are you looking at them already?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to see which one of these girls will be our first victim."

"Don't call them victims." You laughed.

The truth is that Jungkook only agreed to this because he loves spending time with you.

As you busied yourself in the kitchen, Jungkook couldn't shake the warmth spreading through his chest. He scrolled through the notifications on his phone, half-heartedly swiping left and right. His mind wasn't on finding a date; it was on you.

He couldn't believe he agreed to this. Making a profile on Tinder just to humor the best friend he was in love with, seemed harmless at first, but now, seeing the app light up with potential matches, he felt burdened. He wasn't here to date. He was here because he wanted to be closer to you, even if it meant pretending to search for someone else.

Each time a new message popped up, he found himself wondering if you'd approve. Would you laugh at the cheesy pickup lines together? Would you help him craft witty responses? He realized he didn't care about meeting any of these girls; he only cared about spending time with you.

But as much as he tried to focus on the dating app in front of him, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. To the way you laughed and teased him, to the way you always seemed to know what he needed even when he didn't realize it himself. Jungkook found himself longing for something he couldn't quite name, a feeling that stirred deep within him whenever he was near you.

He sighed, setting his phone down on the coffee table as he leaned back on the couch because he didn't bother looking through any of the profiles. Instead he made his way to the kitchen, where you were standing over a pot, stirring absentmindedly.

He stepped up behind you, watching as you stirred. His chest was warm, and he had a strange urge to wrap his arms around you and nuzzle his nose into your neck.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft.

You turned your head slightly, not looking at him but smiling. "Hey."

Jungkook took a step closer, placing his hand over yours. "Let me help," he said.

You handed him the wooden spoon, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange. He stirred the pot gently, mirroring the way he wanted to handle your heart. Neither of you spoke, the only sound filling the room was the clinking of utensils against the pot.

"You okay there?" Your voice broke through his daydreaming.

He answered you softly while running a hand through his hair nervously. "Yeah, just... thinking."

As the aroma of the dish wafted through the air, you felt his warmth seeping into you, comforting and familiar. You couldn't ignore the heavy tension that hung between you, thick like a fog.

He cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "So... what do we do now?" His voice was low, almost a whisper.

You turned around to face him, his eyes searching yours for answers neither of you dared to voice. "We eat dummy," you said with a laugh.

You and Jungkook sat down for dinner, the tension from earlier still lingering between you. As you ate, you caught each other stealing glances when the other wasn't looking.

"So...have you looked at any of the matches yet?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Jungkook shifted in his seat. "A few, but no one really caught my eye," he said evasively.

You nodded, poking at your food. "Well if you see anyone you like, let me know. I want to help."

"Thanks, I will," Jungkook said with a small smile.

You returned the smile weakly, a pang in your chest at the thought of Jungkook dating someone else. You had pushed the feelings down for so long, not wanting to jeopardize your friendship. But your dumb decision of making him a dating profile forced you to confront how you really felt.

After you finished eating together, Jungkook helped you with the dishes. You dried off your hands, and he was ready to leave. Almost as if he was on a rush.

"Thanks for making dinner," he said with a smile.

You nodded. "Of course, you know I love having you over."

You stood at the door awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

Jungkook cleared his throat. "I'll text you," he said.

You gave him a thumbs-up, your voice coming out more high-pitched than normal. "Yeah, cool. See ya later."

He chuckled and leaned down to give you a hug. You wrapped your arms around him, breathing in his scent. You held him a little longer than necessary, wanting to memorize the feeling of his arms enveloping you.

Jungkook's hand lingered on your shoulder as he pulled away.

"Goodnight," he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek before he turned to leave. You watched him go, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside you. As the door closed behind him, you leaned against it, aching with the realization that you might have just pushed away the one person who meant more to you than just a friend.

If only you had the courage to do something.

The following week, you found yourself cleaning your house, the mess had piled up and you had a bunch of your clothes all over the place and that's when you found Jungkook's hoodie from last week. It had fallen between your couch and the wall, so you pulled it out with a considerable amount of force. That's when his iPod fell to the ground.

He still uses this thing? The corners of your mouth turned up involuntarily as you recalled teasing him about the ancient device.

You were surprised, most people uses their phones, or maybe he still has this thing because it was a present from you. If you hadn't seen it you wouldn't have remembered that you had given him this iPod for Christmas like 7 years ago.

You took the device in your hand and turned it on. You figured it would be nice to hear his playlists while you kept cleaning.

You should have just connected it and played it on shuffle. But I guess humans are very nosey creatures. Creatures who love to go through someone else's things, just to see another hidden side of said person.

So, like any other normal human being, you opened his lists, and started to go through them.

"Golden mix", "Euphoria", "OST's". Those were pretty standard. "Lonely nights" a bit of a stretch, "Best of the 00s", "Dance party" and "Songs to sing along". Fork found in kitchen. And there was one more playlist that caught your attention.

Simply labeled with— "Your name."

Your heart started beating faster. What is this?

You opened the playlist and you were welcomed by a list of what it seemed like... love songs.

The first one was "Best Friend". You didn't know what to think. Why did he have a playlist with songs like "Kiss me" by Matt Maltese, "Mountains" by Charlotte Day Wilson, "Making Time" by Rex Orange County. All love songs.

Then it hit you. He's in love.

You started panicking. Your heart racing with thoughts you couldn't ignore any longer. The playlist named after you echoed in your mind.

You couldn't believe it. Jungkook, your best friend, the one who always seemed so casual and carefree, had a playlist dedicated to you filled with love songs. Your mind raced as you tried to process this new information. Was it possible that he felt the same way you did? That the tension between you wasn't one-sided after all?

You sat down on the couch, still holding his iPod in your hands. The weight of it felt heavier now, as if it held all the unspoken words and emotions that had been swirling between you and Jungkook. You couldn't bring yourself to put it down; instead, you scrolled through the playlist again, each song title tugging at your heartstrings.

A sense of warmth washed over you, mingled with fear and uncertainty. What should you do now? Should you confront Jungkook about the playlist, lay all your cards on the table and risk changing everything between you? Or should you keep quiet, pretend you never stumbled upon this precious list?

You knew there was something going on, you weren't stupid. But you couldn't bring yourself to accept the possibility that the guy you love, might like you back. It's easier to pretend like nothing is happening. You have built this whole imaginary life with him in your head, but not once did you consider that it might be a two-way street.

"I already said I'm in love with you Can't you hear me? Why do you act like you don't? You know well the spark in my eyes when I look at you Can't you see it? Why do you act like you don't?"

You had been listening to the song on repeat for an hour. It was stuck in your head. Your heart was aching.

The reality was finally sinking in.

"He's in love with me," you whispered to yourself, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. It explained so much—his kindness, his attentiveness, even his willingness to go along with making a stupid profile for a stupid dating app. But you had built walls around your heart, afraid to acknowledge the possibility that your feelings were reciprocated.

You felt a surge of emotions, a mix of joy and fear swirling inside you. Jungkook's unspoken confession through his playlist left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet strangely hopeful.

"Falling" played softly through the speakers, its lyrics painting a picture of longing and uncertainty. It mirrored your own inner turmoil, the battle between fear and listening to your heart for once.

You had spent so long convincing yourself that this was just a friendship, that any romantic thoughts were one-sided. Now, faced with the truth, you didn't know what to do next. Should you tell Jungkook? Should you pretend you never saw the playlist?

Your mind raced with questions, but deep down, you knew you couldn't ignore this any longer. Jungkook's feelings were out in the open, laid bare through these songs that said a lot about his emotions.

Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and let the music wash over you. Each melody, each lyric felt like a confession, a plea for you to see what had been in front of you all along.

"I already said I'm in love with you," the lyrics repeated in your mind, echoing the words you longed to hear from Jungkook himself.

The weight of the situation settled over you. You constructed the exact same playlist on your own phone, replaying it endlessly, searching for answers in the same songs he had chosen. It became a ritual, a way to understand what Jungkook hadn't yet said aloud. Each track felt like a message, a confession hidden in plain sight.

As days passed, the playlist became a lifeline, a connection to Jungkook that transcended words. You wondered if he knew the impact his secret gesture had on you, if he realized how deeply you analyzed each song, each lyric, each subtle hint of affection.

It was as if the playlist had become a conversation between your hearts, a silent dialogue that spoke volumes about your unspoken emotions. You couldn't deny the truth any longer—the love you felt for Jungkook had bloomed quietly, nurtured by his unwavering presence in your life and it reflected in the selection of songs carefully chosen by him.

And so you continued to listen, to immerse yourself in the music that spoke of love and longing. It was a soundtrack to his emotions, a testament to the unspeakable love that had grown between you and him.

The guys had planned a small gathering at your house. Hoseok, Jimin and Tae arrived at the same time around 8:00 p.m. with food, drinks and Cards Against Humanity. They were already having fun when they rang the bell.

"Hey," you said as you opened the door.

"Hey!" they greeted you.

You all headed towards the living room and they placed the things they brought on the table.

You chuckled, feeling a wave of warmth at their enthusiasm. "Thanks for coming, guys. I've got the place ready—cleaned up only for you the other day," you teased, motioning towards the neatly arranged living room.

As you all settled in, chatting and unpacking the snacks and games, there was a noticeable absence. Jungkook hadn't arrived yet, and though you tried not to dwell on it, his absence didn't go unnoticed by your friends.

"Where's Jungkook?" Tae finally asked, voicing the question that lingered in the air.

You shrugged nonchalantly, though your heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. "Not sure. He said he might be a bit late."

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, exchanging a knowing look with Jimin. "Didn't he say he was gonna meet with someone from Tinder?"

"Tinder?"

"You know, the dating app," Tae chimed in, taking a bite of a snack.

"I know what Tinder is Tae,” you replied with a laugh, trying to keep your cool.

"So you didn't know he was on a date?"

"No, he didn't tell me. Are you serious? He's on a date right now?" Your voice came out louder than expected, and you cursed yourself for the slip.

Jimin frowned, concerned. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

You waved dismissively, trying to downplay the hurt and disappointment. "Yeah, all good... well, more food and games for us until he gets here."

