#so you try to find something to do /together/

[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.

[whateveriwant]

Annoying Things the 141 Do

Price

Never cleans the sink well after he shaves. Every time you go in the bathroom after he’s trimmed his beard, it’s like walking into a crime scene of a hamster massacre

Always manages to load the dishwasher wrong (because, yes, there is a right way and a wrong way to do it, John)

Asks you to wait for him to get home so you can watch your shows together, but then as soon as you start the first episode, he falls asleep beside you

Smokes his cigars inside sometimes. I don’t care that you sprayed air freshener afterwards, sir. Now the whole house smells like spring meadow and shit!

Is incapable of closing the door behind himself?? At least, that appears to be the case since he’s always leaving your door wide open even though you ask him to shut it when he goes

Doesn’t like throwing things out because he’ll “find a use for it one day”. Even if that day ever does come, I think he has a better chance of finding Atlantis than finding that scrap piece of wood he saved four years ago

Ghost

Turns the TV on and then just… walks away??? And if you try to change it to something else, he grumbles “I was watchin’ tha’” when he comes back

Drinks milk/juice/etc. straight out of the carton. Mr Simon “Patient Zero” Riley might not see the problem with this, but I think the rest of us would agree that is diabolical behavior

Leaves his wet towel on the floor after he showers even though the towel rack is right? there?

Hates asking for help even when he has no clue what he’s doing. Like, sure, I get wanting to fix things yourself. However, I’d rather spend $100 on a simple repair than $1000 on a full replacement after he breaks the thing even more

Puts his phone calls on speaker whenever possible. While this can have its merits sometimes (you get firsthand news of Gaz’s engagement!), most of the time it feels like a nuisance (do you really need to hear Soap talk about his hemorrhoids?)

MANSPREADERRRR! This man cannot sit like a civilized being to save his life. He claims he sits like that because his balls need to breathe, and to that I say good luck trying to breathe after I karate chop you in the throat :))))

Soap

Cuts his toenails in bed, which wouldn’t necessarily be an issue if he didn’t accidentally leave one or two rogue clippings that stab you in the side later when you’re trying to get comfortable

Forgets to put the toilet seat down when he gets up in the middle of the night to pee – that or he pisses all over the seat in the dark. Either way, prepare to have wet cheeks the next time you sit on the toilet

Whenever he doesn’t feel like doing the laundry, he just buys a new set of whatever’s dirty (that’s how he ended up with 100 pairs of socks and 200 pairs of underwear)

Talks nonstop through every show/movie you try to watch. Good luck getting more than five minutes of uninterrupted runtime next to this yapper

Apparently, doesn’t understand what “one bite” means? Whenever he asks you for a bite of your food, he always ends up taking five or six

Also, apparently doesn’t know how to chew with his mouth closed? Like, I’m glad you’re enjoying your meal, Johnny, but can you enjoy it without speckling it all over the table and my face?

Gaz

Two words: bathroom hog. I hope you don’t like taking hot showers or having more than a 6x6 inch square of counter space for your stuff, because after Kyle’s done with his 30-step beauty routine, there’s little of either left

Never knows what he wants to eat for dinner, and no matter what you suggest, he never thinks it sounds good

Has the gall to chastise you for your screen time even though he’s just as bad as you, if not worse (because you being on your phone before bed is so much worse than him playing video games for nine hours straight, right?)

Rests his feet on the couch/bed/coffee table while wearing shoes. It doesn’t matter if they’re brand new or beaten up; take your damn shoes off the furniture, sir!

Never writes down the shopping list because he’ll “remember everything”. (Newsflash: he does not remember everything, which means cue taking a second trip to the store)

Watches one documentary and thinks he’s an expert on the subject. You can have studied a thing for years, can present him with a bunch of rock solid facts and reputable sources, and he’ll hit you with a “Well, actually ☝️🤓” and then proceed to give the most nonsensical take ever

[strwberri-milk]

heyyy, could i request lads men forgetting readers birthday or anniversary? hurt comfort pls 🥹

You understand that Zayne's job is incredibly important and you would never hold it against him for forgetting these dates but you also know that you're still going to feel hurt no matter how much you rationalise it. You woke up that morning, knowing that today should have been a special day, that he remembered to book it off months in advance and the two of you would be together.

When you see him getting ready for work you feel your heart drop, watching silently as he puts together his lunch and grabs his things. He doesn't notice you're up, thinking that you're still asleep and you take that opportunity to run back into bed and feign sleep again. You'd feel awful if you let Zayne go to work worrying about missing something this important so you decide it'd be kinder to just let him go to work in peace.

It's not until he looks at his schedule after a complicated surgery right from the moment he got into work that he realises what day it is today. He feels awful about it, immediately trying to figure out what surgeries he could offload onto the others so he can try and get home to you as soon as possible. Thankfully, all the other staff are emphatic about his situation, assisting him in getting home as soon as he can.

Thankfully, he's usually prepared in advance when it comes to gifts so he doesn't have to buy you anything last minute. He does make it a point to go and grab you a bouquet as well as some little treats/snacks of all your favourite things. When he comes home he finds you curled up in bed, trying to cheer yourself up. He hates how he made you feel and silently slides in behind you, holding you tightly as he whispers that he's sorry for forgetting about you. He promises that he'll make it up to you another night when the two of you are free, promising an evening at a restaurant you love while he currently placates you with the food and flowers he brought.

Xavier was so exhausted that he accidentally slept through the plans that the two of you made. You didn't even know it happened until you reappeared from the bedroom, watching him sleep peacefully on the bed. You can't bring yourself to wake him, sighing as you move to tuck him in.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, sitting up with a jolt as he realises that he missed your date. He rushes to bed only to find you dead asleep, dried tear tracks on your face. The sight breaks his heart, and he immediately starts making plans to try and fix his mistake.

When you come home one evening you're a little panicked because you can't see anything. You reach around blindly, trying to find a light switch to turn on some light in the pitch black darkness. confused when you realise you can't move the switch. You're about to call for Xavier when he makes his presence known beside you, putting a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to the living room. You're expecting to run into your coffee table but you're confused when you don't, kneeling on the ground as he counts down after covering your eyes.

You hear the click of a button and he uncovers your eyes, showing you the room illuminated by seemingly hundreds of little stars. You look around in surprise by the assortment of fairy lights and stars, a little surprised as you realise you're also sat in front of a meal comprised of your favourite takeout.

He gives you a heartfelt apology, promising that he didn't do it on purpose and he's felt awful about it the entire time. He promises that he'll clean all of this up after the two of you are finished. He doesn't want you to take on any of the stress about this at all, pampering you in extra gifts as an additional apology.

Rafayel is amazing whenever it comes to remembering important dates. His life revolves around you so that's why you find it so odd that the day comes and goes with absolutely no fanfare. It's so out of character that you literally gaslight yourself into thinking that you had the dates mixed up, mentioning it to him offhandedly how it's so weird that you thought yesterday was your anniversary but maybe it actually wasn't. Your birthday is an entirely different scenario though - you just tell him that it's okay if he's too busy to do anything and hopefully you can do something next year.

Rafayel is devastated, internally falling to his knees and sobbing while externally all you see is him humming thoughtfully. Internally he's trying to figure out what the hell happened for him to have dropped the ball. He's so panicking, pulling out his phone to book reservations at the fanciest restaurant he can think of and paying an exorbitant amount of money to do so. He also has so many gifts for you that at this point, he could just pull from a pile he has hidden in his home, telling you that you can have this for now because the main event is coming at your dinner reservation.

It doesn't take you long for you to realise that he actually kinda did fuck up and totally forgot about it when you hear him talking to Thomas about how he can't take on any projects at all because he's busy trying to make sure you don't hate him for forgetting a major event. You end up asking him about it right then and there, basically confronting him about why he forgot. He promises you it wasn't intentional and that he just had so much fun preparing for the even that he fully forgot to actually carry through with his plans.

He ends up making it up to you in bed. You mope and pout and bury yourself underneath the luxurious sheets and refuses to let him in. He basically just lays on top of you, burying his face into your neck and begging for forgiveness. You refuse to give it to him that easily, deciding to make him mope and pout more. He holds you tightly, continuing to whisper sweet nothings as he tells you he'll make it up to you by giving you his credit card. You jokingly tell him that's more than enough before getting serious and telling him how upset you are. He swears it won't happen again and to his credit, it never does.

Sylus couldn't get out of a previous commitment, mentally noting that it was a special day and aiming to follow through with absolutely no problem. Unfortunately, his meeting dragged and by the time it finished he had even more things to do which left you standing in his bedroom, dressed extravagantly for a missed reservation.

You cry to yourself quietly in the room as you get yourself undressed for the evening. It doesn't really hit you until you're laying in bed in your pajamas, staring up at the ceiling as you tell yourself that he didn't mean to do it on purpose.

He comes in as you're crying, listening to your soft sniffles. When you go quiet in hopes of attempting to convince him you weren't just sobbing your eyes out he feels even worse, quickly putting two and two together. He realises what he just missed, looking back at his phone and seeing the reservation cancellation.

He immediately scoops you up in his arms. You try to resist him at first but falter when your body settles into his familiar warmth. He coos at you, whispering apologies into your ear. You want to tell him too little too late but you also know that he never would want to see you crying like this, especially not because of him.

He holds you all night, telling you that you can ask him for anything and he'll make it happen for you. He already does but the guilt of this weighs on him so heavily that he knows that no matter what stands in his way, he won't let it stop him from giving you everything that you want. He also makes sure that it doesn't happen again, wanting you to feel like you could always trust him. If he lost your trust on top of that he'd never forgive himself, telling you that you're everything to him.

[jaeyunnz]

𝕯𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝖋𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚢

heeseung + f¡reader ♡

WARNINGS — dom!heeseung, reader¡sub, teasing in public, fingering, dirty talk, raw sex (stay safe, don't do it.) public sex, he calls her slut, squirting, praising, pet names. this is proofread!!! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

The both of you are at a mall, in a small shop to buy a drink. Heeseung is standing behind you but your body stiffens as you feel a large, rough hand snake beneath your skirt. The cotton of your panties is the only barrier between you and his fingers. "can you stay quiet, love?" A deep voice murmurs against your neck. His fingers moves in slow circles, making your underwear grow damp. You let out a quiet gasp and arch your back against his chest, "h-heeseung what are you doing?-"

he chuckles softly, his breath tickling your ear as he continues to rub your pussy through your panties, "just keeping you company, baby..." he presses his hand firmly against your pussy, applying slight pressure. "you're so wet, it's leaking through your panties, princess." In a desperate attempt to keep quiet, you bite down on your lower lip, almost hard enough for it to bleed. "b-baby stop it, i cant..-"

he ignores your protests, his hand moving in circular motions against your pussy, "shhh, baby... just a little longer." he slips a finger under your panties, gently stroking your clit. "oh, you're so sensitive today." he starts to rub your clit in quick, gentle circles. You squeeze your thighs tightly together, looking around the shop nervously as anyone could see at this moment. "h-heeseung ah mmph..." you try everything to tell him to stop, because the risks of getting caught was high.

You didn't even understand how heeseung was so calm about it, but everytime you tried to speak up it would come out as a moan, words weren't forming. He smirks and leans in closer, his finger continuing to rub your clit, "see? your enjoying it aren't you? you can't even talk right now." he adds another finger, slowly moving it up and down your slit. "i bet if i slipped my fingers inside you right now, you'd fucking melt."

You swallow hard, pressing your lips tightly together to keep quiet. At this point your trying to find something to grip onto because your legs feel numb from the intense pleasure. "h-heeseung dont i... i cant keep quiet much longer mph-" he ignores your plea, his fingers finally slipping inside your soaked pussy, curling inside you and rubbing your g-spot. Your about to let out the loudest gasp that could've potentially got you guys busted, but Heeseung quickly clamped his hand over your mouth to keep quiet. "that's right, baby.. you can't hm?" his fingers start moving quickly and firmly inside your pussy. "oh fuck, you're so tight." His dirty talk and fingers feels so good it causes you to throw your head back against his shoulder.

he holds you in place with one arm, his other hand continuing to finger fuck you, "i love how wet and messy you get, baby." You start clenching around his fingers tightly, moaning quietly into his palm. "b-baby please stop i-" he chuckles and buries his face in your neck, his fingers pumping faster. "but look at you, already clenching around my fingers. you're so close, aren't you babydoll?" You squirm around slightly, his fingers moving at a brutal pace inside you, causing you to whimper. "i-im gonna... im trying to hold it. b-baby someone will see..."

he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, "i know baby, but your being such a good girl... staying so quiet for me hm?" he rubs his thumb against your clit, applying pressure, "come on, baby.. cum for me." When those words slip out of his mouth, you roll your eyes to the back of your head and cum all over his fingers, your panties completely soaked. He feels your pussy clench tightly around his fingers as you climax, a smug smirk spreading across his face. "there... that's my good girl." he slowly pulls his fingers out, admiring the wetness glistening on them. "fuck, baby, look at what you've done." You immediately go to fix your skirt, your face is flushed while looking around the shop. Surprisingly no one noticed?

He gently turns you around and pulls you close, his fingers still coated with your wetness. "you're completely soaked," he licks his lips, slowly putting his fingers in his mouth and sucking your cum off. "damn, that's how I know you needed it." gripping onto his shoulders to balance yourself as your legs now feel like putty, glaring up at him. "I-idiot," you mutter under your breath, he raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly at your remark. "yeah but you liked it babygirl."

Scoffing at him, you hide your face in his chest while he slowly adjusts your skirt. "but fuck, baby, every time you cum like that... it makes me hard as hell." You bite your lower lip and look up at him, "oh really, are you?" his eyes flick down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again, his smirk turning mischievous. "you wanna check?" he chuckles, adjusting himself through his pants. "go ahead, reach down and see if you can feel it, princess." he dares you with a raised eyebrow.

Looking around the shop one last time before bringing your hand down, touching and stroking the front of his pants, feeling the bulge in his pants. He grins and bites his lower lip, letting out a soft groan as you touch him through the fabric. "fuck, baby..." he looks around, making sure no one is watching before grabbing your wrist. "you keep touching me like that, n' I'm gonna drag you to the parking lot n' fuck you." You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, whispering in his ear quietly, "i don't have a problem with that."

