#this blog will be based on vibes and vibes alone

[sodiren]

hello!! (^^)//

I'm making too many blogs at this point- i've created one more ahahah ;;;

this one is just to post about the songs i find- songs that get stuck in my head- songs I really like- all that jazz

I loop songs pretty often and for long periods of time so i think it would be funny to see- to record them for myself bwhahaghahga

[eldesperadont]

Matthew Lillard homoerotic murder twink role range:

is obsessively devoted to another man and helps him get away with murder (Stu Macher)

has men obsessively devoted to him help him get away with murder (Doug Van Housen)

[legalownerofufoemoji]

MAN WHY DOES THE NEUTROIS FLAG GOTTA BE SO UGLY 😭😭😭😭 like thats SO DISAPPOINTING for a term I relate to so heavily

[jensonsbuttons]

I was wondering do you know why Jenson chose to race with the number 22 in f1?

hello anon! the easiest answer is that in 2009, jenson was automatically assigned that number due to fia regulations and then once the fia said that drivers could pick their own number, he continued on with 22 since, ya know, he won the championship with it.

[imaginarianisms]

okay so i have. no idea when fire & blood part 2 is gonna come out so its. Very possible i could be wrong about a few things but here's a meta on m.yriah m.artell.

m.yriah m.artell was definitely in an interesting time period even before she became queen. i&. genuinely have no idea if she'd ever know queen daenaera velaryon or (big maybe) larra rogare or any of aegon's mistresses but i& think it's definitely possible considering we don't know if daenaera outlived aegon iii but it's very possible she did, who knows, maybe she was one of myriah's mentors in king's landing. she was around the time of aegon iv targaryen, aegon the unworthy, who's just. one of the actual worst rulers of the targaryen dynasty. iirc she was the eldest of the prince of dorne's children at the time so she was set to rule dorne much like princess a.rianne m.artell in our current story is, she was meant to rule & likely had that expectation, so when baelor targaryen comes along to speak with the prince of dorne once the crazy fucker finally arrives at sunspear, to agree upon a peace which included a marriage between his cousin prince daeron & myriah martell & the two would marry once they came of age, that probably really shocked myriah bc like imagine being expected to rule dorne one day & then you have to give up that right to become queen of all the seven kingdoms one day? that must've stung a bit, too, but it's also a MASSIVE undertaking. it's one thing to rule one kingdom, but seven? that's quite a lot. there had been many queens of westeros before, but myriah martell is the TRUE first queen of the seven kingdoms, because in all the previous reigns, dorne was never truly a part of westeros, it was its own independent kingdom, it had never bowed to the targaryens during aegon's conquest, they were the only kingdom that managed to fight off the targaryens & actually WIN or the previous conquest of king daeron i targaryen, dorne only came into the fold with marriage & diplomacy. so she probably had to learn about the non-dornish kingdoms & peoples as well before becoming queen. becoming this queen, however, Also involves marrying into the family that's attempted to subjugate & conquer your people since aegon the conqueror & his sister wives (& they ACTUALLY KILLED RHAENYS & A DRAGON BY THE FUCKING WAY). like. can you imagine how appalling it must be to marry into a family that felt superior to you & entitled to YOUR land. & keep in mind said bizarre inbred family is no longer the powerhouse they once were on the heels of the war that cost them their dragons & yet they learned nothing, even now. myriah joined king's landing at such an interesting time. she's supposed to usher in peace & prosperity to the realm but how do you Do That when Everything is working against you as a foreign princess.

bc keep in mind. the grandson of queen rhaenyra i targaryen just died attempting to subjugate HER country once more & was killed under a peace banner. a loss that demanded blood & caused outrage, despite the fact that daeron the young dragon lost over 10,000 lives trying to control a land that. Didn't Belong To Him. baelor the blessed was instrumental in creating peace arranging her very own arranged marriage alliance, her own son who was meant to be one of the greatest kings is named after him but dorne is Also where women have always ruled & baelor's three sisters were imprisoned against their will in the maidenvault for a decade. that must've terrified myriah (& it didn't help that baelor quite literally walked all the way to sunspear barefoot on the hot sands, she must've been like "father...... what is this man doing.... he's crazy"). i think just the stories she's heard of daena the defiant, rhaena, queen naerys, elaena & daenerys she'd hold a great deal of pity for them bc in dorne nothing of the sort would ever happen to them let alone naerys' abuse by aegon iv who i think later in life she would've gotten along with naerys as her daughter in law & tried to take care of her bc she's decent. i& genuinely think that even when she wasn't queen yet, she would've tried to bring more women into the fold & into positions of power. something we Do know canonically is the fact that daeron ii's court was disliked for being progressive/intelligent, pro women & pro dornish, who btw are poc, so the red keep at the time would be VERY inclusive & were likely pro sex work, pro disability & pro lgbtqia+/queerness because the dornish were known for accepting women's rights & elderly rights, the rights of people with disabilities & queer people, sex workers as well as same sex/same gender relationships & polyamorous relationships, elaena targaryen was the unofficial master of coin & was trusted with state matters for daeron ii & myriah & famously sided with THEM & not her sister's son during the first blackfyre rebellion & she could've been friends w/ elaena & not to mention myriah martell would be the first non-valyrian woman of color to become queen of westeros (there were black women who ruled before her notably {technically visenya targaryen & rhaenys targaryen who're mixed as their mother was valaena velaryon} alyssa velaryon, alysanne targaryen & daenaera velaryon, but they were all valyrian & the rest of the queens were presumably all white women). that's a MASSIVE deal. & not to mention the fates of the queens before her must've shocked her bc like literally none of that would've happened in dorne.

myriah was also a princess & queen to be under a father in-law who hated & attempted to take her country AGAIN even after she married his son. i honestly can't even imagine the amount of anxiety, rage & stress this would've caused myriah & i can't imagine she didn't have to swallow racist insult after racist insult from aegon iv. like. i almost wonder if some of the targaryens after the dance of the dragons, specifically king aegon vi, daeron i targaryen the young dragon, daena the defiant, etc. were desperate to get back some of their sense of superiority after their great house lost the source of their power, the dragons (by their own making. btw), & what better way to do that then to conquer the land that aegon & his sisters couldn't with even their own dragons. what better way to prove themselves Real Dragons TM & to prove their superiority. so when they were reduced to normalcy like yknow Literally Everybody Else that must've been a real hard pill for the targaryens to swallow lmao

this is the court myriah would have to contend with & this isn't even going into the fact that even Before she became queen, she & her children were considered unworthy for not being white paleskinned purple eyed blondes bc they were dornish & the court was Very Fucking Racist Towards The Dornish. going w/ the presumption that she was born in 146 AC, myriah would've been 24 when she had baelon, 26-30 (most likely 26) when she had aerys, 27-31 (most likely 27) when she had rhaegel & 28-32 (most likely 28) when she had maekar; daeron treated his half siblings well & yet they STILL go to war against HER queenship & the rights of her trueborn children after the death of aegon iv; myriah would've been 26 at least or 38 at most when he died (daemon blackfyre also married rohanne of tyrosh during this time & aegon legitimized all his bastards including daemon blackfyre, aegor rivers / bittersteel, mya rivers, gwenys rivers, brynden rivers / bloodraven & shiera seastar on his deathbed so myriah would've known them & she would've been 26-38 when she became queen, but i'm gonna go with the maximum possible age so she'd be a year younger than daena the defiant so she'd be 26 when she became queen) depending on which year she was born bc even that's unclear but if she was born in 146 AC, she would've lived through the reigns of aegon iii, daeron i, baelor i, viserys ii, aegon iv & daeron ii & very possibly even outlived her husband & if she was born in 158 AC she would've lived through the reigns of daeron i, baelor i, viserys ii, aegon iv & daeron ii & likely outlived her husband but for my sanity's sake i'm gonna go with the prediction that she was born in or around 146 AC if not maybe a few years after, idk yet, hopefully that gets confirmed. if she was born in or around 146 AC myriah would've been 7 years older than him; daeron ii died when he was 55 in 209 AC so she would've been 62 (if she was born in 146 AC) at most when he died so she definitely lived during the blackfyre rebellions era & very well could've lived in aerys i's reign (209-221) & maekar i's reign (221-233), idk, i like to think she lived just long enough to see aegon v become king & dying of natural causes when she was 79 years old as an elderly woman but fire & blood part 2 could prove me wrong, but she would've lived past alysanne targaryen. maybe she adopted daenerys after naerys died so she could make sure daenerys would be a good, clever & intelligent full fledged leader capable of ruling dorne like she herself was meant to & then later shiera seastar after serenei of lys died & it's because of that loyalty to her adopted family that she was loyal to the targaryens (& that could be a reason why maekar beefed with brynden bc he's protective over his adopted little sister while technically she's biologically his half aunt after her mother died & her father was an asshat & maekar is the youngest of daeron & myriah's children & shiera's the only little sibling he had so he's a grumpy older brother), who knows, maybe she mentored b.etha b.lackwood for a time before she's queen.

myriah would've had to be a spectacular & aweinspiring woman to survive & thrive under the circumstances she lived through, she & daeron had a healthy marriage despite so many things working against them & daeron ii built the castle of summerhall in her honor & the peace in westeros. she must've been bold, unflinching, intelligent, confident, sometimes even arrogant bc she Knows She's That Bitch, kind, clever & regal, embodying the very words of her house "unbowed, unbent, unbroken".

[shadowedresolve]

.......i caved. you can now find (an au portrayal of) aran over at @phantomtorched, my new sideblog where i'm temporarily placing p5x muses before we learn more about their official canon. help me.

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.” 

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks. 

Figure them out. 

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid. 

They’ve never called you a kid before. 

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment. 

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure. 

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.” 

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with. 

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore. 

-

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit. 

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way. 

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet. 

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings. 

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly. 

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to. 

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards. 

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

-

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds. 

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him. 

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept. 

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you. 

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it. 

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again. 

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react. 

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded. 

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes. 

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth. 

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit. 

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape. 

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

-

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece. 

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit. 

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment. 

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least. 

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies. 

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin. 

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall. 

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness. 

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull. 

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act. 

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again. 

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push. 

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either. 

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract. 

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart. 

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[pressureplus]

this blog is the goat i love it sm :) totally get if it's too much but i'd love drunk seb headcanons. thnx ❤️

LOVELY, YOUVE GOT THE BIGGEST BRAIN ANON /POS

♡Drunk Sebastian Solace Headcannons♡

Warnings: Intoxication, Warnings to not Fuck The Fish™️, Brief Sexual Content

◞���◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

First off, getting him drunk isn’t gonna be easy

His body is significantly bigger so it’ll take a lot more alcohol than a normal human person

That and he could already hold his drinks well, so it’ll take some work to get that man actually drunk instead of just buzzed

Don’t try to match him drink for drink, you WILL die of alcohol poisoning unless you’re an alcoholic

Which wouldn’t matter he’d still out drink you based on weight/size alone, so I guess try not to die is the only goal?

Doesn’t feel comfortable drunk around most people unless you’re BOTH that kind of tipsy or he’s already close with you

When you do actually get him drunk?

The flirtiest, giggliest drunk you’re ever met

Sebastian will laugh at literally everything, it makes him so much easier to talk with

The world is sunshine and rainbows as long as he’s really fucked up

Honestly? He deserves it. He’ll smile at you so softly and actually fully listen when you talk. Maybe he’s not the brightest, or most talkative, but he has weirdly good advice

Though he is super giggly and playful, he does flirt

Usually they’re kind of fun. They’re not meant to really invoke any real feelings

“Hey there hot stuff, you lookin for a chair?” As he pats a portion of his tail.

He WILL forget that he flirted with you later, so don’t try to corner him on it as some kind of gotcha moment. He won’t believe you.

It also doesn’t reflect his feelings entirely…well unless he really likes you.

He’ll get a bit tongue tied and may even let it slip that he thinks you’re just gorgeous

His flirting gets very personal if he has a thing for you, but it’s less frequent because the man is too busy squirming from just sitting with you

Think flustered school girl energy

If he likes you he will do ANYTHING you ask

Please don’t try to fuck the fish, he isn’t very smart and he’s not gonna be able to top you

You’d have to do 100% of the work, and he wouldn’t remember most of it tomorrow anyway

He will probably just fall into a fit of giggles at the offer, honestly, so the likelihood of it happening is like nothing

So unless you’re both so drunk you’re not thinking straight? Don’t do it. Dont even try it.

If he doesn’t like you in that way? You might actually die for attempting it. It’s not worth it.

Speaking of not worth it, that man loses so much motor function. His tail is apparently weirdly hard to control all the way

Will prefer to just sit with you and not go anywhere as he will not have the control necessary to do damn near anything

He tried only once to go do something while really fucked up

Stupid fishman got stuck in a vent for a few hours

Worst experience of his life, (drunk fishman claims) he would never ever do it again

He’s the kind of man that sings when he’s drunk too, but only if you do it with him. He mimics like a parrot.

Or if you manage to play songs with him somehow, he might sing them if he vibes with or knows the song

Get a man to sing your favorite songs horribly at an octave that outright hurts

Idk something like California Girls by Katy Perry? Have fun with it

He can’t exactly dance really well but he might do a fun little shimmy if the music pleases him enough

Have fun doing your shared little dances, drinking to forget (always remembering), and laughing about nonsense

I’m sure, as long as you get him something strong and a whole lot of it

The both of you will get along fine!

After all, he likes people that get him gifts like this a little more

[glowettee]

do you have any posts abt decentering your life from men? i think i rely on male validation wayyyyyy too much lol. love your content btw ✨

✧˖° how to stop centering your life around men (because you have way better things to do)

(a guide to decentering men, breaking free from male validation & making yourself the main character for real this time)

so you’ve noticed it... the way your mood shifts depending on whether or not he texts you back, the way your confidence is high when you’re getting attention and low when you’re not. maybe you catch yourself subtly performing when guys are around, or maybe you find yourself molding into the kind of girl you think they’d want.

and honestly? same. we’ve all been there. society trains us to believe that being wanted is the ultimate achievement, that our worth is measured by how desirable we are to men. but that’s a lie. your life was never meant to revolve around them. you were always meant to be the sun, the main event, the entire storyline.

i really hope this post can help you understand you were never meant to revolve around them. love you - mindy

✧˖° step one: start seeing them for what they actually are

listen, it’s time to be so for real with yourself. ask: do I even like this man, or do I just like the attention? do I actually think he’s interesting, or do I just want him to think I’m interesting? do I want him, or do I just want to be chosen?

because half the time? the men we obsess over are painfully mediocre. and yet we assign them so much power. letting them dictate how we feel about ourselves, letting their validation (or lack of it) determine our worth.

take a step back. stop romanticizing them. start seeing them as human beings. flawed, regular, not the prize. the real prize? is you.

✧˖° step two: detox from male validation (yes, a real detox)

you don’t realize how much male validation fuels your self-worth until you cut it off. so let’s go cut. it. off.

for the next month, no:

dressing for male attention (dress for you instead).

posting just to see if he will like it.

checking who watched your stories.

replaying conversations to see if you sounded cool enough.

instead, every time you feel the urge to seek male validation, replace it with self-validation.

take pictures just for yourself.

romanticize your own opinion of you.

remind yourself that your value doesn’t shift based on their perception of you.

✧˖° step three: become the most interesting person you know

a lot of us center men in our lives because we have nothing else filling that space. so fill it. with things that actually excite you.

start a niche hobby that makes you feel alive (pottery, screenwriting, blogging (girlblogging to be exact), literally anything).

go to cafes alone, sit in the prettiest spot, and enjoy your own company.

build your dream life piece by piece, your wardrobe, your routines, your vibe.

when you’re truly obsessed with your own life, the need for male validation just… disappears. because suddenly, you’re so content, so full, that their attention feels like an afterthought.