You tried to push down the gnawing feeling of jealousy that threatened to surface at the thought of Jungkook on a date with someone else. The idea of him with another person stirred up emotions you had been trying so hard to accept the past days. You forced a smile as you joined in the banter and laughter, attempting to bury your own conflicting emotions.

Despite their casual remarks, you couldn't shake the unease settling in your stomach. You hoped Jungkook would arrive soon, eager for his presence to dispel the nervous tension building within you.

The minutes ticked by, filled with laughter and infinite jokes over Cards Against Humanity. Each time the doorbell rang, you found yourself tensing, hoping it was him. But each time, it turned out to be someone else—a delivery person, one of your neighbors...

As the evening progressed, you couldn't help but steal glances at your phone, checking for any messages from Jungkook. But you decided not to keep waiting and decided to send him a text first.

'whats taking you so longggggggg' it read.

He replied instantly. 'i'm outside, coming now'

You put down your phone, your heart pounding. A few seconds later, you heard familiar footsteps approaching and there was a knock on the door. You got up, heading towards the door.

"He's here!" Tae exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face as he jumped up to answer the door with you.

You held your breath as Jungkook stepped inside, a sheepish smile on his lips as he greeted everyone. His eyes met yours briefly, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down.

"Sorry I'm late guys," Jungkook said, setting down a bag of drinks next to Tae's.

Jimin smirked teasingly. "Lost track of time, huh?"

Jungkook chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haha nah,"

Absolutely not. It was a disaster. Why did I agree to this? She seemed nice enough online, he thought, but in person... It just wasn’t there. The conversation felt forced, and I couldn’t wait for it to end. He grimaced, recalling how he struggled to find common ground and forced a laugh at her jokes. I should've been with y/n tonight, helping her get everything ready for this.

Of course, all of that stayed in his head. He was embarrassed to tell everyone how much he hated meeting someone new. It would just give your friends the opening to tease him more about it.

"Well, you made it, and we're all here now. So let's start" you suggested, breaking the silence.

His eyes sought out yours, finding a mix of emotions reflected back at him—surprise, curiosity, and something he couldn't quite place.

Everyone nodded in agreement and moved to gather around the coffee table, pulling your cushions closer.

With Jungkook's presence, the gathering felt complete, as if a missing piece had been found.

And as you all laughed and played into the night, you couldn't ignore the way Jungkook's gaze lingered on you, a silent reassurance of the feelings you'd been trying to suppress.

"I'm going to take a photo of this." Tae announced, lifting up his beer.

You and the others followed suit, holding your drinks up and smiling. Jungkook on your right got closer to you for the picture, cheek to cheek, his scent surrounding you. You wanted to lean in and practically inhale him.

"Perfect." Tae snapped the shot, and then showed it to the group. "What do you think, everyone?"

Everyone agreed that it was a good photo.

"We all look great," Tae said.

"But not as good as those two," Hoseok joked.

You rolled your eyes. "Please."

"It's true," Hoseok insisted. "You guys look good together."

Jimin nodded, taking another sip of his drink. "They're right. You’d make a cute couple."

Jungkook felt shy at their words. It's not like he was trying to hide his feelings for you, but he hadn't exactly made his intentions known, either. It was frustrating, wanting to be closer to you but not knowing how.

At least it was encouraging to know that your closest friends were seeing you both that way. That meant he had hope, right?

"Okay, that's enough," you said, feeling your cheeks heat up. "Let's keep playing."

As the game resumed, the group's attention shifted back to the cards.

You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on the cushion. "So... how was your date?"

Jungkook winced, not meeting your eyes. "It was okay," he said, his tone lacking enthusiasm.

You bit your lip, curiosity gnawing at you. "Just okay? What happened?"

Jungkook shook his head, still not meeting your gaze. "I don't know. It just didn't feel right, I guess."

You tilted your head, searching his face. "What do you mean?"

Jungkook shrugged, a sheepish expression on his face. "It was just... awkward. We didn't really click. I don't know."

Your chest tightened, a mix of emotions swirling inside. "Oh," you managed, turning back to the game. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, you know? Meeting new people, going on dates. It's hard for me. I'd rather be with people I already know and trust."

You knew what he meant. The same went for you. It was hard enough trying to navigate your feelings without having to worry about other people, too.

You nodded, giving him a small smile. "I get it."

"I just wish it could be easier, you know? Like, finding someone you actually like who happens to also like you back, and not having to worry about anything else. Just enjoying each other's company."

Your breath caught, your mind reeling from his words. And from the way he was looking at you, you could tell he wasn't just talking about friendship.

"Why would you say something like that?" you questioned, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Jungkook's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean? Say something like what?"

"That you wish you could be with someone who actually likes you and not have to worry about anything else."

"I... because it's true. I don't want to go on stupid dates anymore, I want to be with someone I care about. Someone I can laugh and have fun with."

You swallowed, your pulse quickening.

"Someone like who?"

Jungkook exhaled, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I think you know who," he said quietly.

You stared at him, speechless, as his words sunk in. Your heart was racing, your body buzzing with adrenaline.

Hoseok, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly made himself heard, "I think I'm stuck in your bathroom!"

You and Jungkook turned to find your friend, who sounded flustered and slightly panicked. Jimin and Tae burst into laughter, trying to contain themselves as Hoseok continued to tug at the bathroom door.

"What do you mean you're stuck?" Jimin managed to ask between giggles.

Hoseok yelled helplessly. "I went in to use the bathroom, and now the door won't open!"

Jungkook glanced at you with a bemused smile, the tension from earlier dissipating with the absurdity of the situation. "Seriously, Hobi?" he chuckled.

Hoseok sounded exasperated. "It's not funny! How am I supposed to get out of here?"

"I'll go get some tools," Tae offered, still chuckling as he headed towards the kitchen.

You stepped closer to the bathroom door, trying to assess the situation. "It's just stuck. Let me try," you suggested, reaching for the handle and giving it a firm tug.

To everyone's surprise, the door swung open easily, revealing Hoseok looking both relieved and slightly embarrassed. "Oh, thanks, I swear it was stuck…"

Jimin clapped Hoseok on the back, still laughing. "Sure it was, Hobi. Sure."

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur of laughter and games, and despite the lingering awkwardness from earlier, you were glad that the night had gone well.

It was close to 2:00 a.m. when your friends finally began to call it a night, and you were exhausted.

"Thanks again for coming, everyone. I had a lot of funnnn," you said, giving them each a hug goodbye.

Jungkook was still on your kitchen helping you clean up all the mess you made. Drying the dishes and placing the glasses on your cabinets. You were cleaning up the table when he walked up to you.

"Need any help?"

"I'm done, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"I am, thanks Kookie,"

You started walking towards your room when you heard him speak up.

"I really liked being here tonight."

"I know it was a lot of fun," you replied with a small smile. You grabbed his hoodie and his iPod to return them. Staring at the endearing device. Almost as if it were something fragile.

"I'm glad you had a good time," you responded as you walked back to the kitchen, handing him back his belongings. As you stood there in the dimly lit room, a comfortable silence settled between you. Jungkook's gaze was intense as he looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something unspoken.

Jungkook paused his moves, as if weighing his next words carefully. "I was thinking... maybe we could hang out again this week, just the two of us."

"What about the girl from Tinder?" you asked as you returned to face him, your tone sharper than you intended.

Jungkook frowned, confusion clouding his features. "What are you talking about? You know I went on one date. I told you it was a disaster."

You sighed, suddenly feeling foolish. "Yeah, I know, don't know why I asked that, haha" you muttered. "Didn't know you still used this thing,"

He smiled, his fingers brushing over the iPod. "I still love my music in here, you know, it sounds a lot better"

"Yeah, that's what I thought,"

He looked at you intently, and the air between you seemed to grow heavy.

"I've missed spending time with you, Y/N."

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse quickening as you stared at him. "Me too," you whispered.

"So, is that a yes?"

"A yes to what?"

"The offer to hang out,"

"Oh, right. Um, yeah, sure. Sounds nice."

Jungkook's face lit up. "Cool. Well, I guess I'll see you later, then." With a final smile, he turned and left.

You watched him go and your mind was spinning. Jungkook's words echoed in your head, his words sending a flutter through your chest. You couldn't help but grin. Maybe there was hope for you two after all.

The following day, you woke up to the sun streaming in through your curtains, illuminating the room in a soft glow. You stretched lazily, savoring the warmth of your bed, before reluctantly climbing out and heading to the bathroom to wash up.

Unconciously, you began to shut yourself out. You had spent the whole night awake, thoughts about the possibility of being with your best friend swirling around your head, preventing you from falling asleep.

As you brushed your teeth, you heard your phone buzz. It was a text from him.

'Good morning'

A smile tugged at your lips, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

'good morning'

'can we go out today? im craving pizza'

You bit your lip, considering the invitation. A part of you was eager to see him, but another part was worried that it might be awkward, especially after the scenarios you created in your head last night.

You ended up refusing to go out with him. And he started to get anxious. He thought he may have done something wrong. That you were actually angry for going on a date or that you no longer wanted him to be part of your life just because he went out with someone else.

Jungkook started panicking.

And so, he called the guys.

"I don't know, she's just not acting normal." he sighed.

"Did something happen the other night?" Hoseok asked, concerned.

"No, I don't think so. She didn't say anything to me,"

"So why is she mad at you?"

"I have no idea. I was hoping maybe you had an idea,"

"Did she say she was mad at you?"

"Not directly, but she didn't want to go out today,"

"Well, I'm not surprised. She's probably just tired,"

"Tired?"

"Yeah, from work and all that, she's probably exhausted. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Do you think so? You don't think she's mad at me?"

"I really don't think she is. She'll probably just want to rest for a few days, and then things will go back to normal."

Your attitude changed so suddenly. You kept on cancelling on him. It’s been weeks.

"You have to talk to her, man," Jimin said.

"What do I say? How do I bring it up? Do I just ask her why she's been avoiding me? What if she doesn't know what I'm talking about?"

"Then ask her. Don't overthink it. Just say it."