He freezes, looking down at you with wide eyes and a shocked expression. "the fuck kinda answer is that?" he laughs softly, shaking his head. You give him an annoyed glare before speaking up, "you requested it asshole." He chuckles, wrapping his hands around your waist and leaning down to your level, "i was just joking, but now that you agreed to it i might have to bend you over my car and fuck you." He gently nibbles on your ear as your arms move around his neck, "do it then, i won't stop you." He swallows thickly, his hard-on growing even more at your response. "uh... fuck." he looks around one more time before making his decision. "fuck it." he suddenly spins you around and picks you up.

He makes it to the parking lot and bends you over the front of his car, grinding his hardness against your ass. You let out a soft moan and move your hips back on him. he groans loudly, his cock throbbing with need. "fuck, the things you do to me..." he reaches around and hikes up your skirt, exposing your soaked panties. "these are a fucking disaster, baby. might as well rip them off hm?"

He smirks and tears your panties off with one quick motion, making both of you gasp. "holy fuck." he balls up the ruined fabric and shoves it in his pocket, then runs his fingertips over your bare ass. "you have no idea how crazy you're making me right now." He undoes his belt with shaky fingers, then his jean buttons and zipper.

"shit... anyone could walk by right now, n' they'd see me fucking my girl against my car." he runs his cock through your folds, coating it in your wetness which causes you to tilt your head back, moaning. "w-we should... make this quick then," you say in a strained needy voice. he chuckles darkly and rubs his tip against you before slamming into you without warning, making you both gasp. "dammit," he starts thrusting into you hard and fast, holding your hips down onto the car. "you feel so good like this..."

Your body gets overwhelmed with the pleasure, back arching against him and your fingers digging into the hood of the car, which could leave a scratch mark on the material. The sounds you let out are so loud it echoes throughout the parking lot. He slams his hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds, "shh... fuck, baby, your pussy.." he speeds up his thrusts, hitting deep inside. "your such a dirty little girl, letting me fuck you like this huh?" his voice drops to a whisper as you whine and whimper against his palm, "m-mmph h-hah!"

He shoves even deeper now, his breathing coming in ragged pants. "fuck, you're taking it so good baby." he bites down on your shoulder through your shirt, wanting to muffle his own moans. if someone walks by, they'd see his cock disappearing inside you. You start desperately moving your hips up and down on his cock, he groans, thrusting harder and hitting your deepest spots. "fuck. you really are a dirty slut, aren't you? getting fucked against my car and crying out like a bitch in heat." Drool starts dripping down the corners of your mouth, dripping down to your neck, "h-harder ah!"

He leans down and grins against your ear, his own climax building rapidly. he starts pounding into you at an insane pace, the car shaking with the force of his thrusts. "shiitttt... fucking take it, slut." he bites your earlobe hard. Your practically screaming from the sensation of him inside of you, your inner walls squeezing tight around his length. He buries his face in your neck, muffling his own loud groans as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. "fuck, I'm close... i'm gonna nut so fucking hard." he speeds up his thrusts, chasing his climax.

"m-me too a-ah hmph..." his thrusts are so deep that his pelvis is pressing against your ass. His whole body tenses as he reaches his peak, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he unleashes a massive load deep inside your spasming pussy. "fuck fuck fuck!" he holds you in place, his cock jerking and spurting load after load into your cunt. "a-ah heeseung!" You moan out loudly one last time before reaching your climax as well, squirting all over him.

He pants heavily, still keeping you pinned to the car as the last spurts of cum dribble from his sensitive cock. "holy shit..." he slowly pulls out, watching his load leak from your pussy. "look at that. public fucking is definitely your kink." He collapses ontop of you, the both of you laying there breathless for a moment. "s-shut up," you reply to him as he lets out a soft chuckle, kissing your neck gently. "we should get dressed and drive home before someone sees." You nod and the both of you quickly get dressed.

Heeseung picks you up and puts you into the passenger seat, leaning in to kiss your lips gently. "i love you my pretty girl." You smile weakly and peck the corners of his lips, "i love you too."

💘: i put way more work into this than i wanted to ૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა

[sinstear]

abby dressing your daughter up exactly like her, just to see your reaction 🥹🤲🏻

ohkay fluff! yes, we love. this is perfect 🫶🏻 kinda all over the place.

abby’s memorized your work schedule completely since she started dating you, and she knows that in exactly 25 minutes she’s going to hear the keys in the door, you kicking off your shoes once you step inside and hang up your jacket and bag on the coat rack, and will be in search for her and your daughter.

tying the hair band around her hair once she finished the braid, abby smiled and kissed her forehead gently. “and what do we tell mama when she gets home?”

“uhm, to not mention the candy drawer beside your bed!” your daughter giggled and rubbed her eyes.

abby’s eyes widen and she’s quickly shaking her head with a nervous laugh. “not that, baby, anything but that, she won’t let me live it down.”

“eating too much candy is bad for you, mommy.” she huffed and abby could already hear your voice in the back of her head when you once told her that your daughter huffs, pouts and frowns just like abby does.

“i birthed her, and she copies everything you do.”

“it is, but—”

“you have to be in good health to take me to the park and to see the ducks, you can’t eat any more candy.”

“oh, is that right?” abby laughed softly.

“yep, i say so.”

before abby could reply, both sets of ears perk up at the sound of the key sliding into the lock, and the jiggle of your key chains had abby smiling. “remember what we said?”

“tell mama we love her!” she cheered quietly and brushed away wispy bits of hair in her face with a grumble. “and keep the candy a secret?”

“exactly, we’re learning, baby.” abby laughed and kissed her head a final time.

you’ve barely stepped foot in the apartment when you feel a force against both your legs, and you smile tiredly when you look down to find your daughter snuggling her face against your pant-covered leg. “well, hello there, baby girl— what are you wearing?” you blinked, looking at her outfit, finally realizing. 

“i look like mommy!”

you notice the light shade of green cargo pants, similar to abby’s but not the exact same, and you bite back a laugh when your eyes peer up to the black long sleeve shirt; abby usually wears white or a light green, and to finally top it all off, you notice the braid. “it’s very neat, i remember doing yours for you.” you commented softly towards your wife.

“years of practice, babe.” abby winked at you before smiling. “what do you think? little mini me, huh?”

“you look very adorable, baby,” your smile widens when she giggles and wraps her arms around your leg again. “now, let me take a shower, change out of these clothes and then we can take some pictures for grandad.”

“grandpa!”

“you and dad spoil her way too much,” abby commented as she watched your daughter run back into the living room. “remember the day she was born and he bought her an entire dollhouse?”

“ah, yes, jerry did have good taste in dollhouses, wasn’t it pink and purple?”

“something like that,” abby nudged your shoulder with hers and kissed your cheek. “which reminds me, dad’s coming over next week, was on about helping me fix the broken sink in the bathroom.”

“may i remind you that you broke it.”

“it was an accident!”

“you rested on the sink, trying to do a push up, or whatever the excuse you used was, and broke it, abby.” you deadpanned and shook your head.

“just too strong, huh?”

“something like that—”

“mommy! peppa pig is on!” your daughter called from the living room, giggles falling from her seconds later.

abby’s eyes light up and quickly clears her throat when she spots you looking at her with a smirk. “what’s the face for? just us watching peppa pig together.”

“strong until it comes to our daughter.”

“It’s hard to say no to her, baby.”

“well you better practice because you’re gonna be the one to tell her that me and you are going on a small vacation next week and that she has to stay with jerry for the weekend.”

“me? babe, you’re kidding right? babe, babe, come back!”

[gpcwsl]

Could you do a Leah Williamson one where reader is a chef and has restaurant establishments worldwide and just located one in England a couple months ago and the England girls are a having a camp in London and since everyone is all together for camp they want to celebrate with a fancy dinner and they start discussing restaurants and readers restaurant is put out there, but some of the girls disagree because they tried to eat there but it was always booked up, so when Leah gets home she talks to reader and gets them a table, so Leah texts the team gc and say dress fancy tomorrow night and the location of the restaurant and the gc starts blowing, but she ignores it, and when they all go to the restaurant and ask questions and Leah’s like she has connections, but come to find out that Leah is dating reader then reader sits down beside Leah and the team gets to know her a little and when they go to pay reader says it’s already taken care of.

Warnings: a kiss?

Leah Williamson x Chef!Reader

- Dress fancy -

MasterList

Leah Williamson kicked her boots off at the door, the satisfying thud against the floor signaling the end of another long day. Training had been intense, but it wasn’t the drills or tactics replaying in her mind—it was the chaotic group chat blowing up her phone during the drive home.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen, scrolling through dozens of messages.

Tooney: “We should go to that new restaurant tomorrow.”

Brightness: “What’s it called? The fancy one that’s always booked?”

Backheel: “You mean Palace Place? Impossible. I’ve been trying to get a table since it opened.”

Brightness: “Same. That place is like gold dust.”

Tooney: “We need something special, though. We’re all together. Ideas?”

Leah smirked, leaning against the kitchen counter as she typed her response:

Captain: “Sorted. 7 PM tomorrow. Dress fancy.”

The chat exploded.

Tooney: “LEAH.”

Backheel: “How?!”

Brightness: “You didn’t even say where!”

Walshy: “She probably means Nando’s.”

Tooney: “I swear, if this is a joke…”

Leah tossed her phone on the counter, ignoring the continued barrage of messages, and walked into the living room. The soft hum of classical music filtered through the space, and the faint aroma of roasted garlic and herbs greeted her.

“Smells amazing,” she called, rounding the corner into the kitchen.

You stood by the stove, dressed casually in an apron, hair tied back, moving with the kind of effortless grace Leah never tired of watching. You glanced over your shoulder, a smile already forming.

“Hey, you. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Leah walked up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. “I don’t know how you do it. Training kills me, and you’re here cooking like it’s nothing.”

“Years of practice,” you teased, leaning back into her embrace. “How was camp?”

Leah hesitated, her lips brushing lightly against your temple. “Good. The girls want to go out tomorrow night. Celebrate being all together.”

You turned in her arms, raising an eyebrow. “And let me guess, they want to go somewhere fancy?”

She grinned. “They were debating places, and your restaurant came up.”

“Did it now?” you asked, amusement coloring your tone. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t.” Leah shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t want to out myself as having an in with the chef-owner who happens to be my girlfriend.”

You laughed softly, running a hand down her arm. “So you’re here to use your connections?”

“Obviously,” Leah said, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Any chance you can fit us in tomorrow?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “For you? Always. How many?”

“About 20.”

You blinked. “20?”

Leah winced. “Yeah… full squad.”

“Good thing I like you,” you teased, reaching for your phone to call the restaurant.

Leah sent the address to the group chat in the morning, and as expected, chaos ensued.

Tooney: “No way. THE Palace place?!”

Backheel: “Leah, I’m actually screaming.”

Daily mail: “I tried booking for my mum’s birthday and couldn’t. HOW?”

Brightness: “She must know someone.”

Tooney: “Leah Williamson: captain, legend, and apparently a magician.”

Leah ignored it all, casually walking into the training facility as if her phone wasn’t buzzing nonstop in her pocket.

The team arrived promptly at 7 PM, dressed to impress. The restaurant was stunning, its interior sleek yet inviting, with warm lighting that made everything glow. They were escorted to a private dining room where a long table awaited, set with pristine white linens, sparkling glassware, and fresh flowers.

“This is insane,” Ella muttered, taking in the surroundings.

“How did you pull this off?” Millie asked Leah, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

Leah smirked, leaning back in her chair. “I told you. Connections.”

The team was halfway through the meal—an exquisite multi-course experience—when the door to the dining room opened. You walked in, your chef’s jacket pristine, a warm smile on your face.

“Good evening, ladies,” you greeted.

The table fell silent, all eyes turning to you. Leah tried to suppress a grin as you approached.

“Everything to your liking so far?” you asked, your gaze briefly meeting Leah’s.

“The food’s incredible,” Keira said. “Are you the chef?”

You nodded. “And the owner.”

Murmurs of amazement rippled through the group.

Leah cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. “Everyone, this is Y/n.”

“Wait…” Rachel’s eyes darted between you and Leah. “This is your connection?”

Leah shrugged, feigning innocence. “What can I say? I know people.”

“Hold on.” Ella leaned forward, pointing at Leah. “You’re dating the chef?!”

Leah’s smirk widened. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”

The table erupted in laughter, teasing, and a flurry of questions directed at you.

When the bill arrived, one of the players reached for it, but the waiter quickly informed them it had already been settled.

“It’s on me,” you said with a smile, standing beside Leah. “You’re all family to Leah, which makes you family to me.”

The team groaned, joking about being spoiled, but their gratitude was evident.

As everyone filtered out of the restaurant, Leah lingered by the door with you, her hand slipping into yours.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth.

You leaned up, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Anything for you.”

The team’s laughter echoed down the street, and Leah pulled you closer, her heart full as she watched her two worlds collide perfectly.

[fishnapple]

How will they protect the relationship

(lover/partner/future spouse) - Channelled message

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

GROUP 1

Sometimes, I fear that you will get used to our relationship to the point of boredom, that our relationship will become just a habit, a routine that you do everyday, mechanically, without enthusiasm or passion. That fear crept in my mind, taking roots, and there will be moments when I let it grow and poke its branches out. Imaginary scenarios swirl in my mind, threatening to spiral out of control.

But I will snap out of it in no time. I'm a master at bringing myself out of the dark, I'm a good runner, running in the night long enough, and you're bound to see the sun rise again. I will try to look at myself first, from an objective lens, to find where I can change, what baggage I need to get rid of. Then I will look at our relationship, I will find a way to lift it up, make it exciting again. Do you like puzzles? Do you like sculpting? Would you like to try a new recipe? Let's forget for a moment all our adult responsibilities and be free. To be excited teenagers again, falling in love for the first time again. I will write you love letters full of typos, sending you half-baked cakes and cringy T-shirts, you will laugh and you will join me.