✧˖° step four: unfollow the pick-me content (yes, even the guilty pleasure stuff)

what you consume matters. if your feed is filled with “how to make him obsessed with you” content, if you’re constantly absorbing media that glorifies male attention, you’re subconsciously reinforcing the idea that men = purpose.

so let’s cleanse. unfollow the pick-me content. mute the male gaze influencers. instead:

fill your feed with confident, self-sufficient women.

read books by powerful women who own their narrative.

watch movies where the female lead’s story isn’t about a man.

you are not the supporting character in a man’s story. start consuming content that reminds you of that. you are a goddess, an angel, the main character of YOUR story! please remember that <3

✧˖° step five: enforce the highest standards (with zero guilt)

decentering men doesn’t mean avoiding relationships, it just means refusing to settle. it means knowing that you don’t need male validation to be worthy. and that means setting real standards:

if he’s inconsistent? he’s gone.

if he makes you question your worth? he’s out.

if he needs you to shrink yourself to fit into his life? bye.

your love life should enhance your life, not become your life. you don’t need to be chosen. you need to be cherished. there’s a difference.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips ✧˖°

some little things that helped me fully break free from male validation: ➝ talk to yourself like you’re the love of your life - hype yourself up in the mirror, take yourself on cute dates, write love letters to you.➝ wear perfume, do your hair, and put effort into your looks even when you’re alone. let your beauty be for you, not for male approval. ➝ when a guy doesn’t text back, shift your energy immediately. instead of spiraling, get up, put on music, do something fun. do not make him your focus.

✧˖° homework: shift your energy back to you

for the next week, every time you catch yourself seeking male validation, pause. redirect that energy inward. do something for yourself instead. and watch how your entire aura changes.

because when you stop chasing their approval? you start living for real.

love you <333 so sorry this reply was sooo late

xoxo mindy

[queenendless]

TWISTED DEVIL 😈

A/n: Prologue to a potential AU series, mini or otherwise.

May edit this into a masterlist if I write enough fics about this. So sorry about this short piece. Future oneshot parts may be just as short. Wanna write twst x reader fics based off the dorm songs being released lately.

I honestly am having Solo Leveing writers block/burnout. So I need to write other stuff. Sorry about those that are waiting for those Jinwoo fics but I need a break.

CW: GN!human demon hybrid Reader. Yandere esque vibes. One-shot esque AU series. MAJOR SPOILERS INVOLVED!

NO REPOSTING, PLAGIARIZING, TRANSLATING, AI USAGE OR BOT/AGELESS BLOGS ALLOWED. Reblogs, likes and follows are appreciated.

You are the sole child of Chernabog; the King of Bald Mountain, Controller of Demons.

Your birth alone brought about waves of fears

upon the world. The religious naysayers that already feared him hunted you down.

So you and your mother went into hiding, away from the loonies of that variety as well as those that desired to use you for their self-serving machinations.

Because you're half demon, you age much more slowly than mortals. Which was why when your mother was on her death bed that night, you were physically a teenager but your biological age was nearly a century old. The moment she passed away, you already felt your father reaching out through your infernal bond.

Your dormant monster side is only brought forth amidst emergencies or such intense emotions. And thus, your true nature was suppressed from the unaware public masses. Hiding away in seclusion, just you and her, until it was only you in that now lonely cottage.

Yet as you pictured his imposing presence in the far off distance on that eerie foggy night, the double horse black carriage carrying the coffin came out of left field and struck you head on.

The moment you awaken from the coffin at your orientation ceremony at Night Raven College results in your fellow freshmen and senpai tensing up at your already strong magical presence.

Despite your soft features and demure presence, the aura of corruption hung over you. Your eyes glinted with the promise of mystery.

They're all, initially, intimidated by you. Although these prideful mages in training wouldn't let their true faces nor feelings show that much. Some more so than others …

Despite that, your soul didn't align with the other dorms, despite your magical potential. Much like the prefect — prefects actually. There's a few of them.

And so, you were placed in Ramshackle Dorm with them and their dire beast companion Grim.

The ghostly residents flocked to you immediately, retaining your father's ability of attracting the spiritual variety.

Preferring this over being on your own for the first time in your existence or even staying with the literal embodiment of evil himself, you chose to give this arcane boarding school a chance.

And so, you, Y/n L/n, became a freshman at NRC.

Expanding your mind and knowledge about this new world that you were brought into on your first year here.

Becoming close with your fellow schoolmates, mending the scar left upon your beastly heart, leaving your own mark on them, bringing forth their deepest darkest desires.

You had yet to show any of them your suppressed nature, your true form, horrified at the potential cataclysmic chain reaction that would be set off should the time ever come. Until then, you would appreciate your chaotically enjoyable school life for as long as it lasts.

Ah yes, indeed, you fell in love with the world of Twisted Wonderland. For your precious mages existed in it, side by side with you.

[0wlettie]

⏾⋆.˚─── rafayel x fem!reader

⏾⋆.˚─── synopsis: rafayel just sees you as a good friend, and even though you want more than that, you're perfectly content staying by his side in whatever way he wants you. but when you go out drinking with a few friends and he decides to crash the party, you discover that your original assumption might be a little off…

⏾⋆.˚─── tags: 20.9k, light angst, pining, pining, PINING, pet names (cutie, beautiful, pretty girl), possessiveness, really leaning into the eldritch/monster merman vibe w/rafayel here, light alcohol consumption (reader gets a little tipsy but it's nothing crazy), frottage, coming in pants, fingerfucking, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk (but in a needy sorta way), under-negotiated kink, unprotected sex, mating press, biting

⏾⋆.˚─── ao3 if you prefer ^^

⏾⋆.˚─── a/n: hello ~ hello ~ i'm back again with ANOTHER monster length fic. i'd just recently unlocked the bond lvl 55 with him, and inspiration just smacked me in the face and i immediately started working on this baby. beta'd by me so any mistakes are mine entirely; title comes from Bambi by BAEKHYUN because not only is the song good, but idk baekhyun just gives off raf vibes to me and it kinda fit so why not? this is nsfw so Minors Do Not Interact (ageless blogs who follow will be blocked)

You’re in the middle of shopping on your day off when you get a phone call.

You work as an assistant. It’s mostly a freelance job, as you often take on multiple clients a year rather than just stick to one. It also helps that you have as many connections as you do, so you’re in a fortunate position where you have a choice in who you decide to take up on offers. Months earlier a friend of yours from college, Estella, offered you a position to work with Rafayel Qi—a notoriously reclusive and aloof painter. Her fiancé worked closely with him, and seeing as how they were scheduled to go on a trip together soon, someone needed to be there to fill in for Thomas.

Curious, and always willing to help out a friend, you agreed.

It was a relatively normal time for you, all things considered. Rafayel was surprisingly easy to work with, something you weren’t exactly expecting based on all of the rumors surrounding his personality. You were also well versed in working with eccentric kinds of people, so maybe you were unconsciously gearing up for more of that. Instead, you got a pleasantly easy experience. Sure, it was a bit awkward and a little stilted because woah, you weren’t exactly ready for the inhuman beauty awaiting you in that bright and clear studio room. And yeah, you were having a bit of a hard time focusing on Thomas’s introductions when Rafayel kept staring at you like that—something strangely intense in those pretty sunset-hues of his. 

Like he was trying to peel back all of your layers with his eyes alone.

All that intensity vanished, however, as soon as you started working for him. You thought you saw glimpses of that emotion when you caught Rafayel staring at you a little too long, but it always flickered away before you could really be sure. Thankfully, there really wasn’t much you had to do besides answer a few emails on Thomas’s behalf and cater to whatever little whim Rafayel felt like indulging on that day—whether that meant visiting a faraway town for ‘inspiration’ or spending a day inside, helping him sort out the various boxes of junk he bought online in a shopping frenzy. It was nice, you can admit, getting to know your client.

Bratty and with a smart mouth that often makes you bust a gut laughing at the sheer audacity of his retorts. Needy for your time and attention—childishly so, calling you over no matter the hour for help in solving the easiest of problems. But there was a sweetness to him. A gentle sort of kindness that he showed when he noticed things about you. When he bought you cute little trinkets or went out of his way to send you good morning or goodnight texts; things that he knows cheers you up working as hard as you do.

Even as the original three weeks you planned to be employed morphed into five, due to the young couple encountering a freak storm that left their pleasure cruise stranded on an island while the cruise line company sent another to rescue them and the others on the trip. Even as Thomas and Estella made it safely back and you were free to take on other clients. Rafayel stayed in contact, and clearly you two had built up a bond, evident by the various phone calls and texts filling up your previous empty and dry inbox. But meeting up in person was difficult compared to before. Conflicting schedules kept you both missing each other by a hair—either you were too booked by the multiple clients you had, or Rafayel too busy with deadlines and art galleries demanding his presence. 

It was draining, to think about. Silly, really. You were an adult with an adult life—of course you would sometimes go long stretches of time without being able to see others, even those you consider good friends. But once you absently checked the date and noticed it’d been over nine months since you’ve seen his pretty smile without the barrier of a phone screen, a deep seated weariness weighed heavily on your chest. Dramatic of you to feel so unsettled by someone you’ve only just met, but you feel as if you’ve known Rafayel for a lifetime. Like some part of you recognized him from a past life of yours, and it’s now missing, held within the palms of his elegantly beautiful hands. It’s not something you’ve ever felt for a friend before, and no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that you do only see him as a friend, nothing seems to stick.

It makes you scoff thinking about it. Whether or not you considered yourself friends wasn’t important—all that mattered was Rafayel’s view, and clearly he sees you as friends. You sure as hell chatted like them, and while you slightly resented the platonic undertones to your conversations, you still cherished the fact that you both talk everyday if either of you could help it. 

Just a few hours ago you both were on the phone and you listened while he ranted about the piece he was making for an upcoming client of his. All the art speak flew over your head a bit, but from what you could gather, it had something to do with who the commission was for rather than the commission itself. An older gentleman who royally pissed Rafayel off with his attitude and demands. Just remembering the angry rapid-fire insults has you cracking a smile—he was positively ruthless when talking about his client.

The thought momentarily lifts your spirits, but no matter how hard you try to deny how you feel, it doesn’t make the ache go away. Phone calls and texts aren’t enough for you; you feel almost…greedy, with how desperately you want to see him in person. How you crave to hear the teasing lilt to his voice, to see the embers of something he refuses to name flicker in his eyes, in his expression when he thinks you don’t see. How you want to feel the lingering heat in his fingers when they brush against yours by accident, or when he playfully tugs at your bangs, or any part of your clothes to get your attention. But you can’t. The universe seems hellbent on making sure of that.

So here you are, trying to drown out this lingering sadness by filling your freezer with all sorts of sweet treats. Eating always helps you feel better, even if it doesn’t necessarily help your waistline. And it’s here, while you decide between getting either a pint of brownie batter or a pint chocolate chip cookie dough that you get a phone call. You jolt, nearly dropping both pints in your hands as the familiar ringtone of Estella blares out from your pocket.

‘Fuck it.’ Your cheeks redden when you catch a few bewildered stares thrown your way, and you chuck both pints into your basket before hurriedly fumbling for your phone.

“You couldn’t have texted me, Stella.” You whisper-yell, ducking your head and hurrying into another aisle. You still had to snag a few bags of chips before leaving—that and maybe something fizzy to drink. She laughs, and you realize that she’s gotta at least be a little tipsy to sound that chipper on a dreary Wednesday night. Your suspicions are confirmed when you hear her hiccup a giggle, the sound of another voice faintly echoing through the line before she turns her attention back to you.

“[✦]! Are you free say....this Saturday?” You blink, mentally tracking your week. For once in a long time, you’re free from any of your clients, at least until the end of the month. You were intending to surprise Rafayel with a visit, but he told you that he had some kind of exhibit to attend, so you were just going to spend the night by yourself. Pitifully watching another drama you had lined up while you gorged on ice cream and take-out.

“I should be…why’re you asking?” You reach out and grab a few bags of chips, eyeing the stack of cookies next to them before shaking your head and heading off to the front to checkout. You already had plenty of sweets in your basket, and it was already bad enough that you were getting two pints instead of one. ‘At least I got the water in my basket.’ You soothe yourself, ignoring the other unhealthy snacks sitting next to the giant bottle of water nestled at the bottom as you toss the chips on top. 

“It’s been forever since I saw you! Me and Thomas were thinkin’ about going out. I was thinking of inviting a few friends from college since it's been forever since we last saw each other. You should totally come!” You wince at her volume, giving a polite smile to the lady checking you out before dumping all of your items onto the conveyor belt.

“Ah, I don’t know…I’m not really the ‘going out’ type, you know…” You nervously chew on your bottom lip, paying for your food and quickly escaping the slightly judgmental look on your cashier’s face as you balance your phone in one hand and the heavy bags in your other. You didn’t care at all for the way she was eyeing your bags, but that feeling soon vanishes when Estella whines in your ear—effectively distracting you from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be like that, I promise it’s just to get a few drinks, that’s all! Nothin’ super clubby or anything like that!” You feel yourself begin to waver. You’ve never been one to really say no to your friends, or really anyone coming to you for help like this. It’s why you’ve kept people out, and it’s also why you think you attract the people you do. Whiny, pushy and all around bossy folks who have no trouble bullying you into doing what they want or think is best for you. Not that you’re complaining necessarily, you’ve been given the gift of having such a caring friend like Estella and now Rafayel too. Bratty as they are, they’re also extremely loyal and will go to bat for you without question.

So really, what’s going out for a few hours of drinks in exchange?

As if sensing your hesitation, she pushes just a little harder.

“C’mon, I swear on my dead granny that you’ll have an amazing time! It’ll just be me ‘n’ Thomas and prolly a few of us from the old study group—Jessica and Randy, maybe even Lyrica if she’s got the time too. Ooh, and Jazzy will totally wanna come, it’s been ages since he’s met us!” 

You make a face at the name ‘Randy’, and it almost convinces you to bail out right then and there. However, you can already see the stupidly effective puppy dog eyes Estella is giving you through the phone, and the long suffering groan you let out underneath your breath is more telling than you’d like to admit. Something that Estella hears through the phone because she squeals and smacks her hand into a…table maybe? Whatever it is, it hurts her enough for her to hiss out a few swears so fierce that it makes you snort.

“Fuck, stupid fucking table…attacking me like that…”

“More like you attacked the table, sweetheart.” You hear Thomas’s voice get closer to the phone, and Estella’s voice goes all gooey and soft. 

“But babycakes, it was the table’s fault that my hand hurts now. Who cares if I gave it a little love tap, make it apologize to me for being mean!” Thomas laughs and you smile when you hear him, momentarily choosing to ignore the slight discomfort of her inviting…Randy. Your chest warms from their obvious love as they mutter sweet nonsense to each other too low for you to understand, but jealousy follows quicker than you expect, turning the whole interaction into something sour in your mouth. You want what she has desperately; a little too desperately, if you’re feeling like this over barely there PDA. ‘Get a grip, girl. Jeez.’ You huff, exasperated with yourself, and do your best to swallow back all of the ugly, nasty feelings threatening to spill from your mouth.

“Just text me the details and I’ll see if I can work something out, yeah? I’ll leave you two alone for now.” You plaster a smile onto your face, thankful when your voice comes out steady and normal. Estella cheers, but it's faint sounding and Thomas answers before you can ask.

“Sorry about this—you know how she gets when she gets her hands on a bottle of Rosé. I’ll make sure that she gives you the time and place before then.” 

“Ah, that makes sense. She could never resist a glass of that when she’s off work.” You chuckle as a thought pops into your mind. You ask before you can chicken out.

“Rafayel’s not coming, is he?” 

“Ah, I thought he would’ve told you about that art exhibit? I’m not even blackmailing him to go to this one, surprisingly—he chose to go himself!” 

You deflate, cursing yourself in your mind. Of fucking course he wouldn’t go, you knew he wasn’t going to he already told you about it! ‘Stupid.’ Your cheeks flush from the embarrassment and you quickly breeze past your utter failure with as much nonchalance you can muster. 

“Y-yeah. It slipped my mind, sorry.” Thomas hums, a little unconvincingly, but his attention is clearly drawn away by the loud call of his name just barely out of range from the phone.

“I’ve gotta go, but we’ll see you Saturday?”