Jungkook sighed, frustrated. "You make it sound so easy,"

"Look, I'm not gonna lie to you. It's probably gonna be awkward as fuck, but you can't let it get in the way of your friendship. You've been friends for so long, and it's obviously important to both of you. If she really is mad at you, then you need to find out what's going on. But if she's not, then you need to clear the air and move on. Because otherwise, this is just gonna keep getting worse and worse for you."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm just... worried, I guess."

"I know, but don't be. Everything’s fine. It’ll work out, especially if you let her know that you like her."

"What? Are you crazy? I can't just tell her that."

"Why not?"

"Because... what if she doesn't feel the same way?"

"So what if she doesn't? You'll never know unless you tell her. And if she does feel the same way, then you can finally stop being all sad and pathetic."

"You think she likes me?"

"Well, only she can tell you that, but you'll never know if you don't talk to her. So suck it up and go for it."

"Fine. I'll talk to her."

"Good."

"But... how do I tell her?"

"Just be honest. Tell her you've been worried that something is wrong, and you want to make sure everything is okay. Then let her know how you feel. But, be prepared for her reaction. If she doesn't feel the same way, it could make things weird. But you need to deal with it and move on."

That same day you were laying down in bed, scrolling through your phone. Reading over and over the lyrics of one particular song on the playlist.

"Is there a place for me? Is there a place for us? I can't tell you how much I love you, babe Open the door Open your heart Tell me how you're feeling, I miss you so bad I'm falling to pieces"

And just like that, your phone began vibrating, your heart beating rapidly as his name flashed across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hey, are you free? Can we talk?"

"Uhm... sure, yeah. Now?"

"If it's okay, yes."

"Okay,"

"I'm coming up now."

"Wait, wha-..."

Jungkook was already at your door, knocking frantically. You opened it for him, your heart in your throat.

He stood before you, looking determined. His eyes were wide, his hair tousled, and he was out of breath, as if he had just run a marathon.

"Sorry, I was already on my way. I had to do it now. I have to say it, because otherwise, I won't have the courage to say it some other time,"

"Okay?"

He inhaled deeply, his eyes locked on yours.

"Y/N, I really, really like you. And I've been so confused and conflicted because I've always liked you, then I started thinking that maybe there was more. And then I realized there was. I really, really like you."

You swallowed hard, the words ringing in your ears.

"I-..."

"It's okay, I just wanted you to know,"

You shook your head, struggling to comprehend what he had just told you. "I'm sorry, I'm just..."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I had to say it."

"So, does this mean... what are you saying exactly?"

Jungkook hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Y/N, I don't expect anything from you, and I don't want things to get weird. But I just had to tell you. I'm crazy about you."

You nodded slowly, processing his words. "uh. I-... uh."

"I know it's sudden, and I'm sorry. I just couldn't hold it in anymore. But I don't want anything to change, I promise. I'll just go, and we can forget this ever happened. We can go back to the way things were, I promise. I'm sorry,"

"Jungkook, stop apologizing. It's not a bad thing, I'm just... processing. I've never had anyone say they're crazy about me before," with your phone in your hand an idea immediately came to you.

"Can I show you something?" you asked him.

"What is it?"

You walked up to him, your phone in your hand. You handed him your device and let him see your screen. There it was, the infamous playlist.

Jungkook's doe eyes widened, a small gasp escaping his lips as he noticed. "What... is this...?"

"I went through your iPod when you left your hoodie last time," you told him with an embarrassed grin. "They’re the same songs you have on yours,"

"This is so embarrassing," he groaned, his cheeks red. "You... you went through my iPod?" Jungkook asked, now with a hint of amusement in his voice.

You nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief that he wasn't angry about it. "I was curious about the music you listen to. And I found… this,”

He stared at the playlist, then back at you, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "So... does that mean you... already knew how I felt?" Jungkook asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

Your heart raced at his words, a mix of excitement and uncertainty swirling inside you. Could this really be happening? Could your long-standing friendship truly be blossoming into something more?

"Jungkook," you began, your voice barely above a whisper. "I... I like you too. More than just a friend."

"So what does this mean? That we are supposed to be together?"

"Maybe, or maybe not. It could just mean that you have great taste in music and I admire it,"

Jungkook's eyes widened with hope, a grin spreading across his face. "I've been wanting to tell you for so long, but I was afraid of ruining everything between us."

You smiled, your heart fluttering. "Me too, I’m sorry for making you worry these past few days,"

"Can I hug you?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jungkook held onto you tightly, his arms snug around your waist. You rested your chin on his shoulder, closing your eyes and inhaling his familiar scent.

After a few moments, he pulled away slightly, his hands still resting on your hips.

He looked at you with a mix of relief and uncertainty in his eyes. "So, I didn't ruin anything between us?" he murmured softly.

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "You didn't ruin anything, Jungkook. If anything, you've made everything clearer."

His shoulders relaxed slightly at your words, a hint of a smile returning to his face. "I'm glad."

"I'm glad too," you began again, your voice steady but tinged with nervousness. "But I also want you to know that... I've been thinking a lot too."

Jungkook turned to face you fully, his expression a mix of anticipation and apprehension. "About...?"

"About us," you admitted softly, meeting his gaze. "About how much I enjoy spending time with you, about how much I admire you, and... how I've felt something more than just friendship for a while now."

His eyes widened slightly, hope flickering in them. "A while?”

You nodded, a shy smile playing on your lips. "Yes, Jungkook. A while. I've just been afraid to say anything because I didn't want to lose you in case you didn't felt the same way about me."

He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out tentatively. "Y/N... I wish I had known sooner. I've been struggling with these feelings, not knowing if you felt the same way."

"I'm sorry for not saying anything earlier," you murmured, your fingers brushing against his. "But I'm glad we're talking about it now."

He squeezed your hand gently, his eyes never leaving yours. "Me too. More than anything."

There was a moment of silence between you, the weight of your shared emotions hanging in the air. Finally, Jungkook spoke again, his voice filled with determination.

"So... what do we do now?"

You chuckled softly, feeling a surge of affection for him. "I think we take it one step at a time. We've already taken a big step today."

He nodded, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, you're right. I'm just... really happy right now."

"Me too," you said, squeezing his hand.

"I guess the only question now is... are we... together together?" he asked hesitantly.

You grinned, your heart pounding in your chest. "Only if you want us to be,"

"Yes, yes, yes. Of course, yes,"

"Then it's settled. We're together," you giggled.

Jungkook laughed, the sound sending a warm feeling through your chest.

Cut to 4 years in the future.

There you were at a dinner with friends and family. It had been four years since you got together, but it felt like an eternity. You both were so excited for each other, for your life from now on.

"Hey, you got a little something," he whispered, brushing away a strand of hair from your cheek.

You couldn't help but smile, his touch as tender as ever. "Thanks,"

"No problem," he smiled.

Then you could hear someone clinking a glass. "A few words from the fiancé!" Jin's voice reverberated through the dimly lit restaurant.

"Y-yeah, yeah," your boyfriend stuttered, clearing his throat and standing up. He was a nervous wreck, and it was adorable.

"Um, first, thank you all for being here. It really means a lot to us. We know how important it is to have your loved ones around you on a special day, and we're so grateful for everyone who's supported us. Second, a special thanks to my future father and mother-in-law. Thank you for always being there for us and for supporting our relationship. And, um, thanks to my own parents for, uh, also supporting us."

As the guests began to laugh, your boyfriend cleared his throat and continued, his gaze fixed on yours.

"But most importantly, I want to say thank you to my amazing girlfriend. Thank you for making every day better. Thank you for always being by my side and for loving me unconditionall—"

"We know that already! Entertain us or I won't pay the bill!" Jin's loud voice interrupted again.

You couldn't help but chuckle and the guests laughed again, amused.

Your fiancé smiled, clearly enjoying the teasing.

"Alright, alright," Jungkook cleared his throat before he continued, "actually, we agreed that we'd never tell anyone how we actually got together but I guess we're past that, right babe?"

"Oh no, don't!" You blushed, a little embarrassed.

"It's a funny story," he continued. "It's kind of a long one, but this girl right here thought that the best course of action was to make me a dating app profile before telling me that she was in love with me."

Everyone burst into laughter.

"I was dumb, okay?" you joked, earning more laughter from the guests.

"So, we ended up talking to some people on said dating app and went on a few dates, which were terrible—"

"Hey! It's not my fault that you agreed even though you were also in love with me!" — "Everyone, he had a playlist with my name filled with sentimental songs like the most lovesick boy on Earth!"

"But babe trust me, it's a great playlist, by the way," you added.

"And then we got drunk, and the truth was revealed."

"What?! No way," Hoseok laughed.

"We weren’t drunk, I’m kidding, I just told her that I had liked her since the beginning," he said. "We just made a disaster, and we were both scared shitless."

"But here we are," you added.

"So, yeah, thanks for coming everyone," your fiancé concluded, his voice breaking a little as he wrapped up his little speech.

You could see him trying to blink back tears as he sat back down next to you, and you gave his hand a squeeze.

"You did great," you whispered, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

"Thanks," he replied, his voice hoarse.

Your parents got up, taking the floor after him.

"Thank you, thank you," your mom said, a bit embarrassed.

"We’d like to share a few words as well. First, we'd like to thank everyone for coming. It's such a privilege to have all our family and friends here, and we're so thankful for your support. And we're especially grateful for our beautiful daughter and our soon-to-be son-in-law. We are so proud of both of you, and we know you'll have a long and happy life together."

"Thanks," you managed to say, overcome with emotion.

"So, now, we'd like to present the couple with a little something. It's just a small token of our love for them," your mother added, signaling for someone to come forward.

Jimin, Hoseok, and Tae stood up from the table and approached the stage, each of them holding a framed collage.

"Here, you can pass these out," your mother said, handing each of the guests copies of the photos.

You and your fiancé were stunned as the three guys presented the photos to you.

The photos were a collage of different memories: you and him during his graduation, another one from yours, a candid shot of him cooking for you, a photo of the two of you smiling in front of the sunset, and a picture of him holding your hand while you were asleep.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you took in the beautiful photos, each one capturing a special moment in your relationship. The love and happiness radiating from the images made your heart feel full to the brim. You glanced at Jungkook, whose eyes were also glistening with unshed tears, and you reached for his hand, holding it tightly.