I do notice that there are some people around us, people who shouldn't come that close, who shouldn't be there at all. They don't understand the concept of respecting other people's boundaries. They will try to turn a blind eye to our commitment, pretend that it doesn't exist. Blatantly coming in without knocking, thinking that they can just take you away from me and me from you. They think that their tactics are subtle enough, that in time, they can corrode our bond. Little touches here and there, the gaze, the "innocent" banters. I can see them all, I will try to put a distance between me and them, so I hope you will do that too, I also hope that you will patiently listen to me when I warn you of those people. Yes, sometimes you will have to call me a possessive person. I just want to shut out everyone dare to threaten us, to find a place where only us exist. But that's impossible, I know, so the best I can do is tell them off as clear as possible, trying to show that we're together, there's no space between us. Let them be jealous, we just need to focus on us and walk away, hand in hand.

GROUP 2

I know we have a lot of unspoken words stuck inside. The silence between can sometimes grow to such a suffocating weight, pushing us down, deeper and deeper into our own abyss.

We both will be so uncertain of our future together, where will we go, is there a place strong enough to shelter us, are we strong enough? We hope for the same things, we are so alike, even our fears are alike, and I don't know whether to be happy or sad about this.

Our bond will be tested numerous times. There will be a time when we've almost given up, but fate or whatever higher powers are at play here, will bring us back together, anew and ready to try again. I wasn't a spiritual person, but by being with you, being in this relationship, I began to believe in something intangible, in the unknown, it scared me, but all I can do is to move forward, with you, and that's where our fears begin. We move forward together, into the unknown future that holds no concrete promise.

Then I realised we've forgotten to remember where we've put our wishes in, what we've wished for. If we can just remember, then there's no point in worrying. I will give you a hint: it's a wish that spans from the past to the future. We felt like we've known each other for a long time when we first met, and I believe we will be in each other's lives for the far future to see. That belief alone is enough for me to feel brave. And I will sit down, take out my pens and notebook, and begin to scribble down the plan, the path for us, give voice to the stuck words inside, air them out. I will show you that plan and tell you to not worry about the future, instead just focus on this current life in front of us, we got this, believe in us.

GROUP 3

Sometimes, I think that we are two pieces of puzzles fit perfectly together. If not, then there's no way to explain how you have everything I lack, and I, in turn, have an abundance of things that you don't. We have our fair share of issues that alone, we seem to lack the strength to tackle them, but together, they seem so silly and easy. You can be the wind and I will be the pipes, you can be the water and I will be the pump. Now that sounds silly, but you get my gist. There will be times when you cry, I will be there, holding you close and being the cool headed one to make logical decisions. There will be times when I'm so down, you will be there, holding me close and being the soft pillow that raises my head up.

There will be problems, from inside and outside, but I believe we can weather them all. The problems will mainly come from the place of insecurities and misunderstanding. People's words can be cutting and unintentionally hurtful, sometimes intentionally. They sow the seeds of doubts inside our minds. But let's believe in the visions of ourselves and of each other. We see ourselves best. We will sit down, talk it all out, there's no barrier between us. I'm proud of our direct and open way of communicating. I can always count on us to be rational and discuss things until we can reach a solution. Yes, there might be tears and angry voices here and there, but they are the minority and will go away quickly. We're too sure of our commitment and ourselves to let those bother us for too long.

Whatever action needed to be taken, it would be taken swiftly. If it's required of me to be cutting something, somebody out of our life, I will do it, no hesitation. Because I trust in our judgement. And if it's required to move, I will move. I'm afraid distance will be our biggest hurdle. But we will find a way to be closer. Many things will need to be changed, our jobs, our homes. But we won't fear changes. Because changes will bring us to a better future.

GROUP 4

I want to prepare you beforehand, our relationship will be scrutinised by a lot of people. It's not like we are celebrities or anything. Why do they have to care so much? I honestly don't know and don't care either. Our bond just attracts a lot of jealousy and objections. The idea of us together will piss people off. They want something, a fixed future for us, they expect it, but then they have to watch a totally different outcome, surprises, surprises.

Particularly those who have authority over us, they're supposed to be the wise guidance, the benevolent power that can protect us, but they will turn their backs on us, worse, they will turn their sneering gaze and contemptuous words on us. That can't be helped, I guess, we're the rebels, we go against their rules and expectations. I know you will want our bond to be blessed by those around us, I want it too, but reality is something we will have to face. At first, we may even have to hide our love, it's frustrating.

Don't worry, I will be strong for us, you won't even have to fight anything, just let me take care of it. I have enough strength to do that. Don't picture the image of me making a foray against them like a bull thrusting its horn angrily. I have enough wit not to do that, just like how I've charmed you with my words, I can do it too, to other people, the people who are against us. If it doesn't work, then I will just be my best, showing them how much of a good life I'm having with you. In the end, I just don't really care. We have our love and that's enough. We can always move away, to a better place. You will be surprised just how much freedom we do have.

[carlosainzgf]

REUNITED

kang dae ho x fem!reader (smut)

(i wrote this at like 3 am so ignore if there are any typos or something)

the vote decided that you could return home, but you didn’t want to lose touch with dae-ho, so you agreed to find each other. you gave him your address before you were dragged away from each and dropped on the middle of a street.

after a few days of waiting for him you thought he wasn’t going to show up. but then there was a knock on your door. you rushed and opened it.

you were sitting at home looking pretty all day long because you didn’t know when he would show up. but it paid off. your hair was sitting prettily on your shoulders, you had a little lace top on and a pair of cotton shorts and a cute cardigan to warm you up on top.

when dae ho saw you he was speechless. you weren’t dressed in anything fancy but seeing you out of those disgusting, bloody tracksuits was enough to leave him speechless.

“hi” even tho you had seen each other at your lowest and talked about anything and everything when you couldn’t sleep, you were still shy when you saw him.

“hey” he greeted you as shyly as you greeted him.

you were both quick to embrace each other in a hug. a very needed one. you had both witnessed such cruel things in that island and you both understand one anothers pain.

after a night of long talks about your lifes, what you were going to do with the money you both won and a little too much of wine you found yourself in his hold. kissing lazily as dae ho admired you. his fingers leaving delicate traces over your jaw. and your hands tugging at his hair.

as the kissing became more needy and your bodies danced together you felt him through your clothes, rubbing deliciously over you clothed clit. you placed your hand over his hard on and started rubbing him.

he pulled away and placed his hand over yours.

“see this? it’s all for you.”

you move down from you place on his lap to in between his thighs, carefully sliding off dae ho’s pants and releasing him from restraint of his underwear. you slowly wrap your mouth around dae ho’s shaft, your tongue wrapping rings around the tip and suckling softly making him moan loudly.

he watches you look up at him while you slowly but steadily lick up his shaft, making your way back to his tip where you begin to focus your tongue along slit.

his eyes roll back as you slowly start to bob your head.

he wraps his hand around your hair, making a makeshift ponytail and gently pushed your head down, shoving more of his length in your mouth so deep that your nose is nearly up against the small patch of hair above his cock

you let out a soft gagging sound as his fat cock hits the back of your throat. you splutter a bit, drooling around the shaft. he guides you to bob your head by the grip he has on your hair.

dae ho panted out between gasping breaths, his voice tight with desperation as he felt the rising from the pit of his stomach.

“f-fuck…if you don’t im gonna…co-come.” he didn’t want it to end just yet so he yanked you off himself and laid you down.

he undressed you, then himself.

his hands roamed everywhere, from your back to your ass, to your stomach, caressing every inch of you.

he started to kiss his way down your body, kissing and biting your skin as he went.

dae ho's lips trailed down your body, his calloused hands explored every curve as if he was trying to engrave it to his mind.

he fondled with your boobs. the one he has been day dreaming about. you stared at dae ho as he did so. taking in those puppy brown eyes that were looking up at you, the warmth of his skin and that god send hair of his. he suddenly dipped his head, latching himself to one of your nipples as he toyed with the other, feeding into the pooling wetness between your thighs. your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, your hips automatically responded by grinding up onto dae ho’s cock.

you moan, loudly.

moving one hand down your hips, skimming past your burning thigh before reaching the small bundle of nerves. you let out a small whine against his heated neck, bucking your hips against his fingers.

he watched as your head fell back while his thick fingers slid against your drenched folds. dae ho thrusted his fingers into your warm walls, briefly watching you envelope him entirely.

“shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as dae ho’s fingers slip in and out of you. he’s feverishly kissing down the side of your thighs, bites left in between. you groan in slight pain as you tug on his soft hair. he curls his fingers inside of you. you mewl at the touch.

“i need... i need..." you breathed, "i need you in me, fuck." his entire body shuddered with a sharp arousal at your words. with all the willpower he has left he removes his finger from your wet hole.

he was quick to position himself at you opening. he rubbed his shaft over your slit, gathering your wetness and nudging your clit as he did so.

you gasped as he pressed his cock into you slowly, his whispered praises to keep your focus on him. “that’s it,” he encouraged, his hand braced yours and pinned them up over your head. “you’re doing so good for me, baby.”

he started moving slowly, savoring the feeling of your warmth. a tiny, needy moan could be heard from him. it's like you were made for him, your gummy walls perfectly stretched out to cling to every last vein and inch on his cock.

hooking your legs around his waist as he grabs your hip with one hand and angles your body up, causing the tip of his cock to kiss your cervix. “s-so big!” dae bo groaned softly and stared at you in awe, at the pleasured expression on your face he fucked you, oh, so deep.

you felt so good, his cock moving so easily in and out of your warm and wet pussy. he groans feeling your pussy close in on him, getting tighter and tighter. “you feel s-so…good!”

lifting your head up, you stare into his eyes. mouth agape as moans kept spilling from your mouth.

it wasn’t long till he felt you squeeze him so hard he moaned and stuttered his hips for a second. you moaned even louder now, your legs felt like jelly.

“you gonna come? come on my cock, baby. let me feel you.” he rubbed your clit with his thumb, putting just the right amount of pressure on it, needy to make you cum.

he could see you slowly fall apart. your body was shaking with pleasure, your hands reaching towards his thick biceps to hold.

he grunted, feeling you clench around his cock. "cum... cum for me," he beckoned, increasing the speed of his cock and the pressure of his thumb on your clit.

your body jerked and convulsed over him, your brain unable to control it any longer. your climax hit you hard. your moans were high pitched and dazed. you were completely lost in pleasure.

your pleasure only fueled his. dae ho groaned at the feel of his twitching cock in your walls. “aah, shit," dae ho cussed, drunk on your pussy.

you both moaned when you felt the hot ropes of his cum spill into your walls. his hips stuttered, as you took every last drop from him.

he buried his chin into your neck, riding out his last few moments of his climax. he placed a few lingering kisses across your neck, coming to your lips last and capturing them with his once again.

placing a kiss on your forehead, he slowly removed his softening cock from your pussy. you both watched his cum mixed with your spill out of you.

he swooped you into his arms making you yelp. "let's take a shower and get you cleaned up, yeah?”

[dilf-hunter-fantasies]

I was wondering if you'd write anything about Joel and free use?

Love your account babe💗

thank you so much babe, i loved this idea! i hope you enjoy my take on it. i was fantasizing about...

renting a room from joel miller and striking a deal to lower your rent. 

3.5k words 🍒warnings: explicit smut, no outbreak au, age gap (reader in college), female reader, brief mention of f masturbation, free use!!, size kink, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, use of: sweetheart, darlin' 

click here for more of my writing

So you end up short on options for housing after breaking up with your ex. You know it seems weird to be a young woman willing to rent a room from an older man who is …well in all versions you spin it…a total stranger. But, your aunt swears he’s a good guy. 

She used to live in his neighborhood, knew his daughter, figured he has the extra room and put you in touch. And all things considered, she hasn’t led you astray. I mean, he hasn’t murdered you. 

Okay, it’s not that bad. He doesn’t give off murder vibes either. More like…grumpy single man vibes. But that works out for your arrangement. You’re both pretty quiet and you keep to yourselves. And he’s not too bad to look at. You catch yourself straddling a line between not being the creep yourself and just wanting to get to know him a little bit. 

The real problem has nothing to do with him and everything to do with you. Well with your bank account. You’ve been bleeding your measly savings trying to keep up with life and the job you have isn’t really enough to live off of. It was a dream to find a hybrid schedule and work for a non-profit with a mission that matters to you. But it doesn’t pay for shit. 

It’s not like Joel’s overcharging you or anything either. Nothing is affordable. 

And now you’re on your last legs. If you can’t keep this together you’ll have to pack it up and crawl home to your family? Not an option. It’s not like you haven’t been applying for other jobs either. But you either don’t hear back or the schedule won’t work with your classes. 

So here you are. Pacing back and forth in your sparsely decorated room. Between your bed and your desk, wearing a groove into the carpet, chewing on your fingers and obsessively checking your phone to see if your sage friends have any better advice. 

They don’t. 

Well, they suggested selling feet pics online, but even if that could be lucrative—it doesn’t get you the money to spend by tomorrow. You toss yourself onto your bed, exasperated. Last resort. You’re gonna have to be honest. 

It takes a long time to gather the mental courage. You stare at your ceiling for so long your eyes blur. You can hear Joel in the kitchen and with a deep breath you force yourself up, dragging your feet down the hallway until you see him. 

The kitchen is warm, whatever he’d made for dinner earlier smells good. So good it makes your stomach growl, announcing your presence in the doorway. The sound makes you grimace—for a split second you’re tempted to hide. To run back to your room and pretend like there won’t be any consequences if you just don’t bring it up. Ever. 

Too late. He shuts the dishwasher with a loud click and turns, his sharp brown eyes meeting yours. You immediately regret this idea. Your feel like you’re sinking into the floor. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him now. 

“Hey,” he says gruffly, his voice low and even. He turns back away from you, putting leftovers in the fridge, like it’s no big deal you’ve been standing there silently like a weirdo. “You need something?” 

Your throat is suddenly so dry, you can barely unstick your tongue to speak. “Yeah…uh, can I talk to you for a second?” 