“Yeah, have a goodnight you two!” The call disconnects moments after, and you’re left with an oily sort of feeling squirming in your gut. You hate being so sour over your friend and her beautiful relationship, but you can’t help it. Not when you want so badly to have that kind of love yourself. When it feels like your whole life you’ve craved that kind of love. Distant from the world around you, you never connect to people easily—even now, when all you do is interact with people on a daily basis. Your parents feel a bit alienated too, evident by the sparse calls you share all these years later. Estella was the first person in a long time that you formed a strong relationship with, and you were content with that. At least, you were before you met Rafayel.

Now all you can think about is him. 

His voice and the musical cadence of it, gentle and sweet and everything that makes your brain go fuzzy and warm, willing to do whatever he asks if he just keeps talking to you like that. His gorgeous eyes and how they sparkle underneath the sun’s rays like a kaleidoscope of blue and pink, mixing together in an almost hypnotizing way, leaving you breathless and flushed whenever you meet them. The constellation of moles you can spot when he’s close to you on his nose, underneath his eye, on his cheek—even the one you noticed on his chest one afternoon after he decided to let his white button up dangle open scandalously. The thin, long delicate shape of his fingers when he holds a paint brush; the prominent and strong lines of the tendons you can see when he handles his phone, his sketchbook, a glass or anything round or big enough to make them flex. Everything about him drives you crazy, and it takes all of your self control not to throw yourself at him whenever he gives you his full attention. You think you’d feel even worse if you could, but he’s like an addiction to you. As much as it hurts to be on the receiving end of his focus in a purely platonic way, you’ll also take any scrap he gives—happily.

You blow out a sigh.

Pathetic you may be, you still would rather have Rafayel in your life than out of it. Which means that you need to get a handle on that little green monster rolling around in your belly—and quickly since the little get-together is only a handful of days away. You’re a grown ass woman, you can totally handle your emotions and keep them to yourself. Even if you’ll be surrounded by couples, as you know for a fact that Jessica and Lyrica have partners. Randy and Jasper, aka Jazzy, you have no clue about though. Which, if they don’t then you won’t be the only one feeling like an outcast in a sea of couples.

“Yeah, this totally won’t blow up in my face at all.” You mutter to yourself, hurrying up the stairs to your apartment complex. You can only hope that, for once, the universe works in your favor here.

It’s Saturday, and you find yourself stuck between two options laying flat out on your bed.

On the one hand, you could go with this dress you’ve had for forever—your go to dress when going out somewhere nice. It’s a midi halter dress with a low v-neck that shows off a decent amount of your cleavage. Colored a warm coffee brown and with the edges flared out, it’s cute and it works well on your figure. Even with the extra weight you’ve put on, you know it’ll compliment you still. 

However…

Your eyes slide over to the left. The dress sitting there is a new purchase of yours, one you got a while back when you and Estella were out shopping one day. You’ve never worn it before and feeling a little bold, you want to try it out now. It’s a gorgeous shade of deep burgundy and strapless. Midi in length and made out of a comfortable stretchy fabric, it would hug you closely; and with two daring slits up the side, ruffles lining the open edges, it carries a different vibe than your other dress. You have no idea what to choose! With your hair—tied up in twintails and braided—and makeup—a layered glittery plum-red toned eyeshadow look combined with thick eyeliner and a matching plum-red lip—done, all you have to do now is just pick one but you can’t. 

“Ugh, this shouldn’t be this difficult, I mean, it’s only gonna be a few friends—”

A loud ‘ping’ interrupts your rant and a lightbulb goes off over your head. Of course! Why not just get Rafayel to choose for you? He’s an artist—he’s got an eye for these kinds of things. You hurry over to snatch your phone from your vanity. You and Rafayel were just playing phone games at the moment, so you know that he can’t be doing something super important. There’s still a few hours before he has to make it to the exhibit, anyway. And, since you were currently losing this round of pool, you weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to get back to it.

fishie princess ♓

hey you mind helping me real quick ?

how suspicious that you need my help now that you’re losing terribly to me

how very suspicious…(¬‿¬ )

raaaaaaaaf 

stop it im serious

(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)

fine fine

what’s up?

image sent

image sent

what do you think is better on me ?

if i’m say, going out for drinks ?

oooh both are pretty

going out for drinks? hmmm

the first one is fine, but the second one is the prettiest between the two

the burgundy will emphasize the color of your skin, as well as bring out the darkness of your eyes more

depending on how you do your makeup, it’ll do great with attracting all sorts of attention

Your cheeks flush and your tummy goes warm at the thought of his voice saying all of that. Second dress it is, then. Happy and floating high off the indirect praise just given to you, you’re about to type back a quick ‘thank you’ when dots appear on your screen. You pause, and watch as they disappear and reappear again for a few moments before a text comes through.

fishie princess ♓

what’s the occasion though?

i dun remember you mentioning a party or anything

oh thomas didn’t tell you ?

tell me what

uhh

about how he and stella are gonna go out for drinks tonight ?

with some of our old college buddies

she invited me a few days ago

i guess since you were busy tonight they didn’t bother…

and you’re going out in that dress?

yea ?

hm

okay

one sec （＾ｖ＾）

You blink at the screen. That little smile feels…ominous, somehow. But you cannot for the life of you figure out why. Is he upset that he wasn’t invited? Maybe, but, if he was busy, then why would Thomas even bother mentioning it to him? Or maybe he’s mad at you for not telling him until now? Well…honestly, you didn’t forget about it, it just kind of fell to the wayside a bit when the end of the week rush happened and you had to get the last of your clerical work in before going on break.

Before you can wonder more, however, your phone jumps with another sharp ‘ping’.

fishie princess ♓

hey so what’s the address for that place you’re goin to?

and what time

umm okay the address is

[link sent]

and we’re supposed to be meeting there at eight

why ???

well when someone asks you the address and time of an event

one would think they’d be going to that event, right? 

The text sends your gut swooping in a mix of delight and trepidation. What—but the exhibit? Did he just cancel on something he’s been talking about for the past couple days at the drop of a hat?! Even Thomas was surprised by how enthusiastic Rafayel was, so why…?

fishie princess ♓

but your exhibit ???

don’t tell me you just CANCELLED

rafayel you’ve been so excited for it

so why did you just call it off ??

there will be other exhibits like that one trust

that particular lady does all sorts of pop ups around the country

but i haven’t seen you in months, [✦]

you think i won’t show up for that?

i miss you

you have to know that i do

you miss me too, right?

His surprising candor stops your breath for a moment. You…you know that. You know he misses you just as much as you miss him, but to see it so plain to see in black and white, well. What else could you do in the face of that? Sighing, defeated but still so very excited at the prospect of seeing him again in person—of being able to hug him and hear the bright, sharp bark of his laughter in your ears, you find that you’re incapable of being too upset. If you even were to begin with, when it became clear to you that he was planning on joining your group for drinks.

fishie princess ♓

yea of course i miss you

and even tho its hella RUDE of you to cancel so close to the time

im still glad i get to see you tonight

but that means you have to show me what you’re wearing !!

nuh uh

since you wanted to sneak behind my back with thomas and stella

im afraid you’ll have to wait until eight tonight before you see

it wasn’t on purpose

no wait don’t be mean lemme seeeeeee

(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)

nope.

gasp

not the period

noooo it’s not fair

rafaaayeeel !!!

life is never fair

now suffer

≧◠◡◠≦✌

You groan as you toss your phone back onto your vanity, but the wide smile pulling at the corners of your mouth gives away how thrilled you are. Your heart races as you scoop up the dress from your bed, and you give your makeup and hair one last lookover in the mirror before wiggling your way into the dress. You know that, despite being secretly jealous over the various couples surrounding you, Rafayel will make a perfect distraction. He makes you laugh, and even though you’re stupidly and deeply in love with him and it drives you just a little more insane as each day passes, he makes the world just a bit brighter for you regardless.

Even if he is an utter brat.

Nervously, you check yourself out again in the wide glass window in front of you. You decided to go with a darker lip color to better match your dress, as well as apply a liberal amount of dress tape to keep the damn thing from falling off. You’ve got a…bigger bust than some girls, so the tape was necessary since you really couldn’t wear a bra and be cute with a strapless dress. You’re just thankful that the area surrounding the top of the dress was thick enough to hide your nipples and the piercings you’ve got.

‘Never lose a bet with Stella when you’re drunk.’ You think a little wryly, taking in a deep breath before glancing at the time on your phone. 8:05. While it was a few minutes past the agreed upon time, you knew that not everyone showed up yet. Estella and Thomas are already inside, as well as Lyrica and her boyfriend. Jessica and her girlfriend were stuck in traffic, and Randy was on his way too. Jazzy couldn't make it because of a family emergency, so the only person you’re missing is…

Rafayel.

Your entire body lights up; your heart thumping harshly and your face getting so hot that you feel as if you’re about to pass out. Your cold hands come up to cup your cheeks, and you duck your wide-eyed face away from the glass window to stare down at your strappy black heels, the purse dangling from the crook of your arm gently swaying in the corner of your vision. The night air is cool against your burning skin, but even that doesn’t feel like enough to calm you down as Rafayel floods to the front of your mind again.

It was easy, on your way to the cozy but warm atmosphere of the little bar Estella picked out, to focus on touching up your make up and double checking with Thomas on the correct address for the cab you called. Easy to train your attention on climbing up the long stone staircase leading into the city plaza, amazed by the various lights and flashing signs of DownTown Linkon City nightlife you’ve never really experienced before. Easy to take your time in strolling down the clean and bright marble lining the sidewalk, shyly ignoring the few catcalls you got and pulling your cropped black bomber jacket closer to shield your body and purse.

But now, all your mind can think about is what the hell Rafayel plans to wear?!

Look, you’ve seen that man’s wardrobe. It was a bit of a necessity working as his assistant to cart him off to galleries and his exhibits. You had to make him look presentable to his fans and potential clientele! And, once you became closer, he would often show off the new pieces he added to his ever-growing collection of clothes; whether they be designer so expensive that the amount of zeroes made you want to vomit, or a thrift so cheap that it was basically given away for free. No matter the price though, whatever he got was absolutely stunning on him. 

You’re basically royally fucked because whatever the hell he shows up in, you just know that you’re gonna lose it. Especially being that close after all this time away from him. Just imagining him now sends a little thrill up your spine, even as your gut rolls with a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. You blow out a harsh breath, lightly slapping your cheeks before straightening up. Well, best to confront him before you go inside. Then, at least, you can try and get your bearings before you get around other people. That’s if you manage to catch him before the others.

You grimace.

‘Especially before Randy shows up…’ Mean of you to think when he was a close friend of yours during college, but that’s just the problem. He was a super close friend; one you’d been trying your damndest to avoid like the fucking plague. You weren’t mad at Estella for inviting him, it was your fault that she never knew things got physical between you two the last year and a half of college. In fact, you made it a point to hide it from her because you knew she would just give you that look if she found out. Not because Randy was a bad guy, per se. More like…he was a bad match for you.

It was supposed to be a purely casual, no strings attached kinda deal. But Randy was always a little too emotional for that. A little too clingy, but not in an endearing way at all. Clingy in a way that crossed your boundaries in massively inappropriate ways—and coming from a guy who you made abundantly clear to that you were never going to want him in a serious manner. Suffice to say, the whole silent ordeal left a bad taste in your mouth, and you quickly cut contact after graduating. Hopefully, you’re able to slip inside and set yourself up between Estella and Rafayel to block him from ever interacting with you more than he has too.

But it seems the universe doesn’t care to listen to your feeble wish, as not even a full minute later, a voice calls out to you with way too much enthusiasm.

“[✦]!”

Thankfully, your back is facing Randy, so he doesn’t get to see the utter disgust and defeat on your face as you stare off into the distance. You idly wonder just what the fuck you did to piss the universe off so much as you readjust your sagging purse. Signing deeply and finding that inner sense of calm that’s almost nonexistent with all of the anxiety and anticipation rolling away at your nerves, you spin around with your practiced and utterly fake ‘I’m-bullshitting’ smile.

“Randy! It’s been a while.” Your voice is level as you greet him, trying hard not to allow your displeasure to show when the taller man shoots you a smile and opens his arms wide for a hug. Gritting your teeth you politely return his hug. His arms snap around you and he gives you a hearty squeeze that makes you want to instantly recoil out of his embrace.

“It sure has! And you look beautiful dressed up like that, by the way.” You gently pat his arm, but when he still doesn’t break away, you take a step back and get as far as you politely can.

“Thanks, you look great too.” And while Randy isn’t an unattractive guy—six feet even with a large build and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, bright eyes and an even brighter smile—he’s just not your type. He never has been and he never will be. If only he could understand that fact, because even now after all these years later, his gaze still rakes over you with a kindling heat brewing in his cobalt blue irises. Your smile threatens to fall when he bridges that gap between you two, and it takes all of your willpower not to move back when his hand comes up to lightly rest on the small of your back.

“ I’m assuming Stella and her man are already starting without us. Jessica and Cindy should be here soon enough, too. Why don’t we head inside, then, instead of standing out in the cold?” 

‘There’s barely a breeze right now.’ You can’t help but think snarkily. With the summer heat at an all time high, the cooler nights are a refreshing taste to your palette. That, and you want to wait for Rafayel to show before you head inside. Honestly, you kind of want to see the look on Thomas’s face when he realizes Rafayel ditched another gallery date to attend one of his gatherings. 

“Actually—”

“Before you do that—,” You breath hitches, and you eagerly turn towards that wonderfully familiar voice, “She’s gotta give me something first. Isn’t that right, cutie?” 

“Rafayel!” The visible excitement in your voice surprises Randy, and he recoils away from you when the man—Rafayel—glances at him with so much venom that it feels as if he’s been burned from the barely there contact. You, of course, couldn't care less what Randy’s up to, as a bright smile stretches your lips wide enough to reveal your teeth.

Rafayel stands there, just a few paces away, with that smug grin of his that never fails to send your heart racing. The little nickname he tacks on just makes the organ inside of your chest beat even faster. You take in his outfit as your body moves instinctively towards him in a totally silly looking half-shuffle, half-run in your heels, gripping onto your purse for dear life in order not to drop it.

A faded crimson colors the shiny and smooth silk shirt draped over his chest, intricate designs in the shape of what looks to be branches spreading across in wide patterns. Delicate and faintly glimmering jewelry in the shape of ruby red leaves dangle over the wings of his shoulder, strings of delicate gold, pearl and onyx hanging down the sway gently in the breeze. The shirt is tucked into a pair of brown-tan ombre slacks, a wide sash and a belt buckle held snugly against the sinfully tight shape of his waist. Paired with the long strip of black fabric tied around his neck like a choker, the indecent gape of his top and the artfully tousled spikes of his mullet, he looks like he’d be more suited going out to a nightclub rather than a simple bar.

He’s absolutely gorgeous.

You can admit that you do fully stumble in the face of his beauty, and you see that smug grin grow wider when you just barely catch yourself. Embarrassment churns a hearty rhythm within your belly once you finally get within range of him, and though you kind of want to bury yourself in a hole for the rest of your life, you also don’t hesitate to give him an enthusiastic hug. Your chin lightly rests on his chest as your arms wrap around his lower back, and you both stagger a bit from the force of your unexpectedly weak knees.

You have actually worn heels before—it’s just hard to find your footing when Rafayel looks criminally and unfairly pretty in that little outfit of his.

“Wo-ah, take it easy. You know I’m fragile goods. Gotta be gentle there, cutie.” His words ride out on a murmured laugh, the long, wide palms of his hands curling around your shoulders to steady you. The golden lights of the streetlamps scattered about cast a warm glow over his broad shoulders and the planes of his handsome face. The color of his eyes are slightly darker than normal, the length of his lashes long and soft looking as he ducks his head a little to meet your stare directly with a teasing quirk to his brow. You watch mutely as his eyes flick over your face, lingering on the soft line of your mouth before making eye contact again. 

“Sorry–I just…” You bite the inside of your lip, feeling the familiar burn in the corners of your eyes as it finally sets in that he’s here in front of you. The playful tilt to his expression softens, the smile on his face easing into a gentle, fond line.