"Thank you so much," you managed to say, your voice choked with emotion. "These are... perfect."

"I have a gift for you too," you told him, reaching under the table. You brought out a box wrapped in bright pink paper and a bow.

He looked at you with surprise, his eyes shining with curiosity as he took the box from your hands. Slowly unwrapping it, his mouth fell open in astonishment when he saw what was inside. Nestled within the box was a beautifully crafted watch, the silver band gleaming under the soft light of the restaurant.

"Oh wow," he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's... it's incredible."

"It's engraved," you whispered, pointing to the back of the watch where a message was etched. His eyes widened as he read the words: 'Forever yours, Y/N.'

"I was hoping you'd wear it to the wedding," you said, grinning. "But don't cry, you'll make me cry!" you exclaimed.

"I'm not crying, I just..." he trailed off, sniffling.

"I love it," Jungkook finally managed to say, his voice filled with emotion. He stood up abruptly and pulled you into a tight hug, “I love you.”

As you both separated, there was a collective 'aww' from the guests, making you both blush.

The rest of the evening continued with laughter and joy, surrounded by the love of friends and family. People danced, sang, and shared stories late into the night. It was a celebration of love and new beginnings.

As the night winded down and guests started to leave, you found yourselves standing alone in the dimly lit space. Jungkook wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you close.

"Thank you for everything today," you said sincerely, looking into his big brown eyes.

"Thank you for being mine," he replied softly, feeling overwhelmed with happiness.

"I wouldn't want to be anyone else's," you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

Jungkook cupped your face in his hands and placed a lingering kiss on your forehead. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of the deepest affection you’ve ever felt.

[theemporium]

your mai tai (1) with luke hughes?

BTW congrats on 10k!! you deserve it so much💐

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

1.touching foreheads

.

It had felt like a lifetime had passed since Luke had last seen you. 

It was actually six weeks but that was besides the point. 

He thought he would be fine. He thought time would pass quickly and the six weeks would pass in the blink of an eye. He thought he would be busy with his own summer plans in the lakehouse with his brothers and his friends that he wouldn’t have time to really miss you. 

It took a week into the summer break for him to realise his plan was absolute bullshit and he missed you a pathetic amount. 

Despite not joining the Devils until last season, Luke had met the team a fair amount over the years since Jack had been drafted. He had met Nico a fair amount of times. And in turn, he had met Nico’s little sister—you—a handful of times too. 

When Luke joined the Devils, he had no intention of falling in love with his captain’s sister but it was funny how the universe seemed to work.

However, between the two of you playing around your feelings and trying to deny the inevitable, it meant that you had only been dating for a few months by the time summer break came along. The relationship was still new and exciting and fresh—and it was vulnerable. You two had spent so long sabotaging the time you had together, and now you were going to be apart for almost two months. 

You wanted to go back home to Switzerland to see your family and friends. Luke wanted to do the same in Michigan. It had been a fairly easy decision to spend the summer apart, but it didn’t make either of you feel all too happy about the situation. 

Nor did it make any of Luke’s friends or family happy when the boy had spent the summer pathetically pining after you, pouty and angsty whenever he got the chance. By week three, everyone was counting down the days until you returned to Jersey. 

And the day had finally come. 

Luke had jumped at the chance to pick you up from the airport. You assured him you didn’t mind getting a taxi, that your flight landed at a god-awful time and you didn’t want to disturb his routine too much before training camp. He had just snorted and rolled his eyes in response. 

Now, it was somewhere after two in the morning, he was dressed in sweats and a hoodie and his body was practically buzzing on excitement and pure adrenaline as his eyes watched the arrivals gate like a hawk, waiting to see you. 

It felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest when he finally saw you. 

His feet were moving before he even realised, his eyes glued on your as he dodged through the group of other passengers before he finally reached you. He wound his arms around your body, pulling you as close as he could like he was scared you would disappear again. 

“I missed you so much,” he managed to murmur out, his eyes falling shut as he felt your arms wind around his torso, squeezing him close too. 

“Missed you too,” you whispered back, pulling back enough to see his face even though the boy whined a bit at the loss of contact. Your lips twitched upwards. “Jack wasn’t lying about you being whiny while I was gone.” 

Luke rested his forehead against yours, his arms still wrapped around you. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Mhm,” you smiled up at him, playfully nudging your nose against his. “Let’s go home, I’m so tired I could pass out here.” 

His heart skipped a beat. “Home?” 

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t look too embarrassed. “Yeah, Hughes, home. Preferably a bed. I missed sleeping next to you.” 

His smile widened. “Sounds perfect to me.”

Someone cleared their throat from behind them both. 

“You both know I’ve been standing here the whole time, right?” Nico deadpanned. “Luke’s my ride too.”

.

[soxcietyy]

hii, can i req a older bf + soft dom yuuta please?

Biker Yuta

Age gap, soft dom, Yuta being fine af in general

It was almost every night, the exact time at 1:30 am where a loud bike would pass by your house. It was so loud that it would wake you up from the deep slumber you where in.

At first you didn't think much about it when you first moved into your new house but now its been months and you kept hearing that loud bike zoom by. At some point you grew tired of it and decided tonight was the night you would confront whoever this selfish individual was. There was tones of roads that person could go on and he decided your street was the one to travel on every night? Did this person not have a job?

Grabbing your coat you slip it on and walk out in your pajama’s that consisted on small shorts and a tanktop. Checking the time on your phone you noticed it was five minutes till one. Walking out the door you stand by the mailbox with your arms crossed. The passing cars probably thinking that you weren't fully right in the head. After a few minutes of standing there you could hear the loud bike from a distance.

How where you supposed to get this person attention? you had no clue but decided to find out once it was time. As the bike got louder you step into the middle of the road. When the vehicle came into view you had to shut your eyes from how bright there headlights. Using your hand to cover your eyes from the light you could feel two hands grab you and pulled you to the side. With a gasp you turn around to see them?!

What was the biker doing here? shouldn't he be the one...

before you could finish that though a car zoomed by extremely fast. Then it hit you, you could of almost died mistaking that car for the biker.

"what are you doing in the middle of the road like that? you could of gotten hurt." A male voice said from behind that helmet.

"I thought it was you!" you say grabbing you heart that almost popped out of your chest

"Me? either way you shouldnt be doing that. Arnt you supposed to be in bed at this time?" He asks as he sat you down on his bike.

"yea i actually am but a loud bike likes to go through my neighborhood, waking me and everyone else up! Do you know how much sleep iv lost because of you?" you say angrily.

grabbing his helmet with both hands he slowly takes it off and shakes his helmet hair before looking at you. "Im sorry I didn't know i was bothering people with my late night rides." he says. "Im usually coming out of work at that time and well this is the way I go to make it home.

"Well how about being more quiet? I would hate for us to have issues." You put your hand on your hip.

"Issues? Now I don’t think that’s necessary. How about I make it up to you?" He mocks you by putting his hand on his hip too.

"How will you make it up to me? Do you know how much beauty sleep iv lost because of you?" You quirk your brow.

"Well before I even give you an answer I need to know about you such as name and age."

"My name is y/n and I’m nineteen." You answer.

"Seven years apart mmh, well how about you let me relieve all that stress you got pent up? If you know what I mean. My name is Yuta by the way." He places his helmet under his arm.

27 and he looks young? He’s also not bad looking at all. It wouldn’t hurt to try something with someone more experienced than you. "Sure but I would hate for your back to give out in the middle of it." You hum

"Hey I’m not that old, let’s see who’s back gives out first huh?" He chuckled as he followed you back to your shared house.

Your roommate was luckily out of town for the week so you had the whole house to yourself. It didn’t take long until he was over you. Smothering you with kisses and the string cologne he wore that smelled rich of leather. His bangs touching your forehead as they dangled over you. He still held his helmet in his hand before he dropped it so he could get a better hold of you.

The kisses were fast but deep. It was almost as if he was so desperate to get a taste of you. As he continued to kiss you his gloved hands snaked under your shirt and fondled your breast. You couldn’t lie and say he didn’t look fine with his blacked out gear. If you knew he looked like this you would have confronted him long ago.

Pulling you closer to him he removed your bottoms and his right hand glove. "Want me to teach you how a real grown man should treat a lady?" He whispers in your ear before sliding his fingers in you.

He long fingers bend and move around inside of you. He made sure to touch every spot causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. Biting your bottom lip you shake your head unconsciously. You didn’t even noticed when he crouched down and began to eat you out. That was until your legs began to shake uncontrollably.

"Yuta" you moan

Hmm? He Hums causing you to jolt from the sudden vibration. Why was he so good at this? Could it be his years of experience? Whatever it was you wanted to thank everything that made it possible for him to be with you tonight. He was eating you out so sloppily that the noises echoed in the room. His tongue glided side to side on your clit as his fingers moved in and out of you. You gripped his hair as you got closer to your orgasm. His other hand grabbed your thigh so you wound the able to escape his grasp.

When you started orgasming you moaned his name once again. Tears rolling down your face from how good it was.

Turning you over on your stomach you could hear him unbuckling his belt. Tilting your head back you could see him adjusting himself to your entrance.

"Arnt you going to take your clothes off?" You ask him wondering why he was fully clothed.

"Wouldn’t want to distract you from the main event." He smacks his hard member on your behind.

He then leaned over you and grabbed your face directing you to look at your pile of stuffed animals in a corner.

"Arnt you too old for those things?" He says amused.

"You can never be too old for stuffed animals" you mumble.

Without saying another word he slammed right into you. Your eyes widen at the feeling of being filled up. You don’t think you’ve ever had something this big inside of you. Squeezing your eyes shut you feel how he slides in and out of you smoothly.

"There you go, you’re taking me so well. Thought you would have been crying for me to stop." He says as he quickens his pace. You grip onto your blankets as he slams in and out of you. Each thrust getting deeper and harder. You could hear him breathing heavily next to you ear. You could also heard how the necklaces and chain that he wore cling together with every move. His non gloved hand moved under you and began to pull on your nipple as he continued with his pace.