Joel pauses mid-motion, before shoving the last container onto the shelf and letting the fridge door shut, trapping you in the silence together. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks toward you. The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders makes you nervous for reasons you don’t want to analyze right now. 

“Sure.” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, your hands twisting in front of you like they’re trying to strangle each other. His eyes flick down to the motion, and you force yourself to stop. 

“So, uh…I was wondering—” You swallow hard. You can do it. “I need to talk to you about my rent.” 

His eyebrows lift, and your chest tightens. 

“Let’s hear it then.” 

“It’s just that I’m in kind of a tight spot right now. Work’s been—well, it’s been fine but money’s tight, and I just—” You’re rambling. Words all running together. “I’m not saying you’re charging too much or anything like that, but—” 

“Slow down,” Joel holds up a hand, and the rest of your words fall flat. His voice is calm, but firm. “You sayin’ you can’t afford it?” 

“I can!” you blurt out. “I mean, I can’t by tomorrow, but I can soon. I just thought, maybe we could work something out. Like…if you could give me some more time or if I could do something to work off some of what I owe.” Joel tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just thinking, and the silence stretches too long for comfort. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose, dropping his arms and leaning his palms on the counter behind him. His voice is lower when he speaks again, quieter, like he’s weighing every word. 

“You wanna do something for me?” 

Your heart skips, and you blink up at him. Maybe that was a dumb suggestion. You don’t even know what you have to offer. The house is always clean, the yard maintained, he seems to enjoy cooking. 

“Uh, yeah?” your face contorts a little as you try and come up with a suggestion. “If you’d consider giving me a discount.” 

His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk, and something about it makes the air in the room shift. 

“Well,” he drawls, “If I’m cuttin’ you a deal,---” 

“You’ll consider it?” You look at him with a smile already starting to break on your face. You can breathe. 

“Maybe you can cut me one, too.” He finishes his sentence. Your mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out. There’s something behind his words you don’t fully understand, but it’s stuck in the air between you. 

“What kind of deal?” you manage to get out, your voice hesitant. 

Joel pushes off the counter, closing the space between you in a way that’s casual, but calculated. He’s close enough you can make out the lines at the corners of his eyes, the salt-and-pepper in his beard. His gaze holds yours, steady and charged with something new. 

“You say yes,” he starts to explain, his voice dropping into a gravelly timbre that makes your pulse quicken. “And I’ll knock your rent down as much as you need. Simple.” 

The room suddenly feels small, too warm, like his gravity is holding you in place. 

“Say yes to what, Mr. Miller?” Your voice is soft, just a whisper rolling off your tongue. You have an idea what he’s proposing. The way his eyes flicker with something dark and knowing when you refer to him as Mr. Miller. The crackle in the air between you. 

“I think you know what I mean.” 

You shake your head, ever so subtly, wrinkling a brow. In what feels like slow motion, Joel tips your chin up, between his thumb and curled forefinger. Your face is on fire. Somehow exposed even though nothing else has changed. 

“Whenever I need you. Wherever I want you.” 

For a second you think he might kiss you. It feels like everything in your body is calling to him. His mouth is so close to yours. The words are still replaying in your mind. 

But he pulls his hand back. “Think about it,” he murmurs and brushes past you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. He glances back at you once on his way out of the room. “Offer’s on the table, sweetheart,” he says over his shoulder. “Up to you.” 

You’re left standing, still as a stone, heat prickling up your spine as his words replay in your head. 

What the fuck just happened?

“Hey!” you call out, starting down the hall after Joel. “Wait.” 

He turns, hovering in the doorway to his room. 

“Uh, are you talking about sex?” 

“Yep.” 

Your breath hitches. The corner of his mouth quirks, smug. You look at him with fresh eyes. He’s an attractive guy. Not exactly pleasant, but not a jerk. You can’t imagine he’d have a hard time picking up a date. 

“I’m not a whore, you know.” “I know, darlin’.” His face softens a little. 

The next couple of days are filled with tension so thick it’s impossible to ignore. Whenever you’re in the same room you can feel his eyes lingering on you. He brushes past you in the kitchen in the morning, his hand grazing your hip when he reaches for his coffee mug. 

You catch him watching you from across the room, leaning against the counter like he has all the time in the world. His eyes roam all over your body, dark and deliberate, and you can feel the promise in his gaze. 

It’s driving you fucking insane. You thought he’d have made a move by now. Hell, you thought he’d have made a move the second you agreed to his deal. But he’d only made sure you each had a few ground rules and that was it. End of conversation. 

“Have a good night now, darlin’. Hope you sleep better without having to worry about your rent.” 

Right. You didn’t have to worry about rent. You just had to spiral in your own room wondering when it would happen. How he’s going to take you.

It’s got you so worked up thinking about him you keep spacing out during your work meetings. Swiveling restlessly on your office chair in your bedroom, trying to remember to look focused and add your two cents in for participation. 

But all you can think about is Joel. You’re on high alert whenever you hear his truck roll into the driveway, the door slamming shut with a thud. His heavy steps coming down the hall. You wonder when he’ll want you. You know he meant it. 

You hope he meant it. 

That night, his footsteps pause outside your door, his presence thick in the air, setting your pulse racing. It makes you squirm, adjusting the skimpy pajamas you’ve taken to wearing as your heart beats faster. You can’t tell if he’s debating coming in or if he’s just fucking with you, but it’s got you breathless. 

The next morning, you’re standing in the bathroom doorway, brushing your teeth when Joel suddenly appears, shirtless and still damp from his shower. He gives you a lazy once-over, stepping close enough that you have to press yourself against the door frame to let him pass. 

His voice is low and teasing as he murmurs, “You’re in the way, sweetheart,” leaving your cheeks flaming. 

The next day, you’re still tense. 

Stretching in your desk chair as your coworkers read through their budget updates and data tracking for the grants you’re funded through. It’s hard to stay focused, Joel has taken over all of your thoughts. 

Jaz finishes her update and another department leads the rest of the meeting. You’re shuffling your notes around mindlessly, barely hearing a word. Every thought in your head is Joel, Joel, Joel.

Last night, you’d nearly combusted when he finally walked away from your door. You’d been seconds from begging him to come in, to just take you already. By the time he left, your thighs were slick, and the ache was unbearable. You had to handle it yourself, coming hard and fast on your fingers, imagining it was his thick, calloused hands instead.

But now, twelve hours later, the tension is already back. Worse than before. Every noise in the house puts you on edge. His truck rumbling into the driveway. The front door shutting. 

The meeting drags on, voices fading into a blur—until a soft knock jolts you back to reality. 

Before you can answer, the door swings open, and Joel steps inside like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the fact that you’re clearly in the middle of something.

Your heart races. Your eyes flick to your camera to make sure it’s off. Muted. Thank God.

Joel doesn’t say anything, just watches you with a smirk that makes your stomach flip. His dark eyes roam over you, slow and deliberate, and it’s like every molecule of air has been sucked out of the room.

He takes his time crossing the space between you, letting the silence stretch. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he crowds you, hands bracing the arms of your chair, caging you in.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” he drawls, his voice low and gravelly.

Your throat is so tight you can’t even speak. You shake your head.

Joel’s smirk deepens. “That’s what I thought.”

His big hands tug you to the edge of your chair, spreading your knees wide. He runs his palms along your thighs, leaving a trail of heat that burns your skin through your soft leggings. 

Your heart jumps to your throat, chest tight. 

The thought of your coworkers just a click away only heightens the thrill. 

Joel doesn’t hold back. Pulling you to stand. Turning you to face your desk and pressing until you lean your elbows on the smooth surface, framing your keyboard. 

You arch your spine eagerly, holding your breath, bracing for his next move. He smooths a palm over the curve of your ass, humming softly to himself, before slipping his hand between your legs. 

You tilt your head, a shaky breath escaping as his fingers press against you, making your thighs tremble. You know he can feel how wet you already are through the thin material. All day you’re wet for him, just waiting and waiting. 

His touch is firm and you grind into it without thinking, making him laugh under his breath. “Shit,” he murmurs. “She needs it worse than I do, huh?” You don’t answer. Just dropping your head between your shoulder blades as he rubs circles against your clothed pussy. 

He retracts his hand, swiftly pulling your leggings down, exposing your puffy, wet folds to the cooler air. 

You stay folded over, forehead resting on your desk, ass arched in presentation. You don’t know what to expect next, your pulse thunders in your ear as you wait. 

His hands frame your cunt, spreading you wider so he can look closer. You’d be self-conscious being studied so closely if you were any less desperate for him to touch you. But all you can do you is silently beg him to do something. 

“Christ,” he murmurs reverently, dropping to his knees behind you. “Just a taste first.” It sounds like he’s talking to himself. You don’t care. 

You gasp sharply the second his tongue dips between your swollen lips. It’s so much better than your fingers and your frustrated, rushed orgasms last night. It’s so much better. 

He uses his whole face, diving deeper, as he groans into your pussy. Your meeting is still in progress, but the voices coming through your speakers could be speaking a foreign language. They mean nothing to you right now. 

The only thing that matters is between your legs. You’re almost embarrassed at how close you already are. You don’t know if you should say anything. If he cares if he makes you cum. Before you can think any harder, he’s back on his feet and you’re whimpering at the loss. 

“I know.” 

The soft clink of his belt followed by the sound of him unzipping his jeans has your knees weak. The thrill that shoots through you is like lightning, ripping through your system and activating every nerve in your body. 

Be good," he growls, dragging his cock through your slick.

“Oh, fuck,” you can’t help the awe and the relief. The heat, the thickness, the pressure. It’s everything you need, but not enough at the same time. He continues for a moment, coating his length in your arousal as you try to swallow down your needy moans. 

He slots his blunt tip at your entrance, adding enough pressure to make you suck in air. Without even seeing it, you know it’s going to be a stretch. Like he can read your mind, or at least your body, he runs his hand soothingly over your spine. 

It shouldn’t melt your nerves so fast, but the gentle touch eases your mind. For reasons you can’t explain—feelings really, you feel safe. 

“We’ll start slow this time, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” 

And then he’s nudging into you, working you open around his wide cockhead. It’s mildly uncomfortable, but you welcome the dull ache. Your throbbing pussy has been begging for it. He pulls back, repeating the slow movement, splitting you open for him a little further each time. 

It makes you needy, you try to push back against him, but he only swats at your ass. “I told ya to be good.” 

Your cheeks feel hot at the scolding. 

“Sorry, Mr. Miller.” It comes out more confident than you expected, your voice smooth and low. 

You can feel the way his dick twitches at your response before he continues, painstakingly slowly, filling you up. You’re still frustrated, but each time he thrusts into you, your knees almost buckle and you know he hasn’t made it all the way in yet. You’re still hungry for that feeling, for his hips to meet your ass, flush. 

You can’t hold back your moans as he drags along your nerves. He already has your eyes rolling back and he’s not even fucking you yet. 

Until he stops, held still halfway inside of you. You blink your eyes open, trying not to whine. 

He says your name like he’s been calling it and you’ve been ignoring him. “Hmm?” you respond. 

“Think they’re waiting for your answer.” 

“Oh, shit.” 

Joel still doesn’t move. You unmute your mic, trying to steady your voice. “I’m really sorry, uh, can you repeat the question?” 

“Just confirming your mid-cycle reports are already submitted.” 

“Yes.” 

“Great.” 

You mute the mic again and Joel slams the rest of the way home, making you cry out in surprise. 

He doesn’t hold back now, his rough hand gripping your hip as he takes you, low grunts echoing in your room as he snaps his hips forward. Your ass ripples, bouncing off of him with every thrust and the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin fill your ears. 

He hits so fucking deep at this angle, you can barely think. His balls slap against you and for some reason that makes you even more crazy for him. You meet his every thrust with the same energy, fucking hard. So hard your desk rattles, but neither of you can be bothered by it’s structural integrity. 

He keeps you on edge, pounding into you as the pressure builds. When you shift slightly, his cock drags over the devastating spot that makes you nearly wail.

“Yeah?” he asks as if you could respond right now. “Right there?” 

“Mmm,” is all you can manage. 

“Good. Let me have it. Rub that pretty clit of yours for me, I wanna feel her trying to milk me dry.” 

Fuck. His filthy words nearly send you over the edge immediately, but when you slip your own hand between your legs, it’s euphoric. Furiously working at your slick, swollen bundle of nerves you drive yourself to the brink. 

“Gonna–ah!--gonna cum,” You get the breathy, gasping words out right as your pussy starts to clench around him. He groans lowly, making you see stars as your climax tears through you. 

The waves are still rolling through your muscles, your core still tensing, when he pulls out. The slick sounds as he pumps his cock rapidly are obscene and you don’t want them to stop. But then you feel his hot cum painting your ass, and you’re moaning in unison. 

Then he’s pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before slinking out of your room. You grimace. Tuning back in to the speaker still rambling on about god knows what on your computer. Before you can move, Joel is back with a small towel to clean you up. 

You’re stuck in a daze. A blissed-out state, as you straighten up and pull your leggings back up. Joel’s about to slip back out the door as if nothing happened. Before he steps out of the room though, he gives you a knowing smirk, “You did good for me, darlin’.” 

You’re left staring at the closed door, breathless and trembling, the heat of his touch still lingering on your skin. Rent isn’t the problem anymore. Joel Miller is.

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[mephisto-reporting]

I Love You: Caleb Edition

Premise:

Trope: Angst with open ending

Pairing:Reader x Caleb

Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship. but there is implied mutual attraction. This can be read as MC or non MC reader... I kept the details as vague as possible. Let me know if you want to be a part of my taglist. HELP (If anyone has a nice header of his warmer memories, please share because I struggled to find them online and I need them for my fics.)

Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition

The evening air felt oppressive, a strange mix of warmth and chill that matched the storm brewing in your chest. The world around you blurred into muted lights and faint sounds, the hum of traffic in Linkon and chatter of pedestrians barely registering in your ears. You should have been paying attention, counting steps, tracking the time—but your thoughts were too loud, too consuming.

Caleb.