“You missed me that much, hm?” You nod, blinking rapidly to try and save your makeup. It’s difficult, though, when the tears you push back try even harder to fall. Rafayel chuckles softly seeing your struggle, but with one pleading look, he agrees to help.

“Alright, lemme get it.” From seemingly out of nowhere, Rafayel deftly pulls out a faintly tinted pink handkerchief. You snort at his dramatics, but dutifully allow him to cup your chin and hold you still while he delicately dabs at the corners of your eyes. You’re trying not to stare too hard at him, but it’s useless to deny that you aren’t doing just that. Being this close, everything about him that captivates you is now overwhelming all of your senses. 

The scent of his cologne that surrounds you in an invisible shroud, reminding you of warm sand, the salty brine of the sea and cool moonlit nights. The delicate hold of his fingers as they gently grip your chin, their blazing heat sinking beneath your skin and leaving what feels like an invisible mark. The beautiful sight of him as he’s haloed by the twinkling lights behind him, eyes focused on the sensitive area of your eyes as he wipes the last of your emotional tears. The sound of that warm, musical cadence that’s grown a tad bit lower in your close proximity, softly poking fun at your silly tears. You let him get away with teasing you, however. If only because it makes the little twinkle within his eyes shine brighter than the lights of the city combined. 

“Aaaand there we go. All better now.” He shoots you a wink and does another complicated trick with his fingers, the handkerchief disappearing faster than you can track. His other hand still lingers on your shoulder, even after he straightens up to his full height and ushers you towards the bar doors.

“Show off.” You giggle and lightly push his face away, sniffling a little before looking down and adjusting your coat. He pouts, conveniently placing himself in your direct line of sight once you turn your face up again.

“Is this the thanks I get for saving your makeup from getting all runny? How cruel.” 

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face gives away the humor you feel. You give in, though, not even a moment later, and you play along.

“My apologies, my wonderful, amazing and generous knight in shining armor. Thank you so much for saving me from a fate worse than death; runny makeup.” The sarcasm within your words is heavy enough for an idiot to catch, but Rafayel ignores the bite and beams at you. 

“You’re welcome, my fair lady. But my services aren’t cheap.” He leans closer to you, and your breath halts to a complete stop when you feel the warmth of his breath puff against your cheek.

“So much for being a knight, charging an innocent maiden like this.” You retort weakly, face growing hotter when Rafayel smirks.

“Lunch, tomorrow afternoon. At whatever place I pick. Your treat, of course, cutie.” You barely even hear the words as they echo in your ears, too entranced by the raspy, intimate tone of his voice as he tilts his head slightly. His eyes carry that same intensity you see from time to time, too many fragments of different emotions buried within for you to parse through. You nod, of course. Anything he asks of you, you’ll give without question—no matter what it is.

“Great.” He suddenly perks up, eyes catching on the side of your head. The hand on your shoulder slides up to lightly tug at one of your braids, trailing the edge of his knuckle down the middle with a thoughtful hum. His fingers brush against the side of your neck by accident, and despite trying, you can’t stop the full body shiver that runs up your spine from the feeling of his fingers against your skin. Again, it’s like some sort of invisible mark stains the skin he touched; the spot somehow growing more sensitive as a gentle breeze blows across it.

“S’cute, by the way. You should do more braided styles like this.”

You blush furiously, averting your eyes as you nod your head once again. It’s like your ability to speak suddenly shriveled up and died, and you’re struck dumb in the face of his overt skinship. Rafayel had been a little closer to you then most. Tugging at your clothes or even snatching things out of your hands wasn’t out of the ordinary. But nicknames? Being this close to your face? Touching you purposefully careless? It’s all so fucking confusing to your poor little overloaded brain.

So in you two go; Rafayel humming quietly to himself, arm now slung over your shoulder as he leads you deeper into the bar while you absently lean into his side, a dazed and flushed look on your face as one of your hands grips the fabric of his shirt.

You don’t notice, in your frazzled state, the chilling glare he shoots over his shoulder at the man rooted to the ground outside. 

You also don’t realize the kind of picture you two made in front of poor Randy, who’s suddenly regretting his life choices when faced with that dark, almost inhumanly possessive gleam in that terrifying man’s eyes.

Rafayel grips the glass in his hand tightly, fighting the urge to lean down and inhale that intoxicatingly sweet scent emanating from you. The week before the tides switch directions is always a test of self-restraint; flashes of hunger tainting his thoughts, urging him to indulge in his deepest desires. His body burns with a fever that can only be soothed by the touch of his person…and he’s finally found you, after all these lifetimes, you’re here in front of him. It’s an exquisite kind of torture, being so close yet so far. Everything about you naturally draws him in.

The smell of you beneath the artificial perfumes and soaps you use—rose hips, spring water and sunlight. The soft give of your stomach, hips and thighs that show beneath the skin tight dress you’re wearing. Those wide, dark eyes that twinkle with humor and a tender affection you think he doesn’t see when you stare at him. The slim coolness of your finger; the bright sound of your laughter; the way your gummy smile curves your eyes into crescents—all of you drives him to near madness every time you interact, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Would suffer throughout it all if only he can have you that much closer to him, how you are now.

Leaning against him and pressed shoulder to shoulder, your head rests on his bicep as you scroll through your phone. You two were debating on lunch options for tomorrow, but he’d gotten lost in the soft cadence of your voice, eyes glued to your lips as one of your hands idly played with the long strip of his choker. You weren’t even doing it consciously, but every so often you’d lightly tug at it to get his attention. As if he wasn’t already hanging onto every word that fell past your painted lips. It was slowly chipping away at the little strength he had left, and he was so close to just finally pulling you away to a dark corner when someone from the group—Isaiah, he thinks—pulled him into the wider conversation. Rafayel eagerly threw himself into it, doing anything he could possibly do to avoid the thoughts flying through his mind, each of them more depraved than the last.

But you still play with his choker and occasionally tug it, so despite his best efforts, his thoughts always stray back to you. His fault alone, he knows, but it doesn’t make any of it easy to control when you look like that.

When he saw the kind of dress you were planning to wear, he knew that he couldn’t just leave you to go out like that alone. Nevermind that you were going out with Estella and Thomas. It didn’t matter that the people you were hanging out with were old college buddies. You were still going outside to a bar. You were going to be drinking, dressed up all fancy and pretty. Guys would be approaching you nonstop, no matter if you were surrounded by your friends or not. And like hell he was gonna let some random, unworthy man see you like that when he hasn’t even gotten the chance yet.

‘Though, one managed to slip through the cracks anyway.’ Rafayel glances at the tall man sitting on the other side of the booth. Randy’s too busy arguing with Lyrica to notice his stare at first, but maybe the idiot has some kinda sixth sense, because he casually flicks his eyes around the table. When they land on Rafayel, he does a slight double take and he flinches a bit, before directing his gaze back to Lyrica. Albeit, a little paler than he was before.

He snickers to himself at the flash of fear on the man’s face. Good, he should know better than to touch someone when they clearly don’t want it. Should know better than to lay hands on who doesn’t belong to him.

It had been a rather infuriating sight, coming across you two the way he did. Randy, towering over you with clear lust in his eyes, hand audaciously pressed to your back as he tried to guide you into the bar. You with that uncomfortable smile on your face, your eyes just barely hiding the exasperation and disgust at him touching you. It was only the familiarity between you two that saved Randy from losing that hand. But only just barely. Clearly, the man got the message, because even now he doesn’t so much as look in your direction anymore.

The smirk that curls his lips forms instinctively, an act that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“What devious plans are you coming up with to look like that, huh?”

Your cheek squishes against his forearm, lips forming a slight pout as you lower your phone and stare at him, half-amused and half-suspicious. It’s a dangerously cute expression on your pretty face, and he has the sudden urge to lean over and kiss that tempting pout away. He’s halfway to doing it before he even realizes, the shadow of his torso falling over you startling him out of his daze. 

You only blink up at him with dark, wide glossy eyes, puzzled. Entirely too trusting and too open; so different than how he’s used to seeing you in person. Cold and professional with a perfect smile that conveys nothing but an empty politeness, it had been a challenge to get to you to crack that infallible expression of yours. It took a week of him burdening you with all sorts of pointless tasks, hoping that annoying you would be the way to go, before you did. And not because you were angry—no, it happened because he made some snide comment about the old lady at the supermarket who cut him in line sometime prior to you two meeting. He doesn’t even remember exactly what he said, but whatever he did say was mean and rude and it made you laugh.

A real laugh too; a deep, guttural hiccup that sounded like absolute perfection to his ears. Mouth opened in a wide smile, eyes scrunched into crescents as the sunlight from his windows streamed in. You looked like something holy, in that light. The sheer white curtains billowing around your figure casting you in dappled shadows, the scent of the sea breeze rich in the air. He had known you were special when he saw you—but this? This was something far, far beyond that.

And now here he is; helplessly drawn to your side, eagerly craving whatever scrap of attention you can afford to give him. Begging, demanding more that you so easily give to him. Even when it meant badgering you constantly with messages, surprising you with phone calls, crashing intimate parties with your friends. Whatever he asks you willingly let him have. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. A game with the vast eldritch beast that lurks in the abyss of his soul. Old as the seas and the moon and stars; always searching, always moving, always hungry. 

Always.

Rafayel forces out a normal sounding laugh, setting down his drink and turning his body to give you his full attention. He makes sure to keep you exactly where you are though, sliding his arm around until it cushions the delicate curve of your neck, leaving his hand to grip the back of the booth. The dimmed lights do a good job of blurring out the more finite details of your expressions, but his eyes are sharp, and they notice the flush darkening your cheeks. The rapid stutter of your chest and the nervous way you flick your eyes back down to your phone. The pout morphs into a shy little smile as you peek up at him from underneath your eyelashes, the ends of your nails clicking against the case of your phone.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

His fingers twitch with the need for a pencil. He wants to sketch that look on your face, and he thinks pencil is one of the better mediums to fully grasp the finer details of your expressions. The little dimples that form above your lips when you purse them. The faint freckles he can see scattered across the bridge of your nose. He wants to sit in his studio for hours just sketching you; could probably do it from memory alone if given the chance. Honestly, though, he would prefer to have you there in front of him. You’d do it, too. He knows you would. Even if he asked in the brattiest, most roundabout way, you would agree without hesitation. The thought sends a pulse of heat through his body, and he has to swallow back the hiss that threatens to fall past his lips.

Those damn flashes.

“So, you gonna answer me or not?”

Rafayel quirks a brow, pretending to think on the question as he glances away from you. Just—he needs a moment to calm down. To get a handle on the want quickly filling him with indecent thoughts. Thoughts of you spread out in his studio on his couch, in the bath, on his bed. Bare and open. Trusting him to handle you, take care of you the way he knows he can. Satisfy that empty feeling in your chest that throbs within his own. It’d be so easy too. To just, ask you to come over. To pull you into his arms and rest his hands against your cheeks. To tilt your head back and finally sink his teeth into your neck—

“I think I’m gonna pass on that. Did you find where you’re taking me tomorrow?” He swings his eyes back to focus on you, smiling like he isn’t thinking of devouring you, in every sense of the word.

You huff out a tiny breath, but you open your darkened phone screen and show him a few places you think are good. Your voice goes a little quiet when you realize how intensely he’s staring at you, that blush getting brighter when he casually leans down to look at your phone. It would’ve been easy for him to just snatch the phone from your hand, but he’s weak. Any excuse to get closer to you is a valid one.

He stares hard at your phone screen, biting back a groan when he gets another whiff of your scent. Your little hot puffs of breath at his cheek and the slight tremble of your hands as you take in his proximity almost do him in, but he refrains. Barely.

“So?” The wine riding on the scent of your breath is sweet and slightly tangy; a Moscato Sangria, if he’s remembering correctly.

“Hmm, okay tell you what, cutie.” Rafayel grins when he audibly hears the little stutter of your heartbeat. This close, he’s sure that he could see your pulse through the thin skin of your throat, but if he continues down that trail of thought, he’ll really snap. So, once again, he calls on what little self-restraint he has.

“I’ll be gracious enough and let you choose where we go. But, if the food sucks then I’m gonna tease you about it forever, deal?” He tilts his head and glances at you from the corner of his eye. You sigh, an exasperated yet fond look in your eyes as you poke his cheek with your finger.

“Fine, fine. Gosh, you’re such a menace, I swear.” He carefully doesn’t breathe as you continue to jokingly poke at his face. He wants to lean into your touch, and he begins to when his senses snap back to him. Slowly but still as natural as anything, he straightens up, using his other hand to playfully swat yours away. He waits until your attention shifts away from him, and even though his knee-jerk reaction is to force it back, instead he uses this time to try and relax. The warmth of your touch still lingers against his skin like a brand, and it makes the already pounding bass of his heart beat that much faster.

Thankfully, since the room is dark, no one can really see the blush rushing across his nose and ears. And if they do, well, then it’s because of his drink rather than his pretty little assistant pressed close to him.

“Are you sure this is okay? I know you were worried about it being too much for you…” Estella asks for the third time, looking at you through the bathroom mirror. She completely ignores the girl half-passed out in the sink, as well as the other two girls making out against the bathroom stall behind you. There’s another in a closed stall, vomiting her guts out by the sound of it. Even with the faint thump from the powerful base outside, it still echoes out wetly and you grimace. Estella doesn’t even blink, watching for your response with worried eyes. You shoot her a reassuring smile, fighting back an incredulous snort as Estella absently makes sure the faucet is off for the girl in the sink. 

The evening at the bar you were at passed by within the blink of an eye, and before you realized, your three long hour reservation ended. By that time, you were pleasantly tipsy and not quite ready to go back home. Randy, Lyrica and her boyfriend Isaiah had all called it quits, but the rest of you still wanted to be outside and enjoy the summer night. Even Rafayel seemed game, despite the man being as much of a recluse as you, so you all agreed to go to a nearby nightclub to keep the party going a bit. ‘I do wonder why Randy didn’t join though. It’s usually his kind of scene.’ You brush it off once Estella gives you a look and you rush to answer it.

“I think I can handle just a little bit of club action. It’s been years since everyone’s been together, why not, right?”

She raises a skeptical brow.

“And it totally has nothing to do with the six foot tall hottie of a painter currently bothering Thomas outside, hm?” 

You ignore her shit-eating grin and fiddle with your bangs, shying away from her fingers when they reach out to lightly poke your side.

“Oooh, you’ve got it bad, dontcha girl?”

“You’ve got no fucking idea.” You mumble underneath your breath, flushing when she lets out an excited squeal that shocks the girl in the sink awake and splits apart the couple behind you. Quickly, before a fight can break out because one half of the couple looks drunk enough to try your friend, you usher Estella out of the bathroom and back into the club.

It’s packed, of course. A Saturday night in DownTown Linkon means that any and all nightclubs are full. It’s a little suffocating, for you, as Estella grips your wrist and yanks you through the throng of girls waiting outside the bathroom doors in various states of drunkenness. You two have to cut through the side of the main dance floor to get back to the others, and while it definitely is less busy than being directly in the middle, it still is a lot for you to handle regardless.

Strobes of green, pink and white flare out from the cluster of rotating lights scattered along the rafters above you, dancing across the crowd in hypnotizing patterns that make you dizzy. Smoke curls in the air, drifting like clouds across the night sky as they cover some of the overhead bundles of lights. Beams refract at even stranger angles as the smoke passes, the lights filling your eyes with after images of color as the bass to the current song drops. The fast-paced ‘thump-thump-thump’ switches over into something slower. A deeper, sensual rhythm that has the bodies surrounding you packing even tighter together. 

Stray hands and fingers glide over you as she pulls you forward, and you have to close your eyes to keep your mind from getting lost in the kaleidoscope of colors filling your vision. The smell of cigarettes and vape smoke becomes even stronger once you do, and your eyes pop open against your will when a hand boldly grabs your ass before Estella hauls you even further. Being tipsy yourself—drinking about two cups of wine and having a sip or two of Rafayel’s fruity margarita—you feel a little sick being thrown around like a fucking pizza. Just as you’re about to tell Estella to slow the hell down, you’re momentarily blinded by a stray strobe light to your eyes. Because of that, you don’t see the person in front of you when Estella suddenly lets go of your hand.