"You just so cute." He says as he kisses your head, your cheek and your shoulder. "I think I’m gonna start bothering you even more if it mean we get to do this everytime." He mumbles. "Not going to lie I was having second thought about this but I’m so glad I went along. You feel so fucking perfect around my cock." He wraps his arms around your body and slams you all the way into him until he reached places you never thought were possible.

Your jaw drops as he doesn’t let go. Your eyes rolling back at this new painful yet pleasurable feeling. "Yuu" you cry out trying to catch your breath but him hearing you say his name like that turned a switch on for him. He fucked you while you were still being lifted up. Your feet not being able to touch the ground as he used you like his personal cock sleeve. You squirm in his arms being overwhelmed by everything but he held a tight grip on you. At some point you stopped trying and gave in. Your toes curling as you orgasmed once again coating his member in white.

"Easy now, just bear with me for a minute I’m almost there." He groans.

After a few more slams he finally finished inside of you.

He placed you back down slowly and collapsed on top of you. Breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath.

"Fuck, are you On birth control? Or do you need me to get you a plan B?"

[its-time-to-write]

for anyone else who needs comfort in the form of a sick fic. but written specially for @coloursofyen🩵

there for you

Jamie’s alarm goes off at precisely 3:26am, which is what he says is the optimal time to wake up for training with Roy. He rolls over and feels for your warm body on the other side of the bed, frowning when he feels nothing but the cold covers next to him. You’ve been out of bed for a while, then.

He sits up, and as he wipes the sleep from his eyes he notices a light coming from the en suite. Jamie hops out of bed and taps on the door.

“Babe? You alright?” he asks.

He’s met by a retching sound so he pushes open the door to find you kneeling in front of the toilet. Sweat makes strands of hair stick to your face, and your face is unnaturally pale. You blink blearily at him as he sits against the doorframe.

“I think I have a stomach bug,” you croak.

Jamie’s unable to stop a grin. “What makes you think that?”

You’re too tired and nauseous to flip him off. You’ve been awake for more than an hour, thinking first it might be something you ate. 

Then you remembered one of your coworkers called out sick earlier in the week, followed by your supervisor two days later. Seems like it’s your turn now.

You manage to get out, “It’s going around the office,” before turning your face back to the bowl.

Jamie makes a sympathetic face and moves to rub your back.

“I’m gonna get you some water, babe. You want anything else? Crackers? Toast? I think we have shit for soup later today, if you think you can keep it down,” he says.

“Roy,” you say, sticking to easy words.

Jamie gently pats your back. “Nah, don’t worry about him. He’ll be glad to have the morning off.”

“You have a match on Sunday,” you remind him. “You can’t catch this.”

Jamie disregards this and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “The lads’ll be fine without me. Give some second-teamer a chance to be on the pitch. Besides, it’s against Bournemouth.”

You make a face. Bournemouth is at the bottom of the league, and at the moment a match against them is essentially free points.

“It feels awful,” you rasp.

Jamie readjusts his position on the floor. “Babe, I’m a fucking… specimen. I’m like, so fucking healthy that viruses bounce right off me. I’m not gonna catch it.”

You shake your head and retch again. That’s what you had thought.

“Let me text Coach,” Jamie says. “I’ll sit here as longs as you need, or I can grab a bowl so you can go back to bed. Actually, let’s go to the guest room while I change the sheets in here, yeah? All hygienic, like. I can make mum’s special soup, think we’ve got everything for it. Can order it if not. Just don’t worry about it, alright? Your body’s a temple, or whatever fucking Lasso says.”

You crack a half-smile at that. For as much as Jamie loves football, he loves you more. Only slightly more, but you’ll take it. 

He says, “Come on, up you get,” and half-lifts you to a standing position. Once you’re settled in the guest bed with the tv on and a lime soda, he heads downstairs to figure out what you might be able to eat. He ends up bringing you toast, a banana, and a sleeve of crackers, then getting into bed next to you.

“Sheets are in the wash,” he says. 

“Don’t get too close to me,” you warn. “You’re going to catch this fucking bug.”

“Won’t,” he responds smugly.

“Will,” you argue.

“Won’t,” he repeats with such confidence that you wish Roy were still coming over to smack him down a little bit.

Will, you silently mouth.

—

That fucker doesn’t even get so much as a sneeze.

[bots-and-cons]

Can I please have some Cybertronian!Reader comforting Starscream after a nightmare? Possibly after the Predacons Rising ending cause that's gotta be traumaTM

A/N:I’ve been having quite a lot of bad dreams lately, so this fits the theme too I guess lol. I honestly don’t remember much about the movie, so I didn’t base this on it. Screamer isn’t my favorite even though he’s grown on me over the years, and this might be a bit (or a lot) OOC, and Idk if it ended up very good but I don’t care. I’ve been trying to write this for over two weeks so this will have to do

You’d been on a mission, but when you got back to the habsuite you shared with Starscream, he was already recharging. You smiled gently as you looked at him, but as he turned in his sleep you saw he had a pained look on his face. You sat on the berth next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to wake him up gently.

Starscream sprung up from the berth the second you touched him, and before he even realized what he’d done, he had shot at you. He was just standing there, pointing his blaster at you with a panicked look in his optics.

“Star, it’s me, it’s me” you said calmly as he was still pointing his blaster at you.

You’d dodged his shot, just barely, but you were much more worried about him than you were for your slightly fried audial fin.

“(Name)?” Starscream asked with a wavering voice.

He looked at you, then his blaster and then back to you, before putting his blaster away and sitting back down on the edge of the berth. He was hanging his head, refusing to look at you.

“Another nightmare?” you asked, slowly reaching your hand towards his.

Starscream just nodded as he let you take his hand. Your presence calmed him and your touch even more so.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine” Starscream said a bit dismissively. He would much rather not talk about it.

He’d always had quite frequent nightmares, but it had gotten a lot worse recently. You weren’t really surprised, he had enough trauma for multiple lifetimes. It would have been a miracle if he didn’t have some bad dreams. It wasn’t very often that he had this bad of a reaction to being woken up. You knew he didn’t mean to hurt you, but you were always prepared to dodge a blaster shot or block a hit.

“Star, please be honest with me. I can see you’re rattled by whatever the dream was about”

“Why must you always insist? Why do you always pry into things?” Starscream hissed.

“You know why. It’s because I love you and you need to talk it out. It’s gonna keep bothering you otherwise”

Starscream outwardly disliked your prying, but he loved the fact that you cared so much, he loved that you cared for him. Not that he would have ever said that out loud. Love was something that was certainly not abundant among the decepticons. There might have been a flicker sometimes, but certainly not towards him, nor from him. Starscream hadn’t known much of it in his life in general, not before he met you anyway. You were the first person to ever care about him, for who he was, not for what he could offer. The first person to ever comfort him after a nightmare, to stay by his side until he fell into recharge mode again when he had calmed down. The first one to hold him with love, instead of some ulterior motive or with violent intentions.

“Pry again later. I would like to rest now” Starscream stated tiredly.

“Fine, I will. I’m tired too, so we can just recharge together” you sighed in defeat.

You knew there was no point in trying to argue with him once he’d made up his mind, so you didn’t. You would just have to pry more later.

Starscream might not have shown it or said it, but he did appreciate all you did for him. He loved you, even if he only rarely actually said it to you. Maybe one day, if you were still with him, the nightmares would be a thing of the past. No Megatron, no war, no running or fighting for your lives, just you and him. Perhaps that day would come one day, but for now, it was time to rest, hopefully without more nightmares.

[burn-before-reading]

Love in the Time of Socialism

joost klein x artist!reader

art, mush, and ramblings about life

warnings: depression (ish), burnout, reader character in some vague mental health funk

word count: 2k

a/n: slight prequel to blue is the colour of your eyes but can be read as stand alone. just same artist reader. vaguely romantic but just ramblings and getting feelings out haha. started this when I was in more of a bad mental state (lol) but im fine now so it got kinda tame by the end of it. still not proofreading anything

title from the song Love in the Time of Socialism by Yellow House

Rpf below the cut—

Normally Joost has to call you because its the only way you will actually look at your phone. Its more often that not you find yourself fixated on planning out your next project, and your friends have to force you back into reality. There was that one time no one had heard from you in over a week and thought you were dead, when you were just working. You hadn’t realized how many texts you missed and apologized for scaring your friends half to death. Especially Joost.

So now you leave your ringer on, and now they call.

Tonight, however, Joost calls and you aren’t in your studio. You are in your bed, where you have been for the entire day. and also most of yesterday. There isn’t a reason in your head specifically why this has happened. you MEANT to get up. Theres a list of chores and things to do just sitting on your desk, but you woke up late, so now nothing will get done. At some point it just became too stressful to even get up and look at it. You roll over and stare at the contact picture of him, smiling with some dumb fish eye lens he thought was funny. You debate not picking up at all.

But you can’t ignore him.

“Hi Joost.” your voice came through the phone more hoarse than intended when you answered, you don’t remember the last time you talked to someone. “Whats going on?”

“the others wanted to go out for drinks tonight, you hadn’t responded so I wanted to check you were joining us.” You could imagine him rocking back and forth on his heels in the middle of his living room while he talked, it was either that or pacing around.

“uhh..” Drinks at a bar was the last thing on your mind. In any other situation you would have loved to be around your friends, but right now you just needed to avoided as much as possible. “Not a good night, tonight. Sorry, I’ll have to join you guys next time.”

Joost felt like something was off, you sounded tired. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ll be fine I just… shit brain day. bad brain thats all. It happens.” You did your best to summarize how you felt without actually admitting anything, you weren’t sure how to explain anything anyway.

“ Oh Im sorry, would it be good, if I came over? I can keep you company, if thats okay?”

“you don’t have to, I’ll be fine tomorrow. I want you to have fun. ” you insisted, but he pressed on.

“I don’t mind, the group would understand. Have you eaten today?”

“Like… a meal? yes, or well, no. I had a soda..” You glance at the half drunk soda from the night before, now flat. “and uhhh..”

“I’ll pick something up.” You could hear him on the other end gathering things together, keys, wallet, probably his ipad.

“.. thank you. I’ll see you in a bit, I guess.”

-

Joost knocked on your door about an hour later. In that time you were able to get out of bed and make your way to the bathroom to change and make yourself somewhat presentable in front of a guest, and to the kitchen to make coffee despite it being 8pm.