His name echoed like a ghost, haunting your every waking moment. It had been weeks since Skyhaven, weeks since you discovered that the boy you’d grieved, the boy you’d buried in your heart, wasn’t dead after all. For months, you’d carried the weight of his loss, only to find out that he’d been alive all this time. That he hadn’t told you. That he’d let you believe he was gone.

And he wasn’t the same as you remembered him.

The Caleb you remembered was warm, his laughter infectious, his presence a steady comfort. He’d been your rock, your protector, the one who made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you as long as he was by your side. The explosion had taken him, or so you thought. You’d mourned him, grieved the loss of the one person who had always been your anchor. And now? Now, he was a Colonel of the Farspace Fleet with a cold, calculated aura that clashed with the warmth you used to know. It wasn’t that his warmth was gone, but there was something hidden, something tainted in him that existed alongside the man you thought you knew and lost. A man who moved through the world with an iron grip and a sharp edge, commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

At times, it was like looking at a stranger wearing Caleb’s face.

You rounded the corner to your street, the familiar sight of your small home coming into view. But there, sitting on the steps of your porch, was the very ghost you’d been trying to escape.

Caleb.

Your heart clenched. He was dressed casually, his black and orange flight jacket unzipped, revealing the crisp shirt beneath. His head was bowed, but as you approached, he looked up, those piercing purple eyes locking onto yours.

“Hey…” he greeted, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“What are you doing here, Caleb? Or should I say, Colonel?” Anger, confusion, longing—it all tangled together into a knot that threatened to choke you.

“I needed to see you...” he replied simply, standing to his full height. His presence was overwhelming, a mixture of the Caleb you knew and someone entirely new. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “Avoiding you? Avoiding you?” The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. “I didn’t even know you were alive, Caleb. You let me think you were dead. For months!”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I mourned you!” you continued, your voice shaking. “I grieved you. And now, suddenly, you’re here, alive and well, acting like everything’s fine. Like you didn’t lie to me. Like you didn’t leave me behind!!.”

“It wasn’t like that!” he said, his tone clipped.

“Then what was it like?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Tell me, Caleb. Explain to me why you couldn’t let me know you were alive. Why you couldn’t trust me enough to—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. “Why you couldn’t trust me???”

“It wasn’t about trust,” he said, his voice softer now. “It was about protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” you repeated, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how much it hurt? How much I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “No. You don’t get to say it was for my own good. You don’t get to make that call.”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “I had to. If you knew, if anyone knew, you would’ve been in danger. I couldn’t risk that.”

“Danger from what?” you snapped. “From who? You keep talking like you’re some kind of martyr, Caleb, but all you’ve done is shut me out and expect me to be okay with it. Well, I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay with you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything I did was to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” You let out a harsh laugh, the sound breaking into a sob. “You think this is what safe looks like? I lost you, Caleb. I lost you, and now I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re not the same. You’re not…” Your voice faltered, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m still me... This has always been me...” he said, stepping closer. “I’m still the same Caleb who—”

“No, you’re not!” you interrupted, your voice rising. “You’re colder. Harder. You kept me in the dark, Caleb. The boy I knew, the boy I loved, would never—”

You froze, the words catching in your throat.

But it was too late.

Caleb stared at you, his eyes wide, the mask of control he always wore cracking. “What did you say?”

You let out a frustrated groan, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “You’re impossible...” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This is all too much, Caleb. I can’t—I can’t keep doing this. Not when…” You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. But they burned to be said.

“Not when what?” he pressed, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

“Not when I’m in love with you!” you burst out, the confession ripping from you like a dam breaking. “I mourned you, Caleb. I mourned the man I loved, and now you’re here, and I don’t even know who you are anymore. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Caleb stared at you, his eyes wide.

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t do this, Caleb. I can’t keep pretending like I’m fine when I’m not. I’m not fine. I’m in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

The silence that followed was deafening. “You…” His voice was barely a whisper, and he took a step closer. “You love me?”

Before you could say anything more, he closed the distance between you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I love you too.” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. I never thought you’d feel the same. Not after everything.”

You tried to pull back, to argue, but he held you tighter, his face buried in your hair. “Don’t.” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. Not yet. Just… let me hold you. Please.”

You tried to pull back, to look at him, but he held you tighter. “Caleb, this doesn’t fix anything. We still have—”

“Shh...” he interrupted, his lips brushing against your temple. “We’ll figure it out. Later. Just… stay here. Let me have this moment. Let us have this moment.”

The plea in his voice shattered what was left of your resolve. With a shaky breath, you leaned into him, your hands clutching his jacket as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. His scent—smoky and faintly metallic, like the air before a storm, flooded your senses. The steady beat of his heart against your ear was grounding, a reminder that he was real, that this moment was real.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, his lips pressing against your temple. “I’m so sorry for everything. But I swear to you, I’ll never let you go again.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hold onto this moment and never let it slip away. But the questions, the doubts, lingered at the edges of your mind, waiting for their turn to be heard. For now, though, you let them fade into the background. For now, you let yourself fall into him, into the warmth that had once been your home. Whatever came next, whatever truths or battles awaited, could wait. Right now, you had Caleb, and he had you.

And that was enough.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition | Xavier Edition | Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie

[tsuutarr]

(Yandere Otome Isekai Harem [commoner MLs] x Reader)

"Thrust into an unfamiliar world, you have to navigate your role as the Heir to the Arrington Estate. Luckily for you, you have allies that are eager to help you. Maybe a little too eager, in fact."

The Arrington Estate [Chapter 1]

When you wake up, the first thing you want to do is throw up. You feel so deathly ill that you’re on the cusp of feeling like you’re not alive at all. But you’re in so much pain that you know you have to be alive – there’s no other way your nerves would be filled with what feels like molten lava.

“Breathe.” A voice, gentle and low, soothes from beside you. A warm hand settles itself on your back and you’re not even sure how you managed to register it, but you do. “Drink.”

You’re not fully conscious of how the liquid pours down your throat, but you soon find your eyes fluttering shut. Your nerves settle down as you’re lulled into a peaceful rest.

Time is foreign to you when you wake up. Your body still feels heavy, but it doesn’t hurt like it did prior. Processing things is difficult, your mind being bogged down with thoughts that have no end. All you can do is stare at the ceiling made of ornate golden patterns. Gorgeous, but…

It isn’t familiar to you.

Panic should be shooting through your spine, but there’s a feeling of… emptiness that seems to sink into your heart, making the situation seem dull rather than frightening.

“Are you awake?”

You didn’t even realize that there is someone beside you – beside the bed you’re in. Slowly, you turn your head to see a man sitting poised and proper on a wooden chair. His long chestnut colored hair is tied in a neat ponytail, a pleasant smile on his face. But what really draws your attention are his eyes – golden, almost.

“It appears that your complexion has returned. That is a relief,” he says, but you can’t really discern the emotion on his face.

“Who are you?” The words come out of your mouth before you’ve even processed them inside your brain. 

There’s something eerie about the way his expression shifts – it doesn’t shift too noticeably, but there’s a hint of pensiveness that makes you nervous.

“My, I suppose your illness has rendered your memory quite poor. That is unfortunate,” he murmurs, but you’re not entirely sure if he means it or not. It’s a weird contrast – he speaks so kindly, so gently, that he seems so harmless. But he is a stranger to you. You don’t know him – if you can trust him. 

Perhaps he notices the wariness on your face, but he relaxes his body somewhat, offering you a friendlier smile as he introduces himself, “My name is Geoffry Cullen. I am your butler.”

“B… Butler? Mine?” you ask, your brain fog slowly receding. Everything about this situation is so foreign to you, from the ornate ceiling to the luxurious bed you’re on to the man who claims he serves you.

You’re pretty sure this isn’t the life you remember.

“Yes, yours.”

“Who am I, then?” you ask, trying to piece together something – anything that can give you a hint.

“Why, you’re the heir to the Arrington Estate,” he states as if it is the most obvious fact in the world. And perhaps it is the most obvious fact to everyone but you.

You can’t help but doubt the validity of this “fact” that’s been told to you because, while you don’t remember much, you do remember something:

You are, in fact, not the heir to the Arrington Estate.

Perhaps your expression gives away your entire dilemma, because Geoffrey offers you a sympathetic smile. It’s the kindest he’s looked so far.

“You must be hungry. Let me bring you your meal.” He stands up gracefully, adjusting his suit jacket as he does so. “In the meantime, please get some more rest.”

He bows, before exiting the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You’re still utterly lost and confused, the uncertainty of your own situation making you nervous.

Despite your legs still feeling wobbly, you force yourself to rise. Stumbling, you make your way to the mirror. It’s probably the fanciest mirror you’ve ever seen – it almost looks like a jewelry box. It’s so fancy that you’re undoubtedly certain that you aren’t home. There’s no way you could ever afford a mirror of this quality.

What’s odd, though, is that you actually see yourself in the reflection. A part of you wondered if you’d possess another body or something of that sort, but… you look identical to how you remember looking. But you shouldn’t look like yourself, right? After all, the butler – Geoffrey – had claimed that you are the heir to the Arrington Estate, which you aren’t.

Now that you’ve been allowed to wake up fully without the pain from prior, things are slowly coming back to you. You recall your home, your friends, your family; and it’s all just so normal compared to the grand room you’ve found yourself in. This room feels too fantastical to be real.

In fact, it reminds you of the stories you had read about reincarnation and transmigration back in your world. Everything, from your confusion to the room to the butler, seems like the hallmarks of one of the transmigration or reincarnation stories you had read back then. Only… you’re not certain what story you’re in. Geoffrey as a character is unfamiliar to you. The Arrington Estate as a place is unfamiliar to you.

Furthermore…

Why do you still look like yourself? 

You can’t wrap your head around it. Sure, some people retained their appearance when they got teleported into another world, but they usually had a role that did not already exist. These people are the “hero” that got called to help save the world, so it makes sense that they retained their appearance.

But it doesn’t make sense for you. You’re considered the Heir to the Arrington Estate, meaning that you must’ve taken over the role of someone who already exists. And yet you still look like yourself.

You groan, feeling tired. You feel lost and confused. There are too many things you don’t understand – too many variables. 

It’s all too much for you.

Slowly, you trudge back to your bed, settling yourself under the plush covers. You’re pretty sure that the blanket itself is enough to pay your rent for a year. You don’t even want to think about how much the pillows, the bed, the entire room may cost. You’re certain that it’s more money than you would’ve been able to see in ten lifetimes, at least.

But now you’re able to see all this money – it’s yours, technically.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. It makes your heart beat loudly inside your brain, making your ears ring as you stare up at the ornate ceiling. Somehow, looking at the ceiling makes the buzz in your brain quiet. Your eyes follow the curves and edges highlighted in gold. Your eyes follow the ceiling’s patterns again and again and again until you lull your tired body into a dreamless slumber.

Geoffrey returns to your room a bit later, only to see you slumbering peacefully. He places your meal down on your bedside table, before taking a seat on the wooden chair by your bedside. Quietly, he watches as your chest rises and falls softly, breathing even in your sleep. 

Yes, you must’ve been quite tired, that much is certain. It’s not easy to come back from death, after all. And you should be dead, yet somehow aren’t.

“Curious, isn’t it?” he murmurs, softly, his gaze lingering on your face for any clues.

Yes, it’s quite curious. You should be dead. He was certain that you wouldn’t be able to recover.

Oh, yes, he was quite certain. 

After all, he’s the one that killed you.

And yet, here you are.

[megumismyhusband]

HELLOUU!! Hope you’re having a good day pls take rests and drink enough water, stay healthy~! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

I’ve been thinking about the blue lock boys with a extremely girly and feminine reader headcanon, LIEK a scenario where the s/o takes an ungodly amount of time to do make up or shop (bonus point if reader drags them to different stores in each mall and makes them carry the shopping bags) i think majority of the characters are rather boy ish (maybe besides chigiri) so I wonder how they’d deal with a polar opposite , this is kinda based off me irl — my bf used to complain about how long i take when i do make up but now he just shuts up and plays games or scroll on his social media to pass time. Thankyew in advance if you do write for this request!

ヽ(o＾▽＾o)ノ

AJDKJDHWKJEH THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!! >_<

Rin

- Rin does not understand why it takes you 45 minutes to perfect eyeliner, but he doesn’t argue—just sits there with his arms crossed and his “I hate the world” face.

- When you ask him which shade of pink lipstick looks better, he mumbles something like, “They’re the same.” (Spoiler: They are not the same.)

- Acts like he loathes carrying your shopping bags (he LOVES holding them for you). He’ll just trail behind you with a mountain of bags, brooding like he wants to disappear.

- If someone so much as looks at you the wrong way while you’re trying on clothes, Rin glares at them until they regret their life choices.

- Lowkey finds it cute when you get excited over glittery stuff but will never admit it.

Sae

- Sae’s patience is… questionable. He’s the type to lean against a wall, scrolling on his phone while you shop, throwing in sarcastic comments like, “Haven’t you already bought three dresses that look like this?”

- He’ll carry your bags but insists on negotiating after the third store. “I’ll hold these if we don’t go to another store after this.” Spoiler: You drag him into four more.

- Will openly tease you for taking forever with your makeup. “Do you really need to contour your nose? It looks fine.”

- Secretly appreciates how put-together you always look. If you ever catch him staring, he’ll brush it off with, “I was just thinking about something else.”

- Occasionally buys you cute stuff when he’s traveling but pretends it’s no big deal. “I just saw it and thought it’d shut you up for a while.

Nagi

- Suffering incarnate. Nagi is absolutely overwhelmed by your energy. “Do we really have to go to another store? Can’t we just order this online?”

- He slouches on every available chair while you shop and 100% falls asleep if you take too long in the dressing room.

- Doesn’t mind carrying your bags, though, because it’s easier than arguing. “As long as you owe me for this later… Maybe snacks or a nap.”

- Will absentmindedly compliment you when you’re putting on makeup. “Oh, that sparkly thing looks cool. What’s it called? High…lighter?”

- Somehow still finds your bubbly, girly energy soothing in a weird way. It’s like your enthusiasm balances out his laziness.