“Baby! C’mon, Jessica and her girl are already on the floor and we’ve gotta show ‘em how it's done.”

“Must we.” You barely hear the dry edge to Thomas’s words before you fall face first into someone’s chest. You swear, one day, you’re gonna toss Estella around like that in a sea of gross bodies and see how she fucking likes it. Running into random people at a club is not something you find entertaining in the slightest.

“Oh–shit, I’m sorry.” You blink away the spots from your vision, looking up to apologize to the stranger, except it’s someone a lot more familiar and a lot more welcome.

“You’ve got a bad habit of running into me, cutie.” Rafayel leans down real close in order for you to hear him properly, his lips just barely touching the shell of your ear as his hands fall on your body to steady you; one on your bare shoulder, the other falling to your waist. Jessica was whining about being cold earlier, so you had offered your jacket out of concern. Now…now you don’t know if you regret it or not. Not when the heat seeping into your skin is making your already fuzzy mind all the more hazy. You shiver, blinking as a line of neon green flares over Rafayel, momentarily lighting your way in the dark, crowded room.

Your face is level with his neck, and here, that sea-breeze-hot-sand-moonlight blend of his scent is stronger. You can physically feel the way your body automatically relaxes as you breathe him in deeply, your own hands coming up to rest on the criminally smooth silk of his shirt.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be in my way all the time.” You mumble out, swallowing back a groan when you can feel the muscles beneath his shirt twitch as the sudden heat of your breath hits his ear. Another flash of light slants over him, and you notice that his ears are turning a dark shade of pink. Your stomach swoops at the realization, and you have the sudden urge to look at his face; to see if that blush goes any further. You go to pull back, to try and get a glimpse of his expression, but you’re stopped by his hands pulling you in closer; until your bodies are flush against each other.

 “And where do you think you’re going, hm?” The low rasp of his voice strikes you like a lightning bolt, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to swallow back the sound you almost let out because of it. It takes you a few tries of opening and closing your mouth, but eventually you get out the words.

“T-to maybe sit down..? Or…” You pause, your whole head dizzy from the mixture of alcohol and desperate want lighting you up inside like a firecracker. 

“Or..?” He drawls out, and maybe it's the alcohol talking, but you swear you feel his teeth graze your ear slightly. You shake within the hold he’s got on you, and you feel the low rumble of his laugh through the vibrations racing through your hands before it barks out close to your ear.

“Oh, c’mon, beautiful. You can tell me what you want, right?” Your hands curl up where they rest on his chest, and you press your forehead into his neck to try and muffle the loud moan that nickname causes you to let out, thighs unconsciously squeezing to try and offer yourself a bit of friction to your suddenly achy clit. God, you feel as if you’re gonna shake out of your skin if he keeps talking to you like that. The hand on your shoulder slides down to join its twin on your waist, and you literally can’t keep the sounds from exiting your mouth even if you tried. A trail of fire follows the path of his hand, and it slowly sinks past the stretchy fabric of your dress to meet the sensitive, twitching center of your cunt. Rafayel trembles underneath your hold slightly, the grip around your waist getting tighter.

“Tell me.” It’s a surprise to hear his words, half-demand, half-plea as he breathes hotly into your ear. You blink away the stray amount of tears forming at the corners of your eyes. It honestly has been years since you’ve last been intimate with anyone, so maybe that’s why you feel this sensitive? Who knows, because you can certainly say that you don’t—not when your entire body feels like its housing magma within your veins.

But Rafayel needs something from you, yeah?

“...Do you? Wanna go dance with me?” You gasp out, your loud sound of surprise being drowned out by the heavy beat as Rafayel bodily picks you up. His hands rest on the soft pudge of your waist, the tip of his nose finding the crook of your neck as he blindly pushes his way through the crowd. You cling onto his back with your nails, and you feel the vibrations of his groan as they cut a little deeper than you intended in your shock.

You open your mouth to apologize maybe? But your entire focus falls onto the way Rafayel changes his grip from your waist to your thighs, sliding in between the slits on either side of your body. Your eyes roll slightly when that searing heat gets even closer to where you really want it, mouth falling open when he presses light, barely there kisses along the side of your neck. You dig your nails into his back again, making these whiny, soft little noises into the side of his throat near his ear. You can’t help it—it’s all just too much for you. Every time he touches you like this, skin on skin, it feels like he’s igniting all of these little embers inside of you. Like he’s trying to fan them into a full blown blaze. Your mind is in a haze of sensation, the lights around you pulling you deeper into that floaty, barely there feeling.

You’re suddenly being let down, and you make an upset noise, keeping your arms wrapped around Rafayel’s neck as he sets your feet back on the ground. Your hold forces his forehead to knock against yours, and through your slightly blurry vision, you can spot the darker tint to his cheeks, the slack part to his mouth, the long length of his lashes as his lids fall to half mast. His hands travel back up to the low dip of your waist, gripping so tightly to the fabric of your dress that it slightly bunches. He exhales in and out, and your breaths mingle as you stare helplessly into his eyes.

Fuck, those eyes of his.

Normally, they’re so bright they almost blind you; reminding you of sunsets on the beach or the polychromatic colors found in bubbles of seafoam. Underneath the darkness of the club, though, they’re a deep and unfathomable black. Flat and without an eyeshine to them, it’s like looking into the ocean in the dead of night. Still waters hiding the dangers underneath an empty void. A shark smelling blood in the water. A hungry predator lying in wait.

Those predator eyes of his combined with the calmness of his expression is a terrifying mix. You know you should be afraid. It’s the normal reaction—the correct reaction in the face of the all consuming hunger you can see reflected in his eyes. But all that look makes you feel excitement so potent and vast that it makes you gush heavily into the cotton of your panties.

God, there’s something fucking wrong with you.

His parted lips suddenly split into a wide, off kilter smile. You think you see a flash of serrated teeth before he ducks his head and presses his lips against your jugular. Your breath stops in your chest as your body easily bends to his whims, your back arching to accommodate the new position he fixes himself in. You’re utterly frozen as he drags his mouth over the sensitive, delicate skin of your throat; breath hot and raising goosebumps across your skin.

“You said you wanted to dance.” The dark murmur makes your thighs twitch, and you start to breathe again when he readjusts your dress. He spins you around without another word, plastering himself against your back. His hands fall to your hips, the curve of your ass settling in the cradle of his pelvis as he leans his head against yours. His mouth levels with your ear again.

“So let’s dance, yeah, cutie?”

An order more than a plea; clearly, he wasn’t asking you. 

That deep, sensual rhythm still plays around you. Slow and reverberating through your entire body, you can do nothing but obey. So you move; hesitantly, nervously, until the beat settles within your bones. Side to side, back and forth, rotate your hips and repeat until it becomes second nature to you. Until the hypnotic sound becomes as easy as breathing. Time slows to a crawl as you sway to the steady ‘boom-boom-boom’, breath hitching when you feel Rafayel join in on the motion.

Pressed so close together, you can feel everything. The heaving of his muscled chest, the sweat from his hair dripping down the slope of your neck, the strong grip of his hands holding onto your hips, the bulge in his slacks insistently poking at the round flesh of your ass. You’re trembling, you discover, when he starts to move against you. Shaking with so much pent up need that it feels like you’re going to explode from the pressure of it all.

Your hands lay against his, and though his moves don’t falter, his breath does catch. You can’t see him from the angle you’re facing—all you can see is an ocean of shadows, all flickering eerily in and out of focus with the strobe lights and smoke. Breathing heavily, you slowly inch his hands down to the wide slits of your dress. That hitching becomes a loud groan, desperate and frenzied all at once. It makes your legs quake, but you don’t slow your hands until you can feel every inch of his palms on your bare flesh. His fingers immediately sink into the plush fat, his hips roughly rolling forward. Your cunt clenches at the feeling, a pathetic mewl that’s eaten up by the pounding bass falling from your panting mouth.

Somehow, he hears it anyway.

He hisses something in a deep and foreign language you’ve never heard before in your ear. It sends a jolt through you listening to that guttural, inhuman sound. Despite that, however, the pace from before continues. Deliberate and unhurried. It makes you want to scream; you want more. Want to feel him against you without the layers. Want to feel that steady grind so deep inside of you that you’ll feel it for days after. 

You whine again at the thought, hands coming up to cover your mouth. For lack of anything better to do with them, really. Any of the noises you make are swallowed up by the surging crowd and music. You choke out another moan when his fingers slightly knead the supple flesh of your thighs, his harsh pants breathed out against you. Over and over and over again. Dragging his thick, clothed cock against your ass. Gripping your bare skin with his strong, nimble fingers. Breathing heavily into the shell of your ear, little murmurs of compliments and that strange language echoing deep within your mind.

Fog and lights draw you deeper into that haze clouding up your brain, your eyes glazing over as you get lost in the darkness of the club. You hardly even notice when you reach your peak, the only indicator being the way you fall limp in his grasp; eyes rolling to the back of your head, lips parting in a silent scream.

You quickly sink into unconsciousness after that. The last thing you feel is Rafayel shuddering against you, the echo of his low groan following you into your dreams.

fishie princess ♓

hey so about those lunch plans…

it looks like i can’t go

sorry

You immediately call him moments later, not even hesitating when you see that string of texts after you wake up. Fear and shame clog your throat, and you’re about two seconds away from breaking down if what happened last night just ruined your friendship with Rafayel.

It felt almost like a dream, remembering the end to your night out. And you would have thought it was, if you hadn’t woken up back in your apartment still dressed from the night before. A blanket had been tucked around you, and your makeup was wiped off. Barefoot but clothed in your exact same outfit—hair included. You were still reeling from that revelation of truth, because you were tipsy at most and not drunk, so you basically remembered everything before you came so hard that you passed the fuck out. Which makes the dread swirling around your belly all the more potent as you anxiously wait for Rafayel to pick up.

The call rings three times before it connects.

You open your mouth, but your mind completely blanks on what you can possibly say. You blink, and a few tears drip down your cheeks, and you have to bite down on your lip hard to stop the sob from coming out. 

“...[✦]?”

You pause when you hear his voice. Low and raspy. Did he just wake up? Is that why he took so long to answer? It hadn’t been very long at all since he sent the texts, so maybe. You grip your phone tightly, fingers aching from the strain. You know you’ve got to say something, but it’s just so hard when it feels like your entire world is crashing down around your ears. Does he regret it? Is that why he doesn’t want to see you?

Just the thought jabs into your heart like a blade, and it's the threat of not knowing that drives you to finally speak.

“Are…are we okay? Are—did you cancel on me because of last night…?” Barely louder than a whisper, your voice rings out in the silence of your apartment like a gunshot. Saying it out loud makes it real to you, and more tears fall from your eyes as you squeeze them shut. There’s a shaky note to your voice that you’re sure gives you away, and you wish you had a semblance of a poker face when it comes to Rafayel. It’s embarrassing how easily you break at the thought of him distancing himself from you after last night. But there was something there, between you two yesterday. A palpable tension lurking behind every look given. Every word spoken. Every touch you two shared.

You thought so, at least. But if he really thinks that moment at the club was a mistake…you think it would shatter you. No, you know for a fact it would. The longer he doesn’t speak, the more the pain in your chest spreads until you're folded over, forehead touching your knees as you try and keep your tears quiet. Fuck, did you just destroy this? Did you really just throw away the chance at having him in your life because you were too weak to deny that greedy little thing buried deep inside of you?

“Rafayel…?” You croak out, needing him to say something already.

“Are you…crying?” 

“No.” Your lie isn’t even convincing enough to fool a baby. It’s so fucking obvious that you’re crying, you feel ashamed for even lying about it. What hurts you more is the pained sound Rafayel lets out after.

“Why–?” But you can’t let him finish. You refuse to think about anything else until he answers you.

“Do you regret it? What happened between us last night.”

“...” You can hear the sound of him breathing heavily on the other end, and despite the pain you feel, you also can’t help but get a bit worried. He doesn't sound okay, panting that hard.

“..of course I don’t. I could never. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to–urk!” His ragged voice cuts out with a grunt, and you jump when something crashes to the ground in the background. 

“Rafayel?! Are you alright?”

“Yeah…just fell out of my bed.” He wheezes and you sigh with relief. Then, the weight of his words hits you, and your face burns hot. Does that mean he wanted last night too? That…that it wasn’t a mistake? Silence falls again and neither of you seem willing to break the awkward stalemate. You chew on your lip, tugging on one of your messy braids as you wait for Rafayel to speak up first. He was the last one talking after all…

“I’m not cancelling on you because of last night. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

You flop onto your back with a low sigh, using one of your hands to wipe away your tears. Relief replaces the pain, and you nod your head even though he can’t see it.

“No, no you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, just—you gotta know how scary it is to wake up with that sorta text after…” You trail off with a strangled whine, and the last of your anxiety is wiped away by the tired, yet bright laugh that rumbles in your ear.

“You’re right. I’m sorry about that, beautiful. Didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“D-don’t worry about it, it’s fine! But, why are you quitting on me? Did something come up?” You hear the sounds of shuffling come from the other end of the phone, and you frown when you hear a distant groan. Did he hurt himself falling?

“...I’m a little…under the weather. I woke up and didn’t feel so good, and I didn’t want to go eat when I felt like this, sooo…”

Well. Now you feel like a moron. He’s fucking sick, why the hell would he want to go outside when he’s feeling like shit? And it wasn’t like he said he didn’t want to see you—just that he couldn’t go. ‘Wow, that’s gotta be a new low.’ You press your palm to your face hard. You want to scream with how embarrassed you feel. But your emotional freakout can wait for a later time. Rafayel is sick, maybe he caught something from last night, or maybe it was from days prior. Whatever he’s got, it’s keeping him locked inside of his home.

Only one thing to do, then.

“Hmm, yeah that makes sense. Have you taken anything for it? Or have you just been rolling around in your bed whining at the pain?” 

“How mean!” 

“So that’s a yes then. Alright, well give me a few hours and let me put together a bag. If you’re sick, I can take care of you until you’re better. I’m off work for the next two weeks, so I should be able to—”

“No you don’t! I’m not risking you getting the ick too. I’ll have some stuff delivered, so you don’t need to come all the way over.”

You pause. Rafayel…doesn’t want you to take care of him like this? When every other time he’s damn near demanded you baby him until he heals up?

“You…don’t want to see me…?” Doubt begins to creep back in, but before its roots can fully take hold, Rafayel stops them.

“I always wanna see you, cutie. Never doubt me on that.” Your tense shoulders relax when you hear the sincerity and conviction in his voice. Then why…?

“Is it that bad?”

He sighs.

“It definitely feels a lot different than just a common cold. I don’t wanna accidentally give it to you, so I’ll heal up on my own this time.” The exhaustion in his tone makes your heart ache.

“Are you sure? You know I wouldn’t mind helping out if you need me to, Rafayel.” He groans through the phone, and the worry in your chest ratchets up in its intensity. You’re already standing and about to put on your shoes before his voice stops your movements.

“I’ll be fine. We’ll just have to go out when I get better, that’s all. I’ll be good as new in a few days, trust me, alright?” The strained, heavy breathing dictates otherwise, but you allow him his privacy. He’s asking you to give him some time to heal, so that’s exactly what you’ll do.

“...Fine. But I’m going to at least call you to check up on you! If you don’t answer, I’m marching right over and helping you out. And I mean it, Rafayel. You’ve got me worried, sounding that pitiful.” You try to inject a bit of humor to lighten up the mood, but you think the concern in your voice just cancels it out. Rafayel gives you a weak little chuckle.

“I’m sick right now and you attack me like this? Striking a man while he’s down is a low blow, you know.”

“Well then get better so it’ll be a more even match.”

He laughs again, this time with a little more energy.

“Yes ma’am. Now shoo and lemme rest up some more.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just, let me know if you need anything, okay, Rafayel?

“You got it, cutie.” 