You opened it to see Joost with a sheepish smile as he extends his arms out for a hug. “Hi.”

“Hi Joost.” you take the step to hug him, feeling his body heat contrast with the cold nighttime. “I’m glad you’re here.” the two of you head inside to your living room where he empties his bag of take out to reveal a couple different thai dishes and egg rolls. It was hard to not admit you weren’t at least a little bit hungry.

The two of you ate in mostly silence, making small talk about different projects you two have going on, or the fact that the two of you were in between projects. He done with touring for the time being and in the process of working on a new album. You loosely avoiding talking about any current work plans but mentioned one or two paintings you finished for a private gallery commission last month.

“ Just some paintings of animals and nature-ish symbolism. Honestly my heart wasn’t really in that one, but it payed the rent so.” you shrug and shove noodles into your mouth.

“Well now you have the time to work on your own stuff, right?” he commented, leaning back into your couch and looking down at you sitting on the floor instead of any of your own furniture. “Draw whatever your heart desires.”

“I mean I guess.. Im just glad to be done with the oil paints for now. I swear i think I was gonna die in my studio from all the chemicals. I dunno, I finished that whole project last month, I haven’t really been very productive since then.” you trail off and Joost gets a concerned expression on his face.

He sinks down from his spot of the couch to join you in the floor. The fluffy rug brushing against his legs as he adjusts his new sitting position.

“Its okay to take a break, you know.”

“I know I know, I just get frustrated. I never seem to have my energy directed towards the right thing. Whenever I have all those big projects from other contractors, I can brainstorm and think of all these interesting ideas I wanna work on, but I can’t because then I would get behind on the art Im being paid to do.”

“mhm.” he nods, to indicate he’s following along.

“ And then whenever Im done with those projects, I just get… tired. and my focus is gone. and Everything just feels…” you gesture the last bit with your hands, scrambling your fingers, to imply your thoughts. You aren’t looking at him, but you can still see him nodding in your peripherals. Joost always seemed to understand your thinking and explanations to things, even if you thought they were messy.

“Do you want to try painting right now?” he asks. you just shrug your shoulders.

“I don’t know what I would paint.”

“You can paint our dinner, or, or yourself, or your plants maybe?” he suggested and stands up. “Can I paint too?”

“Oh we’re actually doing this?” Not that you didn’t want to, but this self doubt had creeped into your mind again. That failing to produce something decent would prove that you’ve lost all your talent, your skill.

“yea we can have a little painting party!” he chimed, but he hesitated walking over to your studio to grab stuff, still giving you the space to reject his idea.

you looked away and started nervously tapping your fork against the table.

tap tap tap tap

“…sure. We can use my watercolors, Ive been wanting to use them more often anyway.”

the coffee table became a little more cluttered as you set up the paints for the two of you. Joost using an old set 24 pans and you using a newer set of watercolor tubes you were gifted last year and never opened. You watched as Joost immediately dipped his brush in water and started activating the blue paints, spreading it onto his paper in big random strokes.

“what are you painting?”

“not sure yet, maybe im painting you.” he looks up and smirks. you scrunch your nose up.

“why are you using so much blue. am I a smurf?” you joke and he just shrugs and points to your own paper.

“Just mess around, can’t be any worse than what im doing.”

tap tap tap tap tap tap

you fidget with your own brush for a few seconds lo get before grabbing a big mop brush and wetting your paper with clean water. Taking your smaller brush again, you pour out a small amount of yellow and mix it up with some more water. You hesitate for a moment longer before letting the brush lightly touch the surface, creating a burst of colour on the paper as the colour seeps onto the page. You make a few more random marks before switching to another warm colour and repeating the process, now watching the colours bleeds and mix into each other. You look at Joost paper and see that he is actually now trying to paint you, the blue fortunately was able to be mostly contained to the background.

“Do you ever think about what you would do if you weren’t a musician?” you ask.

“I dunno I think after this I could have a pretty successful art career.” he teases but sees in your face the question is more serious. “I don’t know. I started off with youtube, but if I wasn’t doing that… its hard to think about what my life would be like if I didn’t follow this path.”

“I always have this feeling deep down, that I made a wrong choice somewhere along the line. I was thinking about going to school for psychology, I also wanted to work with animals at one point, be a vet. I enjoy art, don’t get me wrong, but I just worry that in making it my job Ive just drained all the passion I had for it.”

You let the paper dry before staining the page with lines of dark burgundy, creating hands and a human heart. he hums as he listens, not adding anything, but simply letting you vent. beginning to piece together your mood from earlier. “I don’t have any jobs lined up right now, which is what Ive been waiting for, to work on my own stuff, yknow? I haven’t had the time ive wanted to make something for myself for a while. But now I just feel, I feel like ive been frozen.”

“things seem to be okay right now. I like what youve made. ” you look down and see the scribbles youve made with your paint. hands clasped over a broken heart. you shrug and smile softly, signing the bottom.

“Just a scribble, you can have it if you want.” You hand the paper over to him. “thank you for coming by, its… its nice being around you. Helps a bit.”

Joost takes the paper and studies it for a second. “I really like it, maybe I should come by more often.”

“If you bring the food we can have art nights whenever you want.” he holds up his paper. The blue bleeding into your skintone and hair since he didn’t wait for anything to properly dry. “I might stick to my ipad though, I don’t know why you like this paint.” he scrunches his nose at it. you laugh and it makes him smile.

You notice for the first time how bright his eyes look when he smiles, but you brush the thought away.

-

“Feeling a bit better?” he asks as he lingers by the door on his way out.

“a bit. like I said It was just a mood, I was gonna be fine tomorrow most likely… I still appreciate you coming over.”

“Don’t ever be afraid to call or text okay? Im always here to talk if you need. or just to listen.”

“definitely. Ive been meaning to uh, talk to someone about all this stuff anyway, you’re not a professional but ill keep it in mind.”

he grins and goes in for one last hug. you feel him slightly squeeze you and linger a little longer than usual before letting go. With one last glance he waves and head off. You see him pull out a cigarette for the walk back. It takes you a second to close the door. standing there watching him walk off until he turns a corner and disappears. Closing the door you sigh and go the clean up your living room.

You notice he left the portrait he drew of you. signed at the bottom with a smiley face next to his name.

It gets hung up in your studio above your desk.

[strangersteddierthings]

Gut Instinct: Interlude - Eddie

[Art] [Ao3] [Prologue] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Interlude]

A/N: Friday evening from Eddie's POV.

-

“Holy shit,” Jeff says, “you actually do know King Steve?”

Eddie almost gives himself whiplash from how quickly he looks from Erica to Dustin and, holy shit, the Keg Stand King himself, Steve Harrington.

“I told you he’s awesome,” Dustin says in a tone that implies Jeff’s an idiot. “Come on Steve, sit beside me. I’ll help you with the rules.”

“Hold up,” Eddie says, rounding to Harrington. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment, which is hilarious to Eddie. Who knew Harrington could be startled? However, any joy he might have gotten from startling Harrington is fleeting, because Eddie doesn’t trust why he’s here. Why he would agree to sub. Harrington’s always been bad news, and Eddie doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him, no matter how nice he is to look at. “Your character is?”

“Oh, uh, tiefling paladin, oath of the crown,” Harrington says, trying to catch Dustin’s eye in what Eddie thinks Steve believes is a subtle way.

Eddie shoots a glare at him. No way Harrington came up with that character. It had to have been made by Dustin, which Eddie would normally count as cheating and kick someone out for, but… Well, he’s got to admit a little intrigued. Harrington might not have made his own character, but he pronounced tiefling right and knew to say the subclass. “Right. And why’d you agree to sub?”

There is a small pause before Harrington simply says, “Dustin asked.”

He’s got to admit to some surprise here. He didn’t think Harrington could actually care about other people, but he seems genuine. Honest, almost. “Fine.” Eddie watches as Dustin steers Harrington to an empty seat. Eddie takes his own spot back on the throne. If Harrington is going to play, he’ll need to tweak the battle a little. Having another higher-level paladin in the group throws off his carefully calculated challenge rating. Easy enough to tweak. A few more minions can join the fight, and Vecna can still be deadly as he is now without changes. He’ll see if he needs to up the hit points for Vecna after the first combat encounter. If they breeze through that, Vecna’s definitely getting a boost.

Also... Well, also, Eddie’s almost a little excited that Harrington’s going to see this side of him. Yes, Harrington was witness to more than his fair share of cafeteria rants but that’s different. That’s Eddie acting out against the system because it’s rigged in favor of people like Harrington, and against people like Eddie. Here, Harrington will get to see Eddie perform.

While plotting, he does take the time to eavesdrop at bit. Specifically on Harrington.

“Hi. I’m Steve.”

“I know,” Gareth says, and he couldn’t sound more disinterested in talking to Harrington if he tried. Eddie’s a little proud of him.

“Right. And you are…?”

“Gareth.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“We’ve met. Like four times,” Gareth says dismissively and Eddie grins behind his DM screen. How many times had Harrington dismissed them? He knows he shouldn’t be feeling this vindicated. And yet…

There’s a bit of a pause before Eddie hears Harrington ask, “Isn’t Lucas in this club, too?”

“Well, yeah, that’s why you’re here. To fill in for him. ‘Cause he’s in the basketball game,” Dustin answers.

“And he’s okay with missing this game?”

“Well, uh, he doesn’t exactly know he’s missing it?” Dustin says it like a question and Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes. There’s no way Lucas Sinclair, budding athlete that he is, doesn’t know he’s missing this game. He made his choice.

“I’m sorry, what?” Harrington says.

“He asked us to get Eddie to postpone the game, but Eddie said no. Besides, Mike’s leaving the state tomorrow morning and we’d have to wait two weeks to play again otherwise,” Dustin explains, “and, uh, we haven't seen him since he asked us after the assemble to tell him that the game would not be postponed.”

Eddie finally lifts his head to watch the exchange. He can’t see Dustin’s face, as Dustin is facing Harrington, but that leaves Eddie with a perfect view of Harrington.