Karasu

- Karasu thinks it’s hilarious. He lives to tease you while you’re dragging him around the mall. “Babe, you don’t need another sparkly pink phone case. Oh wait, you do? My bad.”

- Constantly flirts with you while you’re shopping. “That dress is cute, but it’d look better on my bedroom floor.”

- Will 100% help you pick out clothes and accessories. He’s surprisingly good at it, too. “This shade of blue matches your eyes—trust me, I’m a professional.”

- Carries your bags with a smug grin, saying things like, “Anything for my princess.”

- Genuinely loves how different you are from him. Your energy and sweetness keep him on his toes, and he’s obsessed with it.

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER TWELVE ━━ Worried About You

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 5.9K

❀ ━ warnings: mentions of unhealthy eating habits

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: so many fun things to come without that boy in the way

MORNING COMES too soon for Jo, pulling her from the deep, restless sleep she finally fell into. At first, she doesn’t open her eyes. She just lies there, warm and still, trying to cling to the hazy edges of unconsciousness. It’s better there. There, she doesn’t have to think. But then she shifts slightly and feels the unmistakable weight of an arm draped over her waist, a steady warmth pressed against her back.

For a fleeting second, in the soft, blurry quiet of waking up, her brain wants to think it’s Asher. That maybe last night was some awful, vivid nightmare, and she’ll roll over and find him there, smiling at her like everything is fine and he didn’t throw the last five—or, really, nineteen—years of their lives away. But then her thoughts sharpen, reality settling like a stone in her chest, and she remembers everything.

It’s not Asher’s arm around her. It’s Paige’s.

Her heart feels heavy all over again, sinking with the weight of the truth. Asher cheated. Since September. Three months of doing God-knows-what with that Brooke girl.

Her throat tightens, and she squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tears to stay put. She cried enough last night. Too much, probably. And Paige—God, Paige—was there for all of it. Patient and kind, not saying much but doing everything Jo needed, like pulling her back together without even trying.

Jo takes a deep breath, feeling it rattle deep in her ribs. Slowly, she turns in Paige’s arms until she’s facing her. The room is dim, the light from the window covered by the blanket Paige always keeps over it. Paige is awake, or mostly awake, blinking sleepily at her. Her blonde hair is a little messy, sticking up at certain edges, and her face is soft and unguarded.

When Paige notices Jo looking at her, a soft smile tugs at her lips. She reaches out, her hand brushing some hair away from Jo’s face with a gentle touch. Jo leans into it a little. “Hey,” Paige murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

Jo forces a small smile of her own. It’s weak, but it’s something. “Hey,” she whispers back.

They fall quiet again. Jo doesn’t know what to say, and Paige doesn’t seem in a rush to fill the silence. Paige’s arm is still wrapped around Jo’s waist, and the younger girl finds herself wanting to be even closer. It just—it feels good, being held like this. Comforting. Safe. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into Paige’s warmth.

It’s not like Asher’s. Asher’s arms always felt solid, familiar, but Paige’s—Paige’s feel different. Softer, somehow, though still firm with muscle. Not worse, just… different. And maybe Jo likes it more than she should.

Her mind keeps circling back to everything that happened, no matter how much she wants it to stop. The fight. The crushing, suffocating betrayal. The excuses. Jo’s loved Asher for so long, she doesn’t even know how to think of herself without him. It’s always been them. People used to say they were inevitable, like something out of a movie. It feels like a joke now.

Her fingers tighten slightly around Bubbles, the stuffed turtle Paige had thought to grab for her last night. Jo had clung to it like a lifeline, the soft fabric soaked with tears by the time she’d finally fallen asleep. Paige hadn’t let go of her the entire night. She didn’t even flinch when Jo’s sobs soaked her shirt.

Paige shifts slightly, pulling Jo closer, her hand still resting lightly on Jo’s side. It’s like Paige knows Jo needs this without needing to be told. She always does. Jo doesn’t know how she does it, how Paige seems to understand her better than anyone else.

Paige’s thumb moves absentmindedly over the fabric of Jo’s shirt, a small, soothing motion that Jo finds herself focusing on. It’s helps to pull her away from the spiral of her thoughts a little. She lets out a slow breath, her body relaxing just slightly more against Paige’s.

“Thanks for dealing with me,” Jo whispers after a while.

Paige’s hand stills for a moment, and then she squeezes Jo’s side gently. “You’re not something that has to be dealt with, Jo,” she says slowly, voice soft but steady. “I’mma always be here for you, ’kay?”

Jo’s chest tightens again, but this time it’s not entirely from sadness. She doesn’t have the words to explain how much that means to her, how much Paige means to her. So she doesn’t try. She just shifts a little closer, letting her head rest against Paige’s shoulder. Paige doesn’t say anything else, and Jo appreciates that.

Jo isn’t sure how long they stay like that. But, eventually, Paige begins to slowly sit up, her hand still pressed against Jo’s side. Jo watches as the blonde rubs at her eyes a little, before looking down at her. She offers her another small smile.

“I’m gonna make you breakfast,” Paige says determinedly, her fingers trailing across Jo’s waist. “Just stay here. Relax. Go back to sleep if you want.”

Jo blinks at her, her lips parting as if to argue, but she doesn’t really have the energy to fight—even if it’s just a little bit of bickering. Besides, the idea of staying in bed, cocooned in the comfort of Paige’s blankets, is all too tempting, even if she doubts Paige’s ability to cook anything remotely edible. She’s a little afraid Paige might burn their apartment building to the ground, but she also knows that Paige is trying to help in the only way she can think of, and Jo doesn’t have it in her to tell her no.

“Okay,” Jo murmurs. “Just be careful.”

Paige just grins down at her, expression warm and inviting. She squeezes Jo’s side again before swinging her legs off the bed, standing. Jo’s eyes follow her as she moves toward the door. The blonde glances back at her, saying, “It’s gonna be good, trust,” before leaving through the bedroom door.

Once Paige is gone, the room feels quieter—emptier.

Jo sinks back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling as the events of the last twelve hours replay in her mind like a terrible movie. She can still hear Asher’s voice, still see the guilt, the desperation in his eyes.

Her stomach twists with nausea as the memory washes over her. She really doesn’t want to think about it anymore, but it’s like her brain isn’t giving her any other choice.

Jo sighs, feeling like she’s been run over by a train. She rolls onto her side, her hand reaching for her phone. She’s got to know, has to see. The urge is too strong to resist.

She unlocks her phone and goes straight to Asher’s Instagram. It’s like picking at a scab, painful but impossible to stop. Unable to help herself, she scrolls through his posts, her thumb pausing over a photo dump he posted a couple weeks ago. In the first photo, he’s at a football game, smiling, looking so carefree, like he doesn’t have a single regret in the world.

And then she’s going to his following, her heart pounding as she searches for a name—Brooke. He only follows one, and, sure enough when Jo clicks on her profile—the girl goes to Penn State. This is her.

Jo clicks on the first photo and almost immediately regrets it. Brooke is beautiful—brown hair that falls in perfect curls, striking green eyes that seem to glow, and a smile that’s so effortless it feels like a punch to Jo’s gut. Jo stares at the photo, her mind racing with questions she doesn’t want to ask but can’t seem to stop. What does she have that I don’t?

The thought makes her throat tighten, and she’s about to click away when the door creaks open. Paige steps back inside, leaning against the doorframe and staring at Jo curiously.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?” she asks.

Jo hesitates, her finger hovering over the screen. She glances up at Paige, who’s already raising an eyebrow at her. With a sigh, Jo sits up fully in bed and turns the phone toward the blonde, showing her the photo of Brooke.

“Is she prettier than me?” Jo asks, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably.

Paige’s expression shifts a little, her brow furrowing as she walks closer, stopping at the end of the bed. She leans in, looking at the photo for a long second before meeting Jo’s gaze, blue eyes intense.

“Who is she?” Paige questions, though her voice is firm enough that Jo thinks she might already know the answer.

Jo swallows hard anyway, the words catching in her throat. “The girl he cheated on me with,” she mutters. The sentence tastes bitter on her tongue.

The instant the words leave her mouth, Paige’s expression hardens. Without hesitation, she reaches down and snatches the phone right out of Jo’s hand. “Nah,” Paige says firmly, holding it just out of Jo’s reach. “You are not goin’ down that path.”

“Hey, give it back!” Jo protests, sitting up and reaching for the phone.

But Paige is quick, sliding away with a mischievous grin. “Uh-uh,” Paige says, her arm extended high with the phone, like she’s playing keep-away with a basketball. “You’re not gettin’ it back until you stop being all self-destructive.”

Jo narrows her eyes a little, her competitiveness somehow managing to break through despite the whole situation she’s got going on. “Paige, I swear—” She lunges, tackling Paige’s arm, but Paige squirms away, laughing some. The sound of Paige’s laughter—loud, unrestrained, and higher in pitch—is oddly infectious, and before Jo knows it, she’s laughing too. The sound bubbles out of her chest like a small spark of light breaking through the dark pressing down on her. It feels good, to laugh like this.

Jo pulls Paige, and the blonde ends up stumbling onto the bed. It freaks beneath them as they wrestle for the phone. Jo tries to pin Paige’s arm down, but she wriggles free easily enough. “Paige, I’m serious! Give it back!” Jo protests, hands grabbing at the older girl.

“I’m serious, too!” Paige retorts, dodging Jo’s next grab with an exaggerated roll. “This is for your own good, JoJo!”

“Don’t ‘JoJo’ me!” Jo huffs, planting her hands on the mattress to steady herself before diving forward again. This time, she catches Paige’s wrist, but Paige twists her body, and suddenly they’re tumbling together across the bed, laughter spilling out of them again. For the first time since she found out, Jo isn’t thinking about Asher, or Brooke, or the overwhelming heartache that’s been sitting heavy within her. All she can focus on is the sheer ridiculousness of her and Paige’s impromptu wrestling match and the warmth that comes with it.

Paige, of course, ends up with the upper hand. With one final burst of effort, she pushes Jo back against the pillows, straddling her waist and pinning her wrists to the bed. “Ha!” Paige exclaims loudly. But then her voice grows a little softer as she grins down at Jo, murmuring, “I win.”

Jo stills, her laughter fading as she suddenly becomes acutely aware of the position they’re in. Paige is above her, her legs on either side of Jo’s hips, her hands firm but gentle around Jo’s wrists. Paige’s face is so close, her still untamed bed head framing her flushed cheeks, her lips slightly parted as she catches her breath. Jo’s heart does their weird, traitorous thing where it skips a beat, and she doesn’t know why. Or maybe she does, but she refuses to acknowledge it because the insinuation would be nothing short of absurd.

Her eyes trace Paige’s face—those pretty blue eyes that always seem to see straight through her, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way her mouth quirks just slightly like she’s still holding back a laugh. Jo’s gaze dips, just for a second, to Paige’s lips, and then she quickly looks away, heat flooding her cheeks. God, this whole Asher thing must have given her brain damage or something.

Paige doesn’t seem to notice Jo’s sudden shift in demeanor. She’s too busy leaning closer, her expression softening as she speaks. “You are a million times fuckin’ prettier than that bitch,” Paige says firmly, resolutely, the kind of tone she uses when she’s absolutely sure of something. “But stalking her is only gonna make you feel worse. I’m serious, Joey. I’ll revoke your phone privileges if I have to.”

Jo blinks, feeling Paige’s words cutting through some of the self-loathing that’s been poisoning her brain. Paige says it like it’s a fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and it does actually make Jo believe her. Just a little.

Still, she can’t help the sarcastic quip that slips out. “What are you, my mother?” she asks.

Paige grins, leaning back just slightly but still keeping Jo’s wrists pinned. “Nah,” she replies, her voice light. “’M your captain. So you gotta listen to me.”

Jo rolls her eyes, but it’s more playful than annoyed. “Sure,” she mumbles, though the corners of her mouth twitch upward. She feels a little lighter now, like Paige’s words and antics have managed to patch up some of the open wounds.

But then Paige’s gaze locks with hers, and the air around them stills. They’re just staring at each other now, the laughter fading into silence. Paige’s hands are still on Jo’s wrists, her knees pressing into the mattress to keep her balanced. Jo’s pulse quickens as she stares at Paige’s eyes. There’s something in her expression—something soft and searching—that makes Jo’s breath catch.

Her thoughts begin to jumble into a mess of confusion and something else. Because why does Paige have to look at her like that? And why does she have to be so close, her presence so suddenly overwhelming? And, most importantly, why does it make Jo’s heart feel like it’s about to burst out of her chest?

The moment stretches heavily, until, like a switch is flipped, Paige seems to snap out of it. She blinks, breaking eye contact, and quickly rolls off of Jo, her movements abrupt. “C’mon,” she says, grabbing Jo’s hand and tugging her toward the edge of the bed. “Breakfast.”

Jo lets out a shaky breath, sitting up and following Paige. But as she glances at Paige’s back, a small part of her wonders what that was—and why she kind of wishes it had lasted longer.

PAIGE SITS on the couch, one leg tucked underneath her, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly off her face. The UConn men’s team is playing, but she isn’t paying much attention, not really. She’s scrolling through her phone during timeouts, trying to keep her mind from drifting to Jo. It’s not like she’s trying to smother Jo with concern—it’s just that lately, it feels impossible not to worry. Jo’s been… off. Maybe not in ways that anyone else would notice, but Paige sees it. She pays so much attention to her that it would be impossible not to.

Jo isn’t as okay as she pretends to be. It’s in the way she laughs, too loud and too often, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as everyone else that she’s fine. It’s in the way she brushes off questions about how she’s doing or jokes when someone pries too much. But Paige knows better. She sees how Jo has thrown herself into basketball like it’s the only thing tethering her to the ground, the way she pushes herself so hard in practice that she’s damn near sick afterward. She knows Jo is out at either ungodly hours of the night or ungodly hours of the morning, always trying to get more reps in. And it’s not just the basketball.

Paige can tell Jo’s forgetting meals. Lately, she’s been having to remind her to drink or hydrate herself much more often, because she can tell that she hasn’t. Paige knows Jo isn’t doing it intentionally—she’s just been forgetting, too caught up in everything else to remember she needs to take care of herself, too.