“You promise?” Maybe you’re being too pushy, but you can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that he’s hiding something else from you. He’s still sick, and you believe him when he says that he wasn’t regretting last night. But still…something about his tone doesn’t feel like the whole truth of the matter. It bugs you that he isn’t telling you. Itches at your skin that you aren’t able to make him feel better—that he’s not allowing you to make him feel better. So you need to hear him say that he’ll come to you when he’s ready. If you don’t, you might just hop on a train to Mo Art Studio and give your help to him whether he wants it or not.

“Yeah, I promise. I’ll let you know when I need you.” You shiver at the strange tone you hear at the end of his words, but before you can even begin to ask about it, his voice chimes in with a much lighter tone.

“Bye, bye, cutie. We’ll talk later, m’kay?”

“...Bye Rafayel.”

One click and the call disconnects.

Days pass slowly for you.

True to your word, you call Rafayel everyday for a checkup. Even if you two still text when he’s not resting, even if you’re texting before the appointed time for the call. You never fail to hit that little phone button. And he never fails to pick up; that low rasp of his meeting your ears and soothing the worry somewhat.

You breathe a lot easier whenever you get to hear him speak. It feels as if you’re actively doing something instead of just sitting around and waiting for him to get better. However, you do feel a little bad at making him talk with a sore throat. At least, you think he has a sore throat. That’s really the only explanation for the lower register he now uses. It would even explain the strange sounds that interrupt him when he speaks sometimes. Noises akin to a bastardized mix of a dog’s growl and a dolphin’s clicking. It’s usually cleared away when he coughs, and even though it worries the absolute fuck out of you, he always waves them away with a laugh that’s beginning to sound a lot more forced as time flies by.

Because those strange noises never go away. If anything, they get more frequent, and as much as he tries to downplay it, you know for a fact that sounding like some kind of fucking scary sea monster isn’t normal.

It doesn’t help that you also just plain miss him.

Yes, you two talk on the phone and text and even share a few video calls if he feels up to it. But it isn’t enough for you anymore. You want to physically be around him now. That one night out has spoiled you rotten and you can’t stand that you aren’t within his personal bubble anymore. He was so close to you that entire night, whether it was a hand on your arm, tossed over your shoulder or gripping your waist. It’s driving you crazy reliving those sensations in your mind, but that’s all you can do now. Replay that night over and over again inside your head; reliving the things you remembered feeling. 

How it felt to be pressed against him, his muscled chest to your back, his body heat seeping into your skin as his hips rocked against you. You now know what his hands feel like against your face, tugging at your hair, gripping onto your thighs and waist—lifting you like you weighed nothing to him. You know what hunger looks like painted on the pretty angles of his face; pink lips parted, eyelids lowered over those dark, dark voids that threatened to suck you in like a whirlpool, eagerly waiting to drown you in their unknowable depths. You know what he sounds like when he’s desperate and panting in your ear, when he’s giving you an order in that dark tone of his, when he’s hissing out praises too garbled and low for you to truly hear. 

And, every time you go to sleep, deep inside of your dreams, you think you hear the noise he made just before you passed out. That hitching groan that tapered off into a pretty little whimper as his hips jerked against you in uneven patterns, so different from the slow and methodical rhythm seen before. You don’t know if it really happened or if you made up that last part, but it still haunts you regardless. Makes your heart race in your chest, makes your cunt clench and your mouth water at the thought of causing him to sound like that again.

You want it more than anything. You want him more than anything you’ve ever wanted in your life.  And you’re only human. A weak, weak human whose patience finally runs out after a week of not seeing him. You manage to last until the late afternoon after your usual call with Rafayel before you finally snap, and you should at least be commended for that, you think.

You don’t tell him you’re coming over—you already know what he’ll say—and he told you he’d be taking a nap after your call, so it really is the perfect time to sneak over there. If you get there late enough, you’ll also have a decent excuse of staying over, even if it’d be only for the night. Just one night to watch over him would be enough for you.

He’s sick, so you cover yourself up in comfortable clothes you don’t mind messing up, tying your hair up in a quick ponytail. A baggy pair of black sweatpants and a normal white tee that’s thin enough to keep you from overheating underneath the hoodie you zip over it. You take your keys and phone, only the essentials because your hands need to be free when you stop at the pharmacy to pick up the appropriate supplies. After double checking that you’ve locked your door, you head to the train station and make the trip.

One hour later and arms filled with bags from the pharmacy as well as some extra easy to digest snacks and drinks from the convenience store, you’re looking at the outside gate of Mo Art Studio. Swallowing, nerves bubble and pop in your belly, your heavy breaths warming up the space covered by the light blue surgical mask pulled to the bridge of your nose. The sun is going down now, and while a part of you is a bit worried about that, an even bigger part is stuck on the thought of you being in his home at night after everything.

Shaking your head, you push your way through the open gates, slowly walking up the path into the building. 

Rafayel gave you a key back when you were working for him, so when you get to his studio door, you fumble your way through your pockets. Your hand is shaking, and it takes you a few tries before you get the door to open. You exhale sharply when it swings past you, and you peek your head in to view the room inside.

“Rafayel, are you awake? I brought you some things I think will help…” Your voice is tentatively low as you inch your way into the dark studio. The curtains are open, so while there’s no lights turned on, the rays of the setting sun light your path enough for you to see. It’s then that you notice the body sprawled out on the ground in front of the sofa, back facing the cushions and arms stretched out in front of him. The only thing stopping you from rushing over is the rise and fall of his chest, as labored as his breathing is. Sweat glints underneath the sun's rays as it beads on his cheeks and neck, so you stop dawdling and quickly enter his home.

You close the door quietly behind you, setting down the bags and rummaging through them for a towel and the large bottle of water you bought. A cold compress should help with the very clear fever he’s got, and the extra water can be used to hydrate him. Rafayel tends to dry easily, so you know he couldn’t complain too much if you woke him up for something to drink.

It takes you no time at all to find the things you need, and soon enough, you’re sitting on your knees beside the awkwardly laying Rafayel, positioned directly in front of him. The ends of his hair are damp and stick to his forehead and the base of his neck, an alarming shade of pink covering his cheeks and the top of his chest you can see beneath his partly open button up. What you mistook as sweat from afar actually turns out to be little blue scales. They dot along the tops of his cheekbones, leading a sparse trail down to the side of his throat. His already pale skin looks even paler mingling with the shining blue, and the pained grimace furrowing his brow makes your chest ache. You have no idea what those scales can possibly mean, even though something tickles at the back of your mind with a vague sense of knowing. You ignore it, focusing on what you came here to do and not the odd new additions to Rafayel’s handsome face.

After folding and wetting the towel, you gently press it to his forehead, smiling when he sleepily groans and turns his face towards your hands. His eyes squint, and he grumbles nonsense before settling again. You almost don’t want to wake him, but with how much he’s sweating, you want to get some fluids in him as quickly as you can. With another intake of breath, you do your best to wake him.

“Hey…hey, wake up, Rafayel.” You shake his shoulder, trying again and again until he finally squirms and starts to wake. The last of the sun’s rays lay a thick stripe over his eyes, and when he opens them, they look like blazing flames. Your breath hitches when those unfocused flames land on your face and you get a strange image layered over his prone form. It’s gone between one blink and the next, but it leaves you shaken regardless—that niggling of knowing getting the slightest bit louder in your head. He blinks and the last of the sun’s light dies out, leaving you both in the cool tones of the evening sky.

“You up now?” You ask, watching as confusion fills Rafayel’s face. His eyes track up to his forehead where the compress is and then back to your face. He stays silent for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words; maybe for the first time in his life. You give him a smile and carefully help him sit up against the bottom of the couch.

“...Cutie?” You wince at the scratchy sound of his voice and hurriedly bring the bottle of water to his lips. Sluggishly, he drinks the water, eyes never leaving you as the confusion clears and something else takes its place. You ignore the burning of your cheeks and keep helping him drink, avoiding the growing heat in Rafayel’s lidded eyes as they stare deeply at you.

“Better?” You ask after he finishes the whole bottle. He hums out something non-committal, the hazy darkness of his eyes highlighted by the sudden moonlight bleeding in from the windows. You reach up to adjust the compress on his forehead when he doesn’t say anything. Your fingers accidentally graze the side of his nose, and you go to apologize, but it dies on your lips when Rafayel’s eyes flutter shut and he eagerly leans towards your palm.

You can only watch, mute, as one of his hands grabs onto your wrist, sliding underneath the loose sleeve of your hoodie. His skin is hot to the touch, maybe even a little too hot as the drag of his fingers leaves a scorching path across your skin. It hurts, the burning left behind by his dexterous fingers, but if anything you lean into that pain; eyes glued to the expression on his face as he nuzzles into your captured palm.

Blissful is the only word to come to your mind as he presses his mouth to your hand, layering gentle nips to the fleshy part of your palm before rubbing his cheek over your knuckles. You clench your other hand in the fabric of your sweatpants, biting down on your lip to keep in the noises threatening to escape. The heat from his hands and mouth is dizzying, leaving your head a complete mess while you watch him press close to your open hand. He seems to…worship your hand, dragging his nose along the slender curve of your digits, cupping his cheek with your palm, inhaling the thin skin of your wrist like he’s some kind of hunting dog.

It all makes your belly tingle with excitement, but when his hazy eyes open to meet yours, it’s like a cold bucket of water is thrown on you. Unfocused and completely incoherent—Rafayel doesn’t really know what he’s doing right now. The arousal quickly dies out after that, replaced with concern and disgust aimed at yourself.

He’s sick and feverish, you can’t take anything that he’s doing now seriously whatsoever. The last thing you want to do is take advantage of the man you love in such a despicable way. Gently, you begin to pull away your hand, the ache in your heart growing when he makes a low, forlorn sound. He sounds like a little puppy when he whines like that, and he does try to keep your hand in his grip, but it just isn’t right of you to allow this to continue.

“Rafayel, you’ve gotta let me go, okay? You’re still sick, so I want you to try and lay down on the couch.” You have to use your other hand to properly disentangle the first, but you do free yourself. Rafayel looks sad for about six seconds before a startling sense of clarity enters his eyes. He jerks back, an irritated frown forming on his face as he glares at you.

‘There he goes.’ You smile as best you can, hoping that it’s conveyed despite the mask.

“Hey, Rafayel.” It’s lame and awkward as hell, but that doesn’t stop you from trying regardless.

“What are you doing here—I told you to stay away from me until I get better.” It hurts you to be on the receiving end of that pissed off look, but at least you can finally see him in person, hear him without the tinny filer of a phone and the limited specs of a camera. The hurt in your chest spreads when his anger doesn’t abate, and the emotions you’ve been grappling at for the past week suddenly come to the forefront of your mind. The worry, the fear, the longing—all of it.

“And when exactly was that going to happen, huh? It’s been a week and you haven’t gotten any better. You didn’t sound like you did during our phone calls either, if anything your fever got worse! A week may not seem like a long time to you, but it is to me and I fucking missed you, you ass—,” You hate that your voice cracks on the word. You hate even more when Rafayel’s eyes widen and then grow concerned at the sight of your teary eyes. This isn’t supposed to be about you at all, it’s supposed to be about him. But you also can’t deny that you had a selfish ulterior motive. You angrily sigh, more upset at yourself than him.

You reach up to wipe the tears in your eyes, but feverishly warm fingers beat you to it. Between one blink and the next, Rafayel is all up in your face, gazing down at you with a visibly conflicted expression as he gently clears the tears away from your waterline. You sniffle a little and blink at him, eyes going from the dark pool swirling within the sunset-hues if his irises to the gleaming blue scales sitting pretty on his cheeks.

“...You’re crying again.” He states quietly, and you honestly don’t know how to respond to that, so you keep silent, your gaze moving down to look at the scales on his neck. 

Rafayel clearly has more secrets than you ever realized. Carries more than he ever wanted to share with you. Is he really sick? Or…or was he trying to keep the scales a secret from you. Maybe he doesn’t trust you enough to tell you? Or maybe he’s been betrayed before and he can’t trust you no matter how much he wants to? Is this a new thing or has he always been this way? Is this why he’s so reclusive? The various questions cross your mind so fast you almost grow dizzy. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have come.

“Do you want me to leave?” You whisper, eyes resolutely locked onto the side of his throat. You can feel the weight of his stare as it bores into you, but you just can’t look at his face. If he rejects you outright and you see it, you’ll definitely cry and you really don’t want to do that. You were being selfish, if he’s upset and wants to send you away then that’s completely his right. Rafayel sighs heavily, and you wilt underneath the weight of that pressure. You’re just about to move away when one of his hands anchors to your waist, freezing you in your tracks.

“Silly girl, don’t you remember what I told you before?” His fingers softly land underneath your chin, tipping your head up so that you’re meeting his eyes. His brows are furrowed slightly, but it's more frustration than real anger anymore. And it seems to be aimed more at himself than you. He gently taps your chin with the pads of his forefinger, giving you an expectant look when you keep quiet.

You flush.

“Th…that you’ll always wanna see me. N-never doubt that.”

“Exactly. So you already know the answer to that question you asked, hm?” You nod, a bit shy in the face of his candid words. But they do help you feel better, and the tense line to your shoulders relaxes. His lips faintly quirk into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks down at you, softly rubbing the edge of his fingers against the slight pudge of your chin. When they catch on the end of the mask, he scoffs a bit then removes it. You want to offer a protest because you really don’t want to get sick too, but they don’t pass your lips when you see that unfathomable look in his eyes.

“As much as I want you here, though, you shouldn’t be here. S’dangerous for you, cutie.” The low tone sends chills down your spine. Dangerous? Your gaze flicks to the scales, and you think back to his behavior at the nightclub. The empty blackness of his eyes, the predatory edge to his face, the flash of serrated teeth you thought you imagined. A picture is beginning to paint itself in your mind, but you won’t make any assumptions until he confirms it for you himself.

“You can’t hurt me.” You state plainly, and you can see the argument start on his face, but you interrupt before he can say a thing.

“I’m serious, Rafayel. You cannot hurt me. I won’t let you think that you will.” Swallowing down your nerves, you lean closer to him. His eyes widen and he instinctively leans back, knocking the cold compress off his forehead in his rush. You ignore the wet ‘splat’ as it falls to the ground next to you, following him until he’s back in his original spot against the couch. But this time, you’re poised over his lap, resting high up on your knees above him. The furious blush to his cheeks grows even darker as he looks up at you, and you slowly bring your hands up to cradle his face. He sharply inhales, eyelids fluttering closed even as his hands wrap around your wrists as if to pull you off. But they merely rest there, as if looking for something to hold. As if looking for an anchor.

“You don’t understand, [✦]—!”

“Then help me, Rafayel. Because from where I’m at, there’s nothing you can do that could ever hurt me.” You gently brush your thumbs along the edges of his scales; lips quirking when Rafayel’s eyes slip nearly closed. They’re wickedly sharp and cold to the touch, like stainless steel. But prettier, in your opinion. Granted, everything about Rafayel is pretty in a deadly way, so it's easy for you to accept the scales as yet another part of him. A part that you want to know about desperately. The hands around your wrist tighten and you see Rafayel’s teeth grit so hard that a vein nearly pops in his jaw. 

His eyes snap open, the normal color of his eyes now resembling that flat black from the nightclub. He bares his teeth in a snarl, an angry hiss falling vibrating up his throat. It’s unlike any expression you’ve seen on his face before, yet it does very little to frighten you. Even when you feel the prick of too-sharp nails bite into the sensitive flesh of your wrist. Even when the ends of his teeth grow the slightest bit sharper, the color of his scales glowing even brighter underneath the moonlight.

He’s stunning. And as all the puzzle pieces click in your mind, you finally understand what he is.

“I’m a Lemurian, [✦]. I’m a vicious, angry monster that snaps up humans and whatever else I can sink my claws into. I’m fucking dangerous and you need to leave if you want to stay safe.” He says, as if he isn’t gripping your wrists tight enough to bruise. As if every cell in his body doesn’t want you even closer. You don’t say anything to that, just stare down at him with the sweetest and softest smile you have and keep the hold on his face easy and gentle.