“That’s bullshit, Henderson,” Harrington’s raises his voice. He doesn’t have an expression on his face that would suggest anger. It’s more disappointment, but either way, Eddie’s not about to watch Harrington bully one of his sheep.

“Watch it, Harrington,” Eddie snaps, matching Harrington’s energy. “You don’t get to bully people around here.”

“That’s not- right, sorry. Just, can we postpone for like ten more minutes?” Harrington asks.

“Why the Hell would we do that?” Eddie is bewildered, he’ll admit that. Why does Harrington need ten more minutes?

“So I can go tell Lucas this game wasn’t postponed, like he thinks it is,” that bit hissed in Dustin’s direction, “and he might only be going to the basketball game because he thinks this one isn’t happening.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, a bit dumbly. Has he read Lucas all wrong? Is he more nerd than jock? It’s strange that Harrington might be the authority on that matter, but he seems terribly invested in these kids. Maybe Eddie has read Harrington all wrong? Maybe he really has changed, and is just here to make a bunch of kids happy? “Fine. Ten minutes. We’re starting without you or Sinclair if it takes longer than that.”

“Thanks!” Harrington smiles at him.

Eddie’s self-aware enough to know why his insides flutter in the face of the full Harrington Charm directed at him. He scrunches his face in disgust at himself. He was, is, over the crush he’d had on Harrington. That was a blip on his radar of Unfortunate and Bad Crushes on Stupid Straight Boys. A lot of people made the list (he’s a hopeless romantic, sue him) so Harrington’s not special.

Isn’t going to be special. Eddie’s going to kill his paladin as quickly as possible and then kick him out to go watch the basketball game or something.

-

“Any moment now Steve's going to walk back through that door with Lucas. So, I hope you are prepared to have two extra players tonight. He's very persuasive. He'll get Lucas to come around. If anyone can, it's Steve. Just you wait,” Dustin is saying when Harrington steps back into the room. Not that Eddie was watching the door for him.

Harrington’s got a look on his face that isn’t pleased. Great.

“Oh no,” Erica sighs, “that’s your Disappointed Parent face.”

“I don’t have a ‘Disappointed Parent’ face,” Harrington says before turning his gaze to Eddie. “Eddie, Lucas thinks you don’t like him.”

“Why does he think that?” Eddie stands up from where he was sitting. He doesn’t like the tone in Harrington’s voice and he’s not going to stay sitting so Harrington can talk down to him, literally or figuratively.

“He thinks you don’t like him because he’s missed previous games. Thinks you don’t like him so much that he had to have Dustin and Mike ask about this game because he believes you’d have said no immediately to him,” Harrington steps further into the room, and Eddie watches as all his friends tense. Ready to jump to his defense if need be. Eddie’s tense, too, because this is the Harrington he remembers. The one who thinks his word is law, and everyone should obey. Well, Eddie’s not going just roll over. Of course the jock shows up in defense of the other jock.

“I don’t hate him, but the budding jock made his choice,” Eddie scoffs, dismissive.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, Eddie. ‘You don’t get to bully people around here.’” Harrington uses a deeper tone that Eddie thinks is supposed to represent Eddie’s voice as he parrots the words back to him. “It’s only okay for you to be the bully, huh?”

Eddie gasps, offended. “Of the two of us, Harrington, I’m not the fucking bully,” Eddie moves away from the table, rounding it to go get into Harrington’s face, but Gareth reaches out and grabs his elbow, stopping Eddie in his tracks. It’s the right call, because Eddie doesn’t want to have to fist fight Harrington in front of the club, but he’ll fucking do it.

“You don’t know shit about me,” Harrington fires back. “I was a dick in high school, yeah, but I grew the fuck up. You’re bullying a fifteen-year-old because he wants to, what, play sports? Making him choose between the two? That’s fucked up.”

“Again, I didn’t fucking make him choose!” Eddie growls back. Eddie didn’t! Lucas made his choice the day he tried out for basketball. Eddie knew it. Lucas knew it. Lucas’s friends knew it. The only one in the room who doesn’t seem to get it is Harrington, who must truly believe you can have your cake and eat it too. Unsurprising, Eddie thinks, since Harrington was born with a silver spoon in his goddamn mouth that probably already had cake on it. Ice cream, too.

“You did! By not postponing the fucking game! School sports have a set schedule, and you could have looked at it before scheduling Hellfire,” Harrington says. “Lucas is allowed to like sports and nerd things. And you two,” he pivots to point between Dustin and Mike, “are being kind of shitty right now. After everything you’ve gone through together, you couldn’t stick by his side for this?”

“Hey, I have to get on a plane tomorrow morning,” Mike defends himself. “If they postponed, then I wouldn’t have gotten to play!”

“So, it’s fine that Lucas can’t play, but terrible if you can’t? That’s a load of shit, Wheeler. Lucas is supposed to be your friend.”

“He is my friend-“

“Then act like it!” Harrington says. “Will and El aren't here anymore; are you really okay with losing Lucas, too?”

“That is not fair,” Mike’s tone is almost flat as he glares at Harrington.

“Steve, you’re being defensive, right now,” Dustin speaks up, giving Harrington a pointed look.

Those words cause a shift in Harrington for some reason. Eddie watches him deflate before turning back to Eddie and saying, “If you want Lucas to believe you don’t hate him, you’d go to the game, too.”

“Lucas can draw his own conclusion about how I feel. I’m not responsible for his emotions, Harrington,” Eddie growls. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels a little regret. He didn’t say anything untrue but it’s not how he really feels. He’s not usually this dismissive of Hellfire member’s feelings but Harrington’s mere presence has set him into fight mode and he realizes he’s saying things he doesn’t believe just to argue. Why is he trying so hard to get into a fight right now?

“You’re right, but you’re also older than him and should take some responsibility for how you act around him,” Harrington says, and Eddie feels shame. He fucking hates it. Only Wayne’s able to evoke shame from him, and it’s bullshit that Harrington’s doing it now. “He thinks you’re being shitty to him, on purpose. He thinks you treat him differently than you do Dustin or Mike. And that’s fucked up. He’s just a kid, he looks up to you, and he's been through enough.”

Eddie doesn’t argue back. Harrington is right. Eddie knows he’s right. That shame coils in his gut, and he’s pissed that it’s Harrington making him feel that way. That it’s Harrington who is pointing out Eddie’s shortcomings.

There’s a shuffling sound and Dustin is standing, shoving his things into his backpack. He doesn’t say anything, but he does look at Mike. The two seem to have a silent conversation because after a moment Mike nods, and begins to gather his stuff, too.

“So, you two are out?” Eddie’s asks. He tries to keep his voice neutral, but he feels a little betrayed. Of course, Harrington shows up and ruins everything for him. He should have known he’d never stack up against Steve Harrington.

It’s childish to think because Dustin and Mike aren’t picking Harrington. He knows that. He knows they’re picking Lucas, their lifelong friend.

And yet.

It’s like Eddie is fifteen and a sophomore again, getting picked last for PE games and group projects. Not being ‘cool’ enough, which had made younger him feel not good enough.

“Harrington’s right,” Dustin says as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, “Lucas does really want to be here. He sounded real upset when he asked us to talk to you about changing the day of the game. I also really want to play, it’s going to suck missing the final session, but it’s going to suck more to bail on a years-long friendship.”

“Yeah. Lucas has never bailed on us,” Mike adds, even though he sounds upset for agreeing.

Erica lets out a put-upon sigh, “he has bailed on me, but never when it mattered, I guess. I expect that you’re buying the tickets, Steve?”

“Unbelievable!” Eddie throws his hands in the air, anger in his voice, probably laced with the hurt he feels. This was always going to be the outcome. Ever since the first time Dustin brought up Harrington, Eddie knew he’d be second fiddle. He shouldn’t feel so upset by this but fuck, he does.

“A compromise?” Harrington offers. “Mike, when are you back?”

“Uhh, the plane is supposed to land Thursday afternoon; I’ll be back in town that night sometime.”

“Great,” Harrington looks to Eddie. “Can you guys play next Friday, or even Thursday night if Mike isn’t jet-lagged too much?”

“School’s locked up next week,” Dustin answers before he can. Which is fine, he was going to say the same thing anyway.

“What about your basement, Mike?” Harrington changes his attention to Mike.

“Won’t fit all of us,” Mike says. “It was barely enough room when it was just Dustin, Lucas, Will, and I. The table's not big enough.”

“Plus, it stinks like boy,” Erica wrinkles her nose, “unwashed, gross boy.”

“It’s not that bad!”

“Yes, it is,” Harrington says.

“Steve, I have a compromise,” Erica says. “Regarding a promise you made to me. For life.”

Erica now has Harrington’s full attention it seems, and also Eddies, because what kind of lifelong promise has Harrington made to this child? “Yes, Erica?” Harrington asks.

“We play at your house next Friday. You will provide snacks and pizza,” she says it like it’s decided, before pointing her finger at Harrington, then dragging her hand through the air to point at everyone, “and all you nerds will stop bickering like old people. You’ll also have to buy our tickets because I didn’t bring any money. In return, I will shorten your life debt to the day after I graduate from high school.”

“Done! Deal!” Harrington accepts instantly, easily, and with a lot of relief in his voice. What the fuck did he owe Erica? Eddie’s dying to know, because he’s curious by nature. Not because anything about Harrington actually interests him. “I’ll be buying all the basketball tickets, and just tell me what pizza you want. That work for everyone?”

“Your parents will be okay with that?” Dustin asks.

“Oh, they’ll be gone by Friday for sure so no issue. So, will that work for everyone?” Harrington asks.

Eddie exchanges looks with his friends, a silent agreement to go with whatever they want. He hopes they say no, but Jeff speaks an affirmative first, so he, Gareth, and Frankie parrot that yes.

Erica stalks up to Harrington, stopping just in front of him, hand out, palm up. With a sigh, Harrington pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and drops it into Erica’s hand. Erica says, “I’ll get back to you on the pizza I want. I’ll go buy tickets. Are you all coming?”

Gareth says, “Uh, Harrington’s not gonna buy-“

“I said are. You. Coming?” Erica repeats, hands on her hips.