Paige knows Jo’s been struggling since the breakup with Asher, and while Jo has always been a perfectionist, always had basketball as her number one priority, this feels different. More self-destructive.

And Paige doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like feeling like she’s watching Jo slowly burn herself out and not knowing how to stop it. Jo doesn’t let people see her cracks—she’s so stubborn about it, only allowing people to see the happy-go-lucky side of her—but Paige sees them anyway. It’s like watching someone tread water, the strain starting to show in every movement, and Paige can’t shake the anxiety that one day Jo’s going to slip under.

She sighs, staring blankly at the TV as the Alex Karaban makes a three. The apartment feels too quiet without Jo here. Jo said she’d be studying with Ice tonight, but Paige doesn’t entirely believe her. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Jo—it’s just that, lately, Jo hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about what she’s doing. Paige has a bad feeling she’s at the gym or running herself into the ground somewhere, but she doesn’t know how to call Jo out on it without starting a fight.

The sound of the front door opening snaps Paige out of her thoughts. She glances over as Jo steps inside, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her ponytail bouncing as she kicks the door shut behind her. Jo grins at Paige, breathless and bright-eyed, as she bends down to untie her shoes. “Hey,” she says, her voice chipper in a way that only deepens Paige’s suspicion.

Paige narrows her eyes slightly, sitting up straighter on the couch. “Hey…” she replies slowly, her tone cautious. Jo’s coat is still zipped up, and her sneakers are wet, leaving faint marks on the floor. Jo’s grinning, but her face is shiny with sweat, like she’s been moving hard for a while. Paige tilts her head, her eyebrows drawing together as she asks, “Were you running?”

Jo shrugs off her coat, avoiding Paige’s gaze as she tosses it over the back of a chair. “Um… yeah,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Paige stares at her, incredulous. It’s nearly midnight. It’s December. It’s freezing outside. Jo is nineteen, a teenage girl running in the pitch-black cold of winter, and it’s so obviously not safe that Paige can’t believe Jo thought it was a good idea. And yet, Jo’s standing there like it’s nothing, like she’s completely unaware of how reckless it is, how it makes Paige’s chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to panic.

“Bro,” Paige says, her voice sharp, her heart pounding just a little faster as she sits up straighter on the couch. “You gotta stop doing that. You’re gonna get sick or fuckin’ kidnapped.”

“P, I’m not gonna get kidnapped,” Jo says with an airy, dismissive laugh, brushing her off like it’s nothing. Like the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even deserve consideration. But Paige can’t just let it go. She doesn’t like the thought of Jo out there alone, running through the freezing December night with God knows who lurking around, and the fact that Jo doesn’t seem to care—or even notice—just makes it worse.

Paige shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line as she gestures for Jo to come closer, patting at the couch cushion. “C’mere,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Jo hesitates for the briefest of moments before sighing and making her way over. She flops onto the couch beside Paige with the kind of carelessness that’s so uniquely Jo, her movements loose and unguarded. Without a word, she curls into Paige’s side, her head resting on Paige’s shoulder, her body folding into Paige like this is second nature. Because by now, it is.

Paige’s heart skips a beat, like it always does when Jo gets this close. She wraps her arms around Jo instinctively, holding her tight like she’s something fragile and precious that might slip through her fingers if she’s not careful. Her chest tightens with the feelings she never knows what to do with—feelings she’s spent months trying to suppress, trying to shove down deep where Jo won’t see them. But it’s impossible to ignore the way her body reacts to moments like this, the way her pulse quickens and her breath hitches, the way she feels like she’s holding her entire world in her arms.

“You’re freezing,” Paige murmurs, her voice soft but filled with quiet concern. She starts rubbing her hands up and down Jo’s arms, trying to generate some warmth. Jo’s skin is icy under her fingers, and the thought of her being out in this weather makes Paige’s stomach clench all over again.

“I feel good,” Jo disagrees, her tone light and casual, like she doesn’t even notice the chill seeping into her body. But Paige can feel the way Jo leans into her warmth, just a little. She’s been like this recently—minimizing, brushing things off, pretending she doesn’t need anything from anyone. It drives Paige a little crazu, but it also makes her want to hold Jo tighter, to make sure she knows she doesn’t have to do it all by herself.

For a few minutes, they just sit like that, Paige holding Jo close, her hands still rubbing warmth into Jo’s arms even though she knows Jo won’t ask for it. The TV plays in the background, but Paige isn’t paying attention to it anymore. All she can focus on is the weight of Jo against her, the steady rise and fall of her breath, the faint scent of Jo’s shampoo mixing with the cold air clinging to her skin. It’s a little bit intoxicating.

Eventually, though, the gnawing worry in the back of her mind pushes its way back to the surface, and Paige remembers something she needs to ask. She tilts her head slightly, glancing down at Jo. “Hey,” she says softly, her voice cutting through the comfortable quiet. “Have you eaten?”

Jo doesn’t respond right away. She makes a little face, her nose scrunching up like she’s just remembered something she forgot to do. “Um… this morning?” she says, her voice unsure, almost like she’s questioning herself.

Paige gives her a look, her brows knitting together in frustration and concern. “Jo,” she exclaims, her voice sharper than she intends. She knows she shouldn’t push, shouldn’t scold, but it’s hard not to when she sees Jo taking care of everything but herself.

“It’s fine,” Jo says, waving her off like it’s no big deal. Paige hates how easily Jo dismisses her own well-being, like it’s the last thing on her priority list.

“It’s not,” Paige says firmly, shaking her head. She squeezes her arms around Jo slightly, as if it might drive the point home. “You gotta eat to stay healthy.”

“I know,” Jo mumbles, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans further into Paige’s warmth. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic, but there’s something resigned about it too, like she’s heard it all before and doesn’t want to hear it again.

Paige considers pressing her, considers giving her a whole speech about how she can’t keep running herself into the ground like this, but something in Jo’s expression stops her. She looks tired, and Paige decides to let it go for now. Instead, she grabs her phone off the couch cushion and opens DoorDash, scrolling through the options.

“Whatchu want?” Paige asks, her voice gentler this time.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes at the question. Instead, she shifts a little, nestling closer into Paige’s side like she’s trying to mold herself into the older girl. “Pick for me,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against Paige’s hoodie.

Paige rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. She knows this game by now. Jo says she doesn’t care, but Paige knows better—she always cares. Jo’s just too tired to bother making a decision for herself. And anyway, Paige knows her better than anyone else, so it’s not like it’s hard. Jo’s a creature of habit. She always orders the same thing: chicken tenders or a burger, fries with extra salt, and usually a ridiculously sweet milkshake.

Paige taps the order into her phone quickly, almost automatically, and then sets it aside on the armrest, her arm falling back around Jo like it belongs there. The weight of Jo against her is familiar now, like it’s just part of her life, and she wonders if Jo even realizes how often she leans on her like this. Probably not.

For a while, they just sit there, tangled together on the couch. Jo’s body is heavy against hers, the kind of heavy that means she’s suspiciously close to falling asleep. Paige feels the faint rhythm of Jo’s breathing against her side, slow and even, and she can tell Jo’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Y’know,” Paige says softly, nudging Jo’s shoulder, “you can’t eat if you’re asleep.”

Jo frowns a little at that, her eyebrows pulling together, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m tired,” she mutters, her voice thick and groggy, like she’s already half-dreaming. And then, after a beat, she adds, quieter, “And my body hurts.”

Paige lets out a sigh. She knows why Jo’s body hurts—of course she does. That happens when you push yourself as hard as Jo’s been doing.

“I wonder why,” Paige says dryly, giving Jo a pointed look even though Jo’s eyes are still closed, not even registering the glare Paige is sending her way.

Jo cracks one eye open at that, just barely, and then lifts her hand to swat at Paige’s arm in the weakest attempt at a rebuttal. Paige catches her hand easily, holding it in hers for a moment before tugging her upright, gently but insistently.

“Paige,” Jo whines, her voice taking on that petulant tone she gets sometimes when she’s tired.

“Shh,” Paige says, ignoring the weak protest as she shifts Jo around. It takes a little maneuvering, but eventually, she gets Jo where she wants her: sitting between Paige’s legs with her back pressed against Paige’s front, her head resting against Paige’s collarbone.

For a second, Jo doesn’t move, her body stiff with confusion, but then Paige’s hands find her shoulders, and she feels Jo relax all at once, like the tension just drains out of her. Paige starts working her fingers into the tight muscles there, thumbs pressing into the knots she knows are always hiding just beneath Jo’s skin.

It’s instinctive, really. She’s done this before, whenever Jo really needs her to, and she knows exactly where the worst of it is. Her thumbs trace the line of Jo’s shoulder blades, pressing firmly but carefully, and Jo lets out this small, quiet hum of appreciation, her head tilting slightly to the side.

“You’re so knotted up, Joey,” Paige mutters, half to herself, her fingers finding another stubborn knot and working at it slowly. As her own words register with her, Paige can’t help but think to herself—pause. That sounded far different than she meant it to.

Jo doesn’t appear to be thinking about that, though, instead making another little sound, something between a hum and a sigh, and she leans back into Paige more, her head tipping to the side to give Paige better access. “That feels good,” she mumbles, her voice low and drowsy.

Paige smiles faintly at that, though she feels her cheeks heat, too. Her hands move up to Jo’s neck, her fingers pressing gently into the base of her skull. She can feel Jo melting against her, her body going soft and pliant, and it’s almost too much. The closeness, the weight of Jo against her, the way her fingers are in Jo’s hair now, brushing lightly against her scalp—it’s enough to make Paige’s heart race, her stomach flutter.

“You gotta stop letting yourself get this tense,” Paige murmurs, her voice softer now, almost affectionate. “It’s not good for you.”

Jo doesn’t respond, just hums again, her eyes falling shut as Paige’s hands work their way back down to her shoulders. Paige keeps going, her fingers kneading gently, carefully, until she feels the last of the tension start to ease.

Eventually, she lets her hands still, her fingers lingering on Jo’s shoulders for a moment before she leans forward, resting her chin on Jo’s shoulder. Her nose brushes against Jo’s neck lightly, and she feels Jo shift slightly, leaning into her touch without even thinking about it.

“Joey,” Paige says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I’m really worried about you.”

Jo doesn’t say anything, but Paige can feel the way she stiffens slightly, her body tensing again under Paige’s hands.

“I need you to promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Paige continues, her words coming out softer now, gentler, but no less firm. “I’m serious. You can’t keep doin’ all this.”

Jo doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, Paige wonders if she’s pushed too hard, said too much. But then Jo shifts again, leaning back against her, and Paige can feel the way she nods, just a little, like she’s letting herself lean on Paige for once.

And even though Paige knows Jo might not be able to do good on her answer—not entirely, not yet—she also knows that if Jo can’t take care of herself, Paige will do her best to take care of her. She always will.

IT TAKES a couple of weeks, but Jo eventually starts slipping back into healthier habits. It’s slow, gradual, almost imperceptible at first—like the way spring melts into summer. But Paige notices every small change. She notices when Jo starts remembering to eat without being reminded, when she actually stretches after practice instead of just crashing into a chair. She notices when Jo finally stops going out on late-night runs, and she’s proud to say she played a part in putting an end to that.

Okay, maybe Paige’s a little overbearing. She’s aware of it, but she doesn’t care. If being overbearing means making sure Jo isn’t spiraling again, so be it. It’s worth it, even if it means insisting on walking Jo back to her dorm every night after team meetings and double-checking that she’s actually getting enough sleep. And if that also happens to mean sharing a bed almost every night—whether it’s in Jo’s room or her own—then that’s just a bonus. Paige tries not to think too hard about how much she prefers it that way.

Jo doesn’t complain. If anything, she seems to welcome it. She lets Paige pull her into bed when her eyelids get heavy at a respectable hour, lets Paige cuddle in with her. It’s just what’s become normal.

It’s only when Paige realizes what’s driving Jo—what’s keeping her grounded—that everything else starts to click into place. Jo wants a national championship. That’s what she’s been laser-focused on since day one, the thing that keeps her going even when her body’s sore and her mind is tired. And Paige gets it—God, she really gets it. She’s been there before. Paige knows what it’s like to push through pain, to have that singular drive that makes everything else fade into the background.

And because she understands it, she steps up. Jo doesn’t ask her to, but Paige can’t help herself. She starts staying after practice, waiting for Jo to finish her drills so she can point out the tiny things—the positioning of her feet, the angle of her wrist on a jumper, the way she can seal a defender better when posting up. Paige has been where Jo is; she’s been the All-American freshman, the star on the rise. If anyone can help Jo get to that next level, it’s her. And besides, with her ACL still recovering, she might as well make herself useful.

It’s not like Jo needs much help. She was elite when she got to UConn, and now she’s something else entirely. Since Azzi went down in the Notre Dame game a couple of weeks ago, Jo’s stepped up in ways no one saw coming. She’s putting up ridiculous numbers—National Player of the Year numbers, if Paige’s being honest—and carrying the team in a way that even Geno outwardly tells her he’s proud about. Paige is proud, too. Obviously.

They’ve never been closer. Which is saying something, considering they’ve been close since basically the first day of living together. But now, it’s like their lives are so tightly intertwined they don’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. They spend almost every night together now, to the point where it’s become more unusual to sleep apart. Paige’s bed or Jo’s bed—it doesn’t matter. When they’re on the road for away games, they’ve even managed to pull off the occasional roommate swap, with Ice (Paige’s roommate) and Dorka (Jo’s roommate) begrudgingly covering for them. The arrangement works as long as CD never finds out. And while Ice and Dorka make it clear they’ll throw Jo and Paige under the bus if anyone asks, Paige can tell they don’t really mind much.

Still, Paige can’t really ignore the blatant truth at this point: that this isn’t how normal friends act. She knows that. She knows this thing with Jo—whatever it is—has gone beyond the walls of regular friendship. Friends don’t fall asleep in each other’s arms. Friends don’t hold each other like this, tangled up in hotel beds with no space between them.