You can see him fighting against your touch, but it's clearly a losing battle when he so eagerly leans into your hands, mouth parted as heavy breaths wet the skin of your wrist. You bite your lip at the expression on his face, watching as his eyelashes fan over the tops of his cheeks when he nuzzles into your hands, all that faux aggression from before melting off him. Rafayel is hungry for your touch—starved for it, really. It makes your chest burn when you finally realize that he aches for you the way you do him. It’s in the way his entire body can’t help but open up to you, the way he held your hand earlier, the nicknames and the intensity—all of it begins to make sense now.

You duck your head to touch his forehead with yours, smiling slightly when he lets out a breathy little sigh that blows across your face. Eyes open and already watching, you witness the change in his irises when his eyelids lift. The final shift from his human guise to a glimpse of his real one. A blue so clear and bright that it rivals the sky itself glows from within the ring of his irises, the black vertical slits for his pupils growing fat and wide when they lock onto you. It’s surprisingly cute, and it reminds you of how a cat’s pupils expand when it locks onto something they really like.

“Oh Rafayel…you’re so beautiful.” You coo, brushing your nose against his. He visibly looks startled and the comical expression makes you burst into a fit of giggles. You don’t surprise him often, so when you do, it always fills you with a childish kind of delight.

“You think I’m gonna be afraid of you because…what, you’ll hurt me with your claws? Bite me with those teeth of yours? Cut me on the edges of your scales? Rafayel–,” You lean back a bit, biting back a grin when he follows you. Gently, you push him back with the grip you have on his cheeks, lowering your head down to his ears, which have gained a slightly pointed edge. He goes ramrod still when he feels your breath on his ear.

“What you don’t seem to realize,” You murmur against the cartilage, lightly squeezing his face in your hands, “is that I’m not scared of you. How could I be when I can see that you aren’t dangerous to me? There have been plenty of times before where it would’ve been so easy for you to do something. But you haven’t, and that’s why I trust you. That’s why I’ll do anything for you, anything you need me to do.”

“You don’t—you can’t mean that.” He spits, like you can’t feel the restraint in his tense body. Like you don’t see just how much he’s holding himself back. You pull away to stare into his eyes, dragging your thumbs down the flushed skin of his cheeks. God, the look he’s giving you—a fine haze swirling through that brilliant shade of blue; an angry little furrow between his brow as his lips slightly purse into a pout. Sexy and cute all at once, the sight alone makes you want to give him anything and everything he wants ever.

“I mean every single word. Whatever it is that you’re going through, you clearly need my help. Just let me, please? I just wanna make you feel better. Hate seeing you like this.” Slowly, you lower yourself to sit in his lap. He watches you back, and you can see the fight start to leave him, the grip on your wrists loosening their tight hold.

“You don’t even know what’s wrong with me. How can you be so sure that you’ll even help?” He sneers, but he doesn’t stop you when you settle on his lap. You ignore the bulge you can feel pressing against you, sliding one of your hands down to rest on his chest. The grip on your wrist breaks easily, the other falling from your hand soon after.

“Then tell me.” You push yourself even closer, dragging across his lap to settle against him, chest to chest. His hips jerk when you do, his hands falling to your waist as if to stop you. But they just rest there instead, kneading the soft skin held in his slim fingers. 

“Help me understand you, Rafayel. I promise you, all I want to do is help.” There’s a desperate edge in your voice that you can’t hide, the grip you have on his cheek growing tighter as you slightly shake his face. As if you can physically get him to understand that you’re serious—that you’d love nothing more than to serve him. To make that pained grimace disappear.

He stares at you, and you can feel the rapid pounding of his heartbeat through his warm and sweaty chest. Which means that he can feel how fast your heart is racing despite how calm you’re trying to be. And you can see when he finally gives up; the tenseness to his expression going lax in defeat. While you don’t grin in victory, you also don’t bother hiding your happiness.

“You don’t get to run away from me after this. I won’t let you go, even if you beg me to.” He warns, low and serious.

“Don’t you remember what I said earlier?” You retort back, and a quicksilver flash of amusement flickers through his eyes before he ducks his head down. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, and you end up tossing both of your arms over his shoulders in order to sit more comfortably. You run your fingers through the strands of his hair, shivering when you feel his lips gently brush against your pulse point. The coolness of his scales press into your skin, but surprisingly, they don’t cut you.

“...Once a year, the ocean’s tide lowers and pulls in the opposite direction.” His hands slip underneath your hoodie and your t-shirt to touch your bare skin. Your eyelids flutter shut when he rests one of his hands on your stomach, sliding the other around to rub along the small of your back.

“Lemurians grow weak during that time. Vulnerability equals death when you live the way we do. As our body physically weakens…our instincts get stronger in response. Grow so intense that they help us stay alive. Stay safe against those that would use us—those who we don’t consider ours.” You gasp when you feel his teeth nibble on your skin, kicking your hips forward when the hand on your stomach dips lower.

“Around those we feel safest by, those who we can trust, our instincts latch onto that. They fuel our desires and cause them to become almost uncontrollable.” Your heart thumps painfully in your chest. ‘He trusts you. He trusts you so much that he..’ But you have to be sure. You can’t—you need to hear him say it out loud.

“Wh-what do you desire, then? What do you need?” You squirm when his hand stops at the waistband of your sweatpants, his other slowly trailing up your spine; dragging the tips of his nails up each individual knob. 

“...You. I need you so bad that it’s driving me wild. Fuck, but you already feel what you do to me, right?” The laugh he lets out is derisive, but it does nothing to hide the utter desperation coloring his words. The pound of his heart ticks up where his chest is pressed against yours, and the breathing against your throat gets even heavier. You cunt clenches when he admits it. You almost wouldn’t believe it, if not for the fervent kisses he’s placing against your neck. As if a damn breaks, the hands on your skin feel you up with an urgency that causes your veins to flow with an uncontrollable heat.

“Need you so bad right now, cutie, you’ve got no idea. Wanna rip these stupid clothes off and see all of you. I’ve thought about it, you know? What I'd do to you if I had the chance. How pretty you’d scream; how tight and perfect you’d feel wrapped around me.” You shake in his hold, biting your lip when you feel him jerk his hips against you, nails leaving the barest of scratches against your skin as he licks a strip up the side of your throat.

“I’d fill you up so nicely, too. Whatever you wanted—my fingers, my mouth, my cock.  Do anything to make you feel good. Have you come so many times that you’d be thinking of nothing but me the same way I think of nothing but you. Need you, need you, please, need you so bad—”

“You have me, Rafayel. Whatever you need from me it’s yours. I’m yours.” Your voice breaks when he groans into your neck, the sound sending a bolt of heat down your spine as he bucks up even faster against you. You grip his hair in one hand, anchoring the other on his shoulder to get more leverage as you try and match the rhythm of his hips; rutting against his clothed cock. Even through your clothes, you can feel it, and it’s hard to stay focused with the noises his voice is whining at you in your ear.

“Again. Say that—say it again. Please.” 

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I-I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“Rafayel, I’m yours.”

You two gravitate towards each other, foreheads knocked together, breaths mingling as you gaze at one another. The frenzied light in his eyes makes your whole body run hot, and it takes all of your strength to keep that eye contact as you go around and around in circles. Mumbling into each other’s mouths, but never quite kissing, you rock against each other. 

The friction shouldn’t be enough for you; but you’ve wanted him for so long that it feels like you get to that precipice in no time at all. Your eyelids flutter, your mouth drops open and your brows furrow. You’re so close to it, you just need that extra push and you’ll be there, but you can’t seem to find it. The hand in his hair tightens into a fist in your frustration, and you accidentally yank on those fluffy strands when you jerk forward too hard. Rafayel’s eyes squeeze tight as his hips stutter up, a low, broken moan falling from his lips as he leans forward.

“Fuck, fuck, shit—” His whole body shudders, and you can only watch as he comes undone beneath you; satisfaction drowning out your previous frustration. You just made him come. You did that, and you haven’t even gotten your hands on him really. He pants against your mouth, sweat dripping down the side of his face and hands gently rubbing over your skin. You hum at the feeling, nuzzling your nose against his as you pet through his hair, rubbing his shoulder with your other hand.

You watch as his eyes slit open, not at all surprised to see the heat in his eyes burning just as strongly as before. They drop to your mouth, and you don’t even have to think before you move. It hardly takes a lot, but it still feels like something momentous as your lips finally meet.

His lips are soft when you kiss; scorching you to the bone when he molds them to yours. You both moan in each other's mouths, his hands reaching up to cup your face while you pull him in closer by his hair. There’s nothing slow about the way you two kiss. A frenzied passion settles in the air between you, the noises from your lips loud as it echoes out into the quiet air.

Rafayel licks over your bottom lip, and you don’t hesitate to slide it open wider. You meet his tongue with yours, and maybe you should find it gross that it quickly dissolves into a messy and wet affair; spit from both of your mouths sliding down your chin. But you actually like how slutty it makes you feel, the spit drying on your skin only fanning the embers burning low in your gut. 

Soon, though, his lips trail down; teeth scraping against your skin as his fingers fumble with the zipper of your hoodie. You quickly help him unzip it, shrugging it off while he licks and sucks marks into your neck. You instinctively bare more of your throat to him, shivering when his hands waste no time in cupping the heavy sag of your breasts. He’s open-mouth panting into the side of your neck, gently squeezing the soft flesh in his hands before he rubs his thumbs over your nipples. They run over the barbells pierced through them, and you moan when they harden underneath his touch.

He freezes.

He rolls your nipples between his thumbs again, and you can feel his skin get even hotter somehow.

“Off. Your clothes—fuck, I need to see you.” He rasps, letting go of your chest to grab your waist. You nod, and he watches you with lust-blown eyes as you reach down and pull off your shirt. He taps your waist, and without thinking, you leverage yourself up onto your knees. 

“Perfect.” The low inhuman trill he lets out after sighing those words startles you and you jump a bit, but the sound soon leaves your mind when you feel his mouth wrap around one of your nipples. His fingers pinch and roll the other one, his second hand slipping beneath your sweatpants. His long, dexterous fingers glide over your mound before delving into the tight, wet heat of your cunt.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, nails digging crescents into his shoulder as you rock down on his fingers. The noise you let out is high-pitched and loud, but you don’t have the mind to be shy about how you sound when all you can think about are the things he’s doing to you. The warmth of his mouth as it toys with your nipple; the heat of his hand as it squeezes your breast; the stretch of his fingers as they glide in and out of you, easy and slick from how embarrassingly wet you are. 

“So good, so fucking good, Rafayel–ah!” You tremble when his fingers tug at the little golden barbel piercing glinting in the moonlight, the vibrations from his low moan causing you to squeeze down tightly on his fingers. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you continue to bounce on his hand, crying out and squeezing your eyes shut when he presses down on the one spot that makes you see stars. The coil forming in your belly is tightening tighter and tighter the faster her fucks his fingers into you, purposefully aiming at the spongey nerve inside of you. That peak you were aiming for earlier is fast approaching, and you’re helpless to stop it from careening into you like a truck.

“You close, pretty girl?” 

“Yeah. M’so close, Rafayel. Please, please—” Your body sways forward and your eyes fall to his mouth. Glossy with spit and red, you have the sudden urge to kiss him. Using the grip you have on his hair, you gently tug him away from your chest. You tilt his head up and lean down, wrapping your arms around his neck as you close your eyes and press your lips together. He kisses back without hesitation, his free hand sliding around to support your back as he drills his fingers in and out of you. You can feel how close you’re getting, how your muscles twitch and spasm, how the heat from your bodies burns you from the inside out. 

“Come on my fingers. C’mon, wanna feel you squeeze around me. Lemme feel it, cutie, I know you’re already there, just need a little more—” You have no idea how he manages it with the awkward angle of his fingers, but you feel a sudden stimulation to your clit and suddenly, you’re gone. Your eyes roll behind your closed lids as tears drip down your cheeks, your body jerking violently in his hold as you cream all over his fingers. Rafayel growls low and deep in his chest, keeping the momentum of his fingers even after it's clear that you’re getting overstimulated.

“Rafa–s’too much, wait…” You shake when his fingers don’t stop, his mouth kissing away the moisture on your face.

“I need to feel you. Please, need to be inside you; need to be in so deep that you never get rid of me.” He begs, and even though your body is still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm; even though every touch to your throbbing cunt aches; even though you feel like you’re about to float away with all the endorphins rushing through your mind, you easily fold.

He pulls his fingers out of you with a ‘squelch’, quickly maneuvering you until you’re spread out on the floor in front of him, sweatpants tossed off and leaving you completely bare beneath the moonlight streaming in through the open windows. You watch as he quickly undresses himself, eyes trailing down the lean but strong lines of his muscular frame. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the space in between his legs when he drops back to his knees and shuffles towards you. Long and flushed a deep pink, he’s easily the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen. Decently thick with a slight left lean, you know that he’s going to fill you so well—your cunt aches at the thought.

“So pretty…” He mumbles, long fingers sliding underneath your thighs. He lifts them until they rest on his shoulders, spreading your pussy out with one hand while he grips the base of his cock with the other. He leans forward, dragging the length of his cock through the messy wet folds of your cunt. You shake uncontrollably while he coats his dick in your fluids, biting your lip when you feel the soft drag of his balls touch where your ass meets your thigh.

“I’m gonna paint you like this, one day. Capture how perfect you look; spread out and waiting for me to fuck you. To fill you with me.  You’re mine for life and forever beyond that. Gonna make it so that you’re never whole without me; so that you’re never full if I’m not next to you. M’never gonna let you go now, cutie. But, I think you already know that, yea?” The way he’s staring at you has you reaching out for him; something he easily gives you when he bends down and lets you hook your hands around his neck, your legs falling to either side of his hips.

“You gonna keep me? Split me open and fill me with you?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, your eyes half-lidded and your body aching. But you love the feeling it leaves you with; love the hungry, desperate look in Rafayel’s eyes as he ruts his cock against your cunt. Your breaths mix as he brushes his nose against yours, placing a gentle peck to the corner of your eye.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna give you whatever you want. Everything that you want.” He promises, before raising himself slightly. Chest heaving, you train your eyes back down and watch as he uses your slick to coat himself with the hand on his cock, groaning low in his chest when he squeezes the sensitive skin of his head on the upstroke. He angles the tip down, and you feel the insane amount of heat emanating from his dick right before it pierces you. Your entire body trembles in shock as you take him in. Despite being loose from your orgasm, you still find it to be a bit of stretch to fit his girth inside of you. Your mouth drops open in a silent wheeze as that empty feeling inside of you is slowly filled by every inch you take.

Rafayel isn't faring much better above you, sweat dripping down the sculpted planes of his chest as he pants for air, the red flush traveling down his shoulders to his pecs. His eyes are wide opened and locked onto the space where you two are connected, one hand still guiding his shaft, the other digging into the meat of your thigh.

Before long, you feel him bottom out. A hurt little sound punches out of your chest when you feel the tip bump into your cervix. Your hands are scratching at Rafayel’s back, whimpering cries leaving your mouth as he leans back over you. His mouth is slack, eyes hazy and cloudy as his hands fold you over until your feet dangle by your ears. You can barely breath in that position, but the deeper his cock goes more than makes up for it.

The time for words is long gone, evident by the way Rafayel just begins thrusting into you without waiting any longer. Folded in half as you are, all you can do is lie there and take the brutal and sharp jerks of his hips; the sound of your wet skin slapping against his as it echoes out into the otherwise silent room. The only thing you hear is his voice—continuously mumbling out desperate little pleas and praises that you can just barely hear above the blood rushing to your ears. Your own voice comes out as no more than a breathy wheeze from the angle you're positioned at.

You can barely think past the rhythmic clap of his thighs against your ass, eyes blank and glossy. Nothing else matters at that moment; nothing but the stretch of his cock bullying your cunt open; the sharp hit against your cervix that make your cunt clench even tighter; the whimpering, guttural moans of his echoing in your ears; the bruising grip he has on your thighs, nails drawing bloody crescents into your skin; the overwhelming pleasure as becoming one with Rafayel, getting as physically close as two people can possibly get. You barely even notice when Rafayel suddenly sinks his teeth into your neck; you do notice the searing pain that begins to form where he bit, however, and you cry out. The pain and pleasure of it all mixes into an intoxicating blend. It becomes your favorite taste when Rafayel’s scales litter your shoulders and chest with cuts, the nails on his fingers doing much the same to the backs of your thighs.