“Yes,” Gareth answers, then looks surprised he did. Eddie’s surprised, too, but only a little. He really likes Erica. He’s not going to be in school when her time to really join the club comes, but he’s going to make sure Gareth recruits her anyway. Somehow.

Erica gives one nod and heads out the door.

Eddie just watches for a moment as everyone gathers their things before he heaves a sigh and starts to pack up, too.

It’s not until Harrington speaks that Eddie realizes he’s alone with him in the green room, everyone else having left already. “I'm sorry. I’m sorry for coming in here and like, immediately attacking you. That wasn’t cool of me.”

Eddie looks him over before scoffing. “It’s whatever, man.”

“It’s really not,” Harrington says. “I know that, like, a lot of work goes into this game and I’m sorry. So, like, if you want anything extra, or need something for the game next week, I’ll get it. I’ll help however I can.”

Eddie pauses in the middle of his clean up, to look up at Harrington and study him. Those were the last words he expects to come out of Harrington’s mouth. An apology? Surely he’s entered the Twilight Zone. Harrington not only looks sincere, but sounds it, too.

He hates how, ever since Harrington’s arrival, Eddie feels like he’s lost control of his emotions. He’s always been on a hair trigger when Harrington and his stupid, handsome face were near. It’s the one crush he was never able to fully get over. And he hates it. He hates that he feels anything for the ex-king of Hawkins High besides contempt.

What should he say here? Thank you? Fuck off?

When Eddie finally replies, he settles for, “I don’t know if I hate you or not.”

“That’s fair,” Harrington says quietly, sincerely, and Eddie hates that, too. Hates that he can see the Harrington Dustin is always praising. If even just a little. Speaking of Dustin.

“I’ve got to know, Harrington. How’d this group of kids get to be so important to you?” Eddie goes back to gathering up the stuff on the table, needing something to do or he’s going to do something stupid. Like let Harrington have his full attention. "Why is their continued friendship important to you?"

“I used to babysit them. Try and keep them out of trouble, which is impossible because they’re too fucking curious and smart. That’s a godawful combination, you know?”

Eddie lifts one corner of his mouth upwards in a smile he tries to fight back down because, “My uncle would agree with you.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t need a babysitter anymore but-“ Harrington cuts his words off, and when Eddie glances to him, he’s wearing a thoughtful expression. Harrington finally continues with, “But they’re family now. They can be a bunch of shitheads, but I love them. And they hate it when I say this, but they should get to be kids as long as they can.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes the time to process the words and he gathers up his things. Maybe he is wrong about Harrington. Maybe, he has changed. People are allowed to do that, Eddie knows, but he’s never witnessed it. Not really.

“Help me load what I’ll need for the session next week into my van and I’ll think about forgiving you for ruining this one,” Eddie says once everything is gathered.

“Yes!” Harrington agrees, a bit too eagerly and quickly. Like he couldn’t wait to be useful to Eddie in some way. Eddie shoots him a confused and concerned look before picking up the first stack of things and heading out. Between the two of them they make quick work of it all.

When they finally get to the gym, Dustin is sitting on the sidewalk waiting for them with their tickets. Eddie follows Dustin into the gym and watches with amusement as Dustin manhandles Harrington into sitting next to Mike. Dustin then sits next to Harrington, then pats the spot next to him while grinning at Eddie. Eddie looks up and sees that Gareth, Jeff, Frankie, and Erica have taken seats towards the top of the bleachers. He debates joining them but ends up dropping onto the bench next to Dustin.

“Oh, shit.” He hears Harrington say to himself.

“What, what is it?” Dustin asks.

“Brenda.”

“What?”

“Brenda!” Harrington hisses, “I, uh, I stood her up. To come to your game instead.”

Eddie swivels to look at Harrington, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in both surprise and delight as he asks, “You ditched a date to play DnD?”

Harrington and Eddie just look at each other for a moment before he watches Harrington blush with embarrassment. “Like I said. Dustin asked.”

Eddie shakes his head because he can’t believe Harrington. Steve ‘Lady’s Man’ Harrington ditched a lady because a fourteen-year-old asked him to. He turns back to the court, so he doesn’t give away how cute he thinks that is.

Wait. No. He doesn’t think anything Harrington does is cute. He doesn't!

Since he’s looking at the court, Eddie looks for Lucas and finds him just in time to see Lucas’s face light up when he sees the whole club sitting there. There’s that shame from earlier back, pooling in his gut.

Everyone stays for the whole game. They all get to see Lucas make the winning shot. Eddie finds himself cheering with the rest of the stands.

He joins everyone with swarming Lucas. He doesn’t push in and get close, the shame in his stomach keeping him at a distance, but he does make eye contact and gives two thumbs up. Lucas looks overjoyed at just that, and it’s suddenly too much inside. Too loud.

He needs to go.

He makes it halfway to his van before he hears Harrington again.

“Hey, Eddie, wait!”

Eddie does wait, turning as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Harrington. Not done turning my night upside down?”

“Nah, man. Just wanted to give you my number.”

“Your number?” Eddie says, voice a bit delirious because what the fuck. Why would Harrington want Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson to have his number?

“Yeah. So that when it’s closer to the Dungeons game you can call, let me know the time that works for you all. Maybe even drop off some of that stuff I helped you load before the game? Whatever makes it easier for you.”

“Oh,” why is he disappointed by that answer? What had he been hoping it would be? “Yeah. Sure. I don’t have a pen on me-“

“No issue. Already wrote it down,” Harrington says, pulling the paper from his pocket, offering it to Eddie.

He reaches out slowly and takes it, balling his fist around it without looking at it, eyes locked onto Harrington's face. The nearest light source is behind Harrington, so he can’t see the features of his face but that’s fine. He’s not looking for them. He stares, just looking. Harrington has not been what he thought he would be. Eddie’s not used to being wrong about things. Harrington confuses him, makes him a little crazy, and he’s got a week to unpack the why of that. Dare he say it, he might be looking forward to the game at Harrington’s house.

Eddie turns on his heel and heads off into the night without another word. If he stays any longer he might try something stupid, like asking if he and Harrington might have a shot at friendship after all.

“Okay then. Have a good night! See you next week!” Harrington shouts at his back and Eddie lets himself smile about it.

[spankingwishes2]

The Birthday After-Party

agbbswts wrote:

"Your bare bum's visiting our three laps indeed, dear" "And we’ll be using our slippers." "Aw. Poor darling you're gonna be so sore!"

***

It was my birthday, but hardly even my party - I don’t have a tenth the friends Camille does!  But it was a blast and made me feel pretty special, even if I was meeting a lot of these people for the first time!

The after-party slumber party, though, got down to just the four of us - Chelsea and Evangeline plus Camille and me.  And I can’t say that I didn’t know what was on the agenda… Camille had agreed that there’d be no ‘birthday spanking’ at the party - provided I didn’t object ‘afterward’ - as in, now.  And, to be fair, she had let me know that I’d be ‘in for it’.

“Are we limited to twenty-five spanks?” Ev pouted (twenty-four plus ‘one to grow on’). I looked at Chelsea - she would never go for that.  She likes to spank.

“Well…” Camille started, and I knew she had a way around it.  “It is a party,” she said, “So I guess if we get to the end and it’s not really enough, we could always start over.”

“That’s fair,” Chelsea claimed.

“Don’t I get an opinion?” I protested, knowing it was futile.

“No, sweetie, not at all,” Camille told me pleasantly.  “Though you could ask us for a second round - which you’re getting very close to doing right now.  Or should we just wait and see?”

“Waiting is good.”

“I thought so,” she continued.  “So let’s have you in your birthday suit!”

“Here?”

“You could do a little strip-tease for us,” Ev suggested, which I did not want to do.  I blushed bright red at the idea.

“Or our guest of honor could just stand still, and we’ll provide the stripping,” Chelsea said.

“Oh, definitely,” Camille agreed, “Just right there is fine.”

An instant later, the three of them were unbuttoning buttons and tugging at sleeves.  It actually was sort of exciting - though it’d be a lot more fun if I hadn’t been worrying about what was coming up!  They got down to my undies.  “Let’s stop a second before ‘the big reveal’,” Camille told them, turning me around.  Chels and Ev stood by the couch and Camille dramatically took the final step.

“Ta-da!” she crowed.  “Look at that bottom - have you ever seen one so white?”

“When’s the last time you were spanked, Kendall?” Chelsea asked.

“Um, not since…”

“It’s been over a week!” Camille announced, making it sound incredible.  “But I’m sure any little naughtiness will be all gone by the time we’re done!”

“Want you to start the new year right!” Ev told me.

“Yeah,” Camille said, “Any little wrongdoings from the past year will be sent packing as well - won’t it, girls?”

As they agreed, I muttered, “That sounds like an awful lot of spanking…”

“Just enough,” Camille said.  “Now - here’s what I’m thinking.  We’ll go Evie, then me, then Chelsea.  I really ought to go last, but if K has trouble holding still for the last one, I can help.”

“So I’m first?” Ev said.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw that she was already sitting down with a slipper in her hand.  “Twenty five total, or each cheek?”

“I think ‘each cheek’ would be allowable…” Camille said, as if she’d pretended to think about it.

“Hey!  Now wait a minute…” I complained - and got a sharp slap on the butt.

“Sweetie, if you want a second round, you’ll ask for it nicely,” I was told.

“Yes’m,” I mumbled.

“But we each have two slippers,” Chelsea pointed out.  “So… twenty five with each?  On each cheek?”

I knew better than to protest again.

“Since Kendall doesn’t seem to want a second round, I think that would be best, yes,” Camille agreed.

“So, do we do them back to back?  Or is it one slipper from each of us, then the second?”

“I think one from each,” Camille decided, “Provided Evie won’t chicken out once Kendall’s bottom’s all red.”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” Ev said, which was sweet of her.  “I’d hate to… you know… hesitate to… do a good job…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Camille told her.  “We’re good with back-to-back as well, aren’t we Chelsea?”

“Absolutely,” Chels said, unsurprisingly because it’s probably just what she wanted - third spanking on my roasted bottom!

“Okay, sweetie - over you go!” Camille said as she spun me around to go over Ev’s waiting lap.  “Evie’s going to get your birthday spanking started right!”