But Jo doesn’t seem to notice—or if she does, she doesn’t say anything. And Paige doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing it up, especially with the breakup still fresh and still in the unknown about whether Jo feels anything at all for her. So she stays quiet, pushes her own thoughts to the side, and tells herself it’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Tonight is another one of those nights.

The hotel room is quiet, save for the hum of the heater in the corner and the soft sound of Jo’s breathing. The team had won earlier—a conference game that Jo basically dominated—and Paige had watched from the bench, half coach, half cheerleader. She can still picture Jo on the court, the way she sliced through defenders like they weren’t even there, the way she carried the team on her back like it was nothing.

Now, they’re curled up in the same bed, the blankets pulled up to their chins. Jo’s body is warm and solid against her, her head tucked beneath Paige’s chin, and Paige swears she can still feel the residual adrenaline humming through Jo’s veins.

“Jo,” Paige murmurs after a long stretch of silence, her voice low and soft. She doesn’t even know what she’s about to say; the words are just there, waiting to spill out.

Jo shifts slightly, turning her head so her cheek rests against Paige’s collarbone. “Hmm?”

“You were really good tonight,” Paige tells her, lips brushing against Jo’s hair.

Jo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she presses a little closer, her arm looping around Paige’s waist. “’Cause of you,” she mumbles, her voice quiet, almost shy.

Paige swallows hard. She wants to say something, wants to tell Jo how much she really means to her, how proud she is, how she’s the best thing that’s happened to this team—but the words catch in her throat.

Instead, she tightens her arm around Jo, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric of Jo’s shirt. It’s enough.

For now.

[caramelvogel]

yjh who does audio porn to pay the bills and kdj who listens to it to fall asleep. kdj genuinely does not get off to it and he's so embarrassed that this is what he's found to help him sleep. literally nothing else helps and he's been advised to stop taking sleep medication because he was told he’s gonna just build up tolerance and dependency and making him worse

yjh started out trying to do non sexual voiceovers and readings at first, but his viewers kept encouraging him to do more and more sexual ones - and since it was more popular and paid the bills better - it became yjh’s main thing. at first yjh was really uncomfortable at having to do this, he was awkward every recording session and had to focus hard to keep the mood, but these days he's so desensitized he’s playing a game on the side while recording. he has outtakes where he was saying something and interrupts himself to curse about his game, and it comes out somehow that he plays games while doing it so the top tier gets to know what game he’s playing as an extra note underneath

when kdj somehow meets yjh, he wants to pass away but has to pretend everything is fine (he uses his super power of disassociation to get through it).

hsy: so do you get hard listening to him talk lmao

kdj, head in hands: no i just get sleepy :C

yjh thinking that kdj finds him really boring cause he keeps having to fight off sleep every time they interact.

kdj is the only one who wants normal readings (after they get together yjh recording himself reading kdj's favorite webnovel for him to fall asleep to). idk how audio porn and readings work but yjh has some sort of subscription service for fans and kdj is in the top tier. the highest tier there’s a chance that you can request something from yjh to read or (voice)act out, and kdj gets the chance and just requests some fantasy book (maybe once they know each other and yjh learns that kdj likes this book, and the original request stuck in yjh’s mind because it didn’t have anything dirty in it at all, just fantasy with heavy world building)

[prettymfwrites]

Forgotten Date Prank

Paige bueckers x Female reader

.・。.・゜✭・.・。.・゜✭・.・。.・゜✭・.・。.

The camera’s red light blinked steadily, recording the scene unfolding in your shared apartment. You adjusted the tripod, making sure the angle was perfect before flipping the viewfinder around to check your framing. Perfect. You grinned mischievously to yourself, glancing over your shoulder to where Paige was sprawled on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on her ipad.

"Hey, guys! Welcome back to the channel!" you started brightly, clapping your hands together. "So today’s video is super special because my girl Paige has finally decided to plan a surprise date for us! Like, she's the cutest."

Paige’s head whipped up immediately, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “Wait, what?”

You ignored her, suppressing a smirk as you kept your attention on the camera. “I know, I was shocked too! I’ve been bugging her for months to take the lead and plan something on her own, and she finally did it! So today, we’re doing a GRWM for this dinner date.”

Paige’s brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly in confusion. “Ma, what are you talking about? I didn’t—”

"Shh!" You held up a finger, still grinning. "I’ll ask Paige what kind of look she’s envisioning for me, and we’ll go from there. Baby, what vibe are we going for? Glam? Natural? Something bold?"

Paige sat up straight now, her iPad forgotten as she stared at you in full-blown panic. “Baby, what? I didn’t plan—hold on—when is this date supposed to be?”

“Oh, you don't have to act like it's still a secret” you teased, swiping your makeup bag off the counter. “You’re so bad at surprises. Just tell me what I should wear so I don’t ruin the aesthetic.”

“Baby.” Paige’s voice cracked slightly, and you had to fight back a laugh. “I didn’t plan a date, What are you talking about? Are you messing with me?”

You glanced at her, face full of disbelief. “What? Are you serious right now? Paige, you texted me this morning, ‘Be ready at 7.’ Don’t tell me you forgot!”

Paige’s jaw dropped. “What?! I didn’t text you that!” She grabbed her phone, scrolling frantically. “Did I? No, there’s no way—I didn’t—hold on—”

“Babe, don’t tell me you’re flaking on our date already,” you said dramatically, turning to the camera with a fake pout. “Y’all see this? She planned a whole romantic evening and now she’s trying to back out.”

“Mama, stop lying on my name in front of your them” Paige groaned, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t plan a date, I swear! Unless—wait—am I supposed to have planned a date? Did I forget something? Oh my God.”

You turned back to her, holding up a tube of lipstick. “So red or nude for the lips?”

Paige’s eyes darted between the lipstick and your face, her expression a mix of panic and confusion. “Uh—uh—nude, I guess? But seriously, baby, where are we going? What am I supposed to do?”

You held up your blush palette next. “Peachy cheeks or more bronzed?”

Paige slapped a hand to her forehead. “baby, look at me. If I forgot a date, you gotta tell me where it is so I can fix this! Like—give me something to work with. Is it fancy? Casual? Do I need to make reservations?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging. “You tell me.”

Paige groaned, flopping back onto the couch dramatically. “You’re killing me. Killing me,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Okay, okay, okay—think, Bueckers. What can I pull together in—” she glanced at the clock, “—two hours? Picnic? No, it’s too cold for that. Dinner? Do I have time to find a good restaurant? Maybe I can—”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The laugh burst out of you, loud and uncontrollable, as you doubled over clutching your stomach.

Paige sat up, her eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute.” She pointed a finger at you. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

“you're so cute” you gasped, still laughing. “Oh my God, you should’ve seen your face. You looked like a deer in headlights.”

Paige groaned, throwing a pillow at you. “Mama, why you gotta do me like that?! I was out here thinking I forgot our anniversary or something!”

You wiped a tear from your eye, still giggling. “I couldn’t resist. You were too easy to mess with.”

Paige shook her head, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You’re evil. Straight up evil. I was about to sprint to the grocery store and buy some flowers or something.”

“You love me, though,” you said, grinning as you walked over to sit beside her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, pulling you into her lap. “But don’t think I won’t get you back for this.”

“Oh, I’m shaking,” you teased, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

Paige rolled her eyes but smiled, wrapping her arms around you. “You’re lucky you’re cute, baby. Real lucky.”

I take requests💋

[genderless-naper]

collections

trafalgar law x crewmate!reader

theme: a bit of fluff. no mention of relationship, feelings, kissing, etc.

being talked over during conversations made you no longer willing to converse with the crew. law decides to step in to make you feel less alone

sfw, wc: 2.6k, lowercase intended!

the crew was livelier than usual. with all tasks for the day completed, conversations filled the air as everyone shared quality time together. many recounted recent ordeals, and the sounds of laughter, complaints, and heated debates echoed throughout the submarine.

you tried to join in on the active conversation. you were eager to share the new hobby you had picked up, and you couldn’t keep yourself from wanting to tell your loved ones.

although your desire to share was strong; everytime you tried to speak up your words hung in the air without response, and your crew mate continued their commotion. it seemed as though your words vanished into the noise. the lack of response made you feel a bit of an outcast within the group. although this topic was meant to be a way to connect your friends with your personal life you figured there will always be another chance to speak of it. so for now, you let everyone to continue their conversations as you listened.

ikkaku is the first to notice your hushed state. it wasnt something she was concerned about, and instead just wanted you to talk like everyone else.

“do you have anything you want to share about your day y/n?”

feeling enthusiastic you took this as your chance to talk about your beloved newfound hobby. it seemed a bit silly saying it out loud, but made you happy. it should be worth the mention.

“i’ve starting doing something new whenever we visit new islands with towns. i’ll start to-“

you were quickly interrupted with shachi’s sudden outburst, “penguin is such a liar!!”

penguin gasps dramatically. their commotion drew the small amount of attention your conversation was getting. penguin and shachi start to wrestle over a disagreement. all the members laugh while some even made bets on who would win. that is all the members but you.

you stared blankly. you knew your friends weren’t purposefully trying to talk over you. still you couldn’t push the feeling of being ignored away much longer. you stood up and slipped away unnoticed while the group was busy with their activities.

you walked to the girls cabin to find a space to yourself where you wont be feeling ignored. at that moment actually being alone felt much better than feeling lonely in a room full of people.

you laid down and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes until you heard an unexpected knocking. a muffled ‘can i come in?’ was heard from the other side of the door.

before you could respond the door had opened and your captain entered the room. his tall figure and poker face made its way over to you. you sat up confused as to what your captain could need from you.

law invited himself to sit down in the empty space next to you, “tell me about.”

you raised your brow. was there a specific report you were forgot to tell him? you searched through your mind for all the possibilities he could be referring to.

law cleared his throat to pull you out your own mind and regain your attention, “tell me about that thing you do with new islands”

you were astonished that your captain was actually paying attention to you. you figured that at the end of the day he is an observer.

he spoke again, “you looked like you wanted to talk about it, but everyone kept speaking over you.”

embarrassment crept upon you, “it’s fine really. i didn’t mind. it was a stupid topic anyways, so it would’ve bored them out.”

“it won’t bore me. i know you want to speak about it, so hurry up” the dark-haired man’s way of reassuring you made it feel like he was rushing you instead. you couldn’t refuse him, as he sat in front of you, waiting to be told as if you were keeping some infamous secret from him. you knew any attempt to refuse would be dismissed immediately by law. but deep down, you find his gesture meaningful. it was his way of saying ‘i see you’.

“you know you don’t have to do all this just because you feel bad captain.”

he knew his earlier phrasing wasn’t sitting quite well, so he added onto it, “it’s not that i feel bad, i just want to know about my crew, so tell me because i’ll listen to you.”

you could no longer protest against him. you make your way to grab a small box then returning to your seat, “you have to promise not to laugh.”

curiosity sparked within law, “whats in this box that could be so laugh-worthy? or are you just being dramatic?”

you rolled your eyes, “i’m not being dramatic. im just saying you can’t laugh jeez..”

law takes the box from you. if he left the unboxing to you, it would take hours for you to gather the courage to remove the top. with one swift motion, law unveiled what the box kept safe— what exactly it was that you wanted to share so badly with the crew.

the inside of the box contained an assortment of pens. all different shapes and colors. law was truly left speechless, “pens..?”

you grabbed the box back from him, “you said you wouldn’t laugh!”

law cleared his throat again, and fixed his expression to its stoic state, “i’m not laughing. i just wasnt expecting that. do you collect these pens across the islands?”

you nod as you look away. you couldn’t help yourself feeling a bit mortified. telling friends is one thing, but telling your captain makes you feel less strong-willed in his mind. you couldn’t help but wonder how embarrassed he must be, thinking about his crew mate being strange enough to collect a specific writing utensil.

suddenly his voice draws you out of your conscious, “which one is your favorite?”

“my favorite? it would have to be this blue one.” you pull out a glass pen that’s been dyed a shade of dark blue. it was heavy in weight, but wrote the smoothest lines when dipped in ink.

from here you start talking about the differences between the pens, their pros and cons, which island you got them from, demonstrating their writing on paper, and much more until you were certain you had bore law out. instead the tattooed man seemed just as interested as you were. he was learning about an item he never gave much thought to.

“you’re not weirded out by this..?”

law shook his head, “why would i be weirded out? you’re just like me.”

“how am i just like you?”

law smirked and lifted his hand to create his blue room bubble around you both, “i’ll show you. room, shambles.”

suddenly you find yourself in laws room. the crew’s laughter still echoed throughout the submarine. law pulls put a box , and pulls its lid off to reveal it’s contents to you.

“coins..?” you tilted your head, looking at the box

“i collect coins from different islands. don’t look at it like that when you do the same thing.”

you take the box, “just because i do the same thing doesn’t mean it’s not gonna be weird.”

law chuckled, “collecting pens is more weird than coins.”

you fired back a warning stare, “at least pens are useful. i can write with all of them.”

“so what? i can spend all of these.”

“captain, you can only spend it if you go back to these islands.”

the two of you went back and fourth, debating which item to collect was the best. as the night went on you both shares stories of certain items in your collections. you proceed to match the closest-looking pens to the closest-looking coin.

being able to to share such personal interests with each other made you both realize you are a lot more alike than you though.

at the end of the night law asks for your hand.

“what’d do you need it for?” you hold your hand out to him. law proceeds to place a gorgeous gold coin designed by fine detailing.

law spoke up, “i want you to keep it. take good care of it and keep it with your pens” a slight smile tugged at his lips.

you giggled, “is it meant to bring me prosperity?”

“hopefully. you’ll need it to buy more pens”

you roll his eyes at his remark. you look through your collection again and pull out a black pen decorated with small hearts. you have it to the tattooed man, “keep it. it suits you captain.”

law observed the pen with a smile. he continued to use that pen whenever he wrote important notes. he kept it with him at all times to remind himself that he isn’t so alone, and there are other nerds who collect things just like him.

on the other hand you were reminded of him every time you opened your wallet to pay. the gold coin shimmering was almost as bright as both of your faces sharing your hobbies with one another.

masterlist