Rafayel moans into the skin of your neck where his teeth are still buried, the pace of his thrusts speeding up so quickly that you realize what’s about to happen. The thought of him coming inside of you brings you back to your senses, and your hands weakly begin to pull him in even closer. You need to feel him release inside of you; need it so badly you could cry. 

You don’t have the breath to plead any longer, but Rafayel seems to just know anyway, because he easily scoops you up, settling in between your legs and pressing you flat to the floor. Your shaking thighs wrap around his waist, and he comes exactly like that; smothering you with the bulk of his body as he marks you on the outside and the inside. Your own orgasm follows, and you come with a hoarse whimper.

Your cunt pulses around his spent cock, and though you can hear the tiny little whines he lets out around the teeth buried in your neck, he refuses to pull out. If anything, he gently rocks his hips against you, as if encouraging your pussy in her plight to milk him dry. Sweat cools sticky against your skin, and you feel the edges of unconsciousness tickle your mind. Before you can fight against it, you find that it already has you under and you lose yourself to the warm, dark embrace of sleep as Rafayel cradles you close; a low, rhythmic humming vibrating his chest.

[thewormofyourdreams]

~SUN KISSED~

This is the first time I'm doing this. also this isn't even a writing blog i just made this for shits and giggles.

Anyway.

Words: 6.1k

Tags: Uhh idk tbh. this doesn't have a plot. i wrote it for the vibes and vibes only. but mingyu's gorgeous tanned skin is heavily featured (as in, it's the main topic). Trainee! Mingyu. Cool and smart™! yn.

•----•

Growing up, mingyu is used to the onslaught of compliments on his looks. He's tall, he's handsome, he's charming—in a goofy, good natured way. It's what got him cast in the first place—his appearance, which undeniably stood out amongst other 14 year olds at his school, was what caught the attention of the PLEDIS staff.

But the human mind works in odd ways, and so, even as he's casted based solely off his looks, even with the compliments, he still manages to find the flaws in his shell—too tall, too gangly, too skinny, his shoulders too narrow and, the most damning of all, his skin tone too dark. Other things he could change, but no amount of harmful skin bleaching can strip away the dark tint of his skin, no amount of light foundation or filters can cover the biggest flaw of them all.

And now that he's a trainee, it's brought up more often than not. There's talk on bleaching his skin, grumbles from makeup noonas on the right shade of foundation —too light and he'll just look sickly grey. School is another problem. Becoming a trainee while still in school comes with a whole new set of challenges— and no, it's not just the hours of training mixed into his schedule, it's also the scrutiny, the inevitable teasing (read: light bullying born from jealousy), and the questioning.

Mingyu had heard it all:

"Aren't you a little too dark to be an idol?"

"Are they gonna put you on skin bleach? Tell me what brand they use please!"

"You should've been working on a farm rather than being an idol."

He powers through it all. Back then, he used to think they were just jealous. That they're picking on the most insignificant thing to hide their own insecurities. But when you're surrounded by so much negativity, you're bound to get infected. Especially if you're as young and impressionable as he is.

So he becomes aware of it. Every time he walks in the hallways, every time the camera points at him, he subtly tries to move beneath the light to appear lighter, he'd stray away from the members with the lightest skin tone so the contrast wouldn't be obvious.

All it took, though, was one odd exchange to change his mind.

He was 17, two years and a few months into being a trainee, he'd gotten used to the comments by now, used to sweep it under a rug and laugh it off.

One evening, Mingyu was on his way to the library when his friends approached him, jabbing and teasing as usual, trying to coax him out of studying and join them for soccer instead. He's almost tempted to do just that, until:

"Oh come on. All that time under the sun won't darken your skin. It's already dark enough as is, you wouldn't even notice the difference!"

Mingyu laughs along even as his stomach drops—as it usually would — and waves them off, muttering half-assed excuses about needing to do well on the exam, even though he'd already studied the materials. There's no harm in reviewing it again.

His friends booed and walked away, leaving him alone to his thoughts as he pushed the door to their school library open. It's late in the afternoon and classes are already over, so the library is almost deserted, just the way he likes it.

Mingyu had been on his way to one of the seats at the back when a voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"They're kind of pathetic, aren't they?"

Turning around, he's met with the sight of a girl his age, glancing at him like they're sharing an inside joke. Mingyu was tempted to ask if she was talking to him when she continued.

"The whole thing about," she makes a vague gesture with her free hand, her other holding onto the strap of her bag, there's an expression on her face that looks an awful lot like disgust. "Your skin. It's pathetic."

It's then that it finally clicks, who she is. They've been in the same middle school, used to be in a lot of classes together too until they entered high school and mingyu could no longer keep up with his grades as much. He remembers her. They weren't close at all but she's always been somewhere in his vicinity ever since he was 12.

She's a quiet girl, keeps to herself and her friend group but that's not to say that she's shy or timid. No, in fact, mingyu always thinks she's simply far too cool—perhaps the right word is mature—to mix with most of the lot in their school. As silly as that sounds. She's smart—much like the rest of her clique, always in the top ten or fifteen in their grade— and mysterious. The stereotypical cool, quiet girl that sits at the back of the class and that most guys have a crush on but refuse to admit it. And pretty, too. In an effortless, natural kind of way.

They've talked a couple of times. Trivial stuff like homework and classes. Mingyu used to ask for her help a lot in English and she often asked for his help for their cleaning duties. It's best to say that they're acquaintances.

Anyway, what did she say?

"Oh that? No, they were just joking. You know how it is," Mingyu chuckles, even as it grates at his throat like shards of glass. Waving it off as usual.

She raised an eyebrow, the dark pits of her warm brown eyes digging into his soul. "You don't look like you found it funny."

She stated it like it's a fact. And maybe it is, but Mingyu doesn't have the mental capacity to acknowledge it, so he's about to wave it off again when she continues.

"You know, there's a word for it." She said, walking in the direction of the nearest shelf, looking through the stacked books without looking back—as if expecting him to follow. Mingyu has no choice but to do just that.

"What?"

"There's a word for it in English. 'Sun kissed'." She said in perfect English. And mingyu is suddenly reminded of his old admiration towards her. she's always been good at languages, Japanese, Korean, but most of all, English. He doesn't know how she does it, how her tongue rolled off the words like it's her native language, how she knows just the right things to say.

He's reminded of the times when their teacher would ask them to do presentations in English, and how she would strut to the front of the class with an almost bored expression, but then flashes a smile and starts to talk. Her voice always changes a little whenever she talks in English. It becomes deeper, accommodating the syllables and pronunciation, and she speaks with an air of confidence. Like she knows she's right and you have no choice but to believe her.

It's not at all like the overenthusiastic, performative and loud way most other overachiever students would present. Her words are calm, almost casual, like she's inviting you in a conversation, but every single information is important, every single sentence is significant. Mingyu had always liked the way she talks, ever since he first heard it. No nonsense, straightforward, honest, but not rude. But he likes it most when she talks in English.

She continues. "It literally means to be kissed by the sun. English authors use it all the time to describe tanned skin like yours. There are others too, 'Golden', 'Honey skin'. My favorite is 'sun kissed' though, I think it's fitting." Then, with a small wave—not a smile, she rarely smiles, but there's something like soft affection in her eyes before she turns away. "Anyway, I've gotta go. See you around, Mingyu."

Mingyu doesn't see her around after that. He got swept up with training and classes, and then suddenly he's graduating, and then the debut. It takes him a while to realize that the comments don't bother him as much anymore, not when in the back of his mind, a warm voice would play like a broken record: "My favorite is 'sun kissed' though, I think it's fitting."

•----•

[naneun-no]

On “Insecure Jikookers”…

Alright. I might lose followers for this and that’s very okay; curate your timeline and protect your peace babes. But for YEARS, every time the phrase “insecure jikooker” has come up on my feed my eyelid has done a little twitchy twitch 🤨🤨

And I have always ignored it, because I’ve never wanted to be out here policing ppl’s language and we are literally supposed to be having fun and celebrating love, like for me that’s the whole point, but —

I’ve been seeing the phrase popping up again surrounding the release of AYS and I just gotta say it.

You guys the term seems so culty 😬🥲

Like I think I get the origin (maybe)? It probably started when some of the early jikook bloggers (if you are one I salute you, I am not worthy, trust me this is NOT a dig at anyone, jikook bloggers are by and large cool and kind af 🙇‍♀️) would get these sketchy asks that were antis or cultists in disguise just casting aspersions on jikook’s bond or being blatantly homophobic and/or in general being rude little anonymous internet gremlins. Or maybe it was people who did want to believe that jikook was real but kept nagging and begging for reassurance at every turn, which I can totally see becoming annoying as hell and prompting people to start using the term.

But it feels like it’s used now as like a catchall for anyone who expresses any doubt or asks any critical questions? Even like… reasonable ones? And I used to see a lot of “hey believe what you want to believe but this is what I believe” but now it seems like the sentiment around jikooker communities has by and large become “if you don’t believe you’re an idiotic dumb person who has never known love — you’re either a rival shipper in disguise or WORSE (dun dun dunnnnn) an Insecure Jikooker — and we don’t want people like you around.”

And idk it just feels weird for a community that has always seemed to kind of pride itself on being the “rational, fact-based” ship… like we LOVE to be smug about how jikook don’t need edits to be obvious, don’t need slo-mo zooms with red circles and arrows because their chemistry and fondness and affection is just plain to see in basic footage. We’re the levelheaded ones 😌.

But doesn’t that mean that we should always be encouraging critical thinking, and if someone comes to a different conclusion than us, so be it? Like it or not, none of us have foolproof confirmation that jikook are anything more than very close friends. That’s literally all we know. The rest is our best guess based on vibes, anecdotes, dot-connecting, subtext and body language observation, experience, perception (!!This is a big one because confirmation bias is real!!), and suspicion. That’s literally it.

Look maybe I’m just projecting 😅 but when you criticize people for expressing reasonable doubt over something that is literally not confirmed, it’s just a little too religious fundamentalist for me! (This is why I was a bad Christian, because I always raised my hand and asked questions the Sunday school teacher didn’t like.)

Feel free to ignore me. I never want to come across as pushy or trying to stir up anything, it’s just a phrase that grinds my gears and I’m sort of hoping I’m not alone in that… but if I am, so be it! 🤣 would love to hear people’s thoughts because maybe I’m missing something.

(P.S. If you’re a troll who spams jikook blog inboxes this is not me defending you. You’re still annoying and you need a better hobby. Have you tried yoga? Snowboarding? Fly fishing? Filming food vlogs and/or painting? You should try cooking. You should stop being an anonymous internet troll stomping on everyone’s proverbial sandcastles and instead write a poem. K bye ✌️ )

[thebunnednun]

MHA Guidance Counselor AU Masterlist

Did you ever have a fuck ass guidance counselor or therapist that didn't do shit for you?

Don't worry, we're gonna fic that.

With your favorite mha characters!!

(Puns, but in all seriousness, I am sorry about what you went through and hope that you get the help you deserve. I can't 'fix' things but a silly little fic does wonders.)

What’s this about Angie?

You’ve been dealing with enough stress—academics, family expectations, shitty job, maybe a chaotic personal life—and you need help. A guidance counselor or therapist sounds like the right answer, but we’re not exactly talking about your typical "supportive and competent" staff here.

In this world, you’re dealing with a range of questionable advice, from well-meaning to completely off-base guidance, and advice that might just make you want to scream into a pillow.

At least you're not alone...sort of.

How It Works:

Each guidance counselor or therapist here takes a different approach to “helping.”

Some might be sarcastic, others way too eager, and a few might just be downright unqualified but somehow...well, still helpful? It’s a rollercoaster of chaos and sometimes even a bit of healing, if you can trust the process.

You’ll get to see the types of support each offers (or doesn’t), and maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk away with some real insight. If you’re lucky.

Rules:

You get to choose which counselor you want to go to. It's like a buffet of options! Every counselor has their own style—be prepared for anything.

Feel free to request a specific counselor or approach. Want a very professional, no-nonsense counselor? Or maybe one who's way too into "mindfulness" and could you please just leave me alone? Let me know. All characters are on the table.

No one is perfect. The counselors might mess up. A lot. But the key is they try, and sometimes that’s what counts. Also as your author I myself am only human so please have grace with me.

This is your fic. Your rules. You can ask for any vibe you need, comfort, angst, but we also lean into the humor. After all, we’re in control here... aren't we?

All my readers are gender neutral, but again, if you request something specific I can change that. Fresh soup.

While I don't find myself writing smut I do consider this blog to be 18+ because of the story themes. I do not want minors on my posts because I care about your mental health and sometimes reading certain fics can be damaging and permanently alter you. I don't want that. Your brain chemistry is important. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. So you have been warned. No ageless blogs!

Okay so the fic's are going to start as goes:

Midnight

30 Minutes --- Nemuris only got 30 minutes to work with her favorite stinker, and she's gonna make them count. You just wish you could stop thinking of her as a mom.

Aizawa

In their shoes --- Aizawa's best and brightest troublemaker by far. The only difference is that you don't talk. Ever. Getting you to open up is like trying to bring back the dead. So what can he do?

Take you on a walk outside. Maybe you'll talk, maybe you won't. But he's going to try and make you feel better by the end of it. Even if it's just a tiny bit.

Yamada

Stuck on Mute ---- Mic's gotta figure out how to get his soft spoken new assignment to open up in spite of his loud nature. And it does work! After a near death incident...

Enji

Family Jewels --- Enji comes across a student that's much more like himself than they initially let on. Maybe he's right for the job after all.

Fat Gum

Knock out --- Taishiro swaps assignments with Rumi and finds himself at odds with a student that has anger issues.

Mirko

Respawn? --- Rumi fucked up with her first student and now has a... very shy, kiddo to put it nicely. No idea how to communicate with them. So she hands up her gym bag and picks up a controller.

Hawks

Nap time --- Keigo can't get his new unimpressed spooky student with PTSD to open up after their recent villian attack until he gets personal.

All Might

NOT MY GRANPA --- Yagi finds himself assigned to a student that is every old mans worst fear: A modern trendy alternative teenager. But PLOT TWIST, you have social anxiety. Just like him. Good news, you and Toshinori click instantly and he adores you. You love time with your grandpa figure!

Bad news, you're a fighter and get into a bad situation after a nasty brawl...

More to come soon.

I've got some fic's in the workshop but please request some. If you do request please see my rules page or just DM me and ask.

Overall, this should be a safe space for everyone to enjoy and have fun while reading.

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated.

Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers.

See you soon!

-Angie

[glossypolaroidkisses]

hi my love!! im excited to see what ur blog will contain hehe omg im so ecstatic that u commented that ur interested in the whole right brained reader thing hehe i js want to know ur thoughts on the relationship dynamic of having a more humanitarian reader who likes english, arts everything that's quite opposite to what luigi is like!!

hihi!! omg I’m SO excited too!! i already feel so welcomed!! ok this is so fun, buckle in!! bear with me!!

since luigi seems to be so analytical and anal with his thought processes (like you mentioned), i can see him pre-relationship being a bit skeptical while getting to know you; just because that’s not how his brain works. at the start he’d ask you so many questions. you’d have so many conversations that would give him better insight into your mind, to make sure you’re not just in la la land all the time. it’s giving, waiting for 3rd or 4th date to talk politics?… no. 1st date we’re talking about thoughts on religion, the afterlife, etc.

also, that’s not an insult to right brained/artistic ppl, I’m one of them (if you couldn’t tell lol)! i’ve been perceived as dumb(er than others) because I’m so driven by creativity, english and the arts (NOT scientific or mathematical at all). It's only once someone gets to know me better, that they learn how intelligent I am. right brain thinkers are more likely to be dismissed or overlooked, imo!

someone like luigi may not have been too surrounded by many right brain thinkers let alone dated them, and he would be so curious about what goes on in your mind.

obviously, you do develop a relationship and the dynamic would be adorable. you balance each other out! there may be some minor situations and misunderstandings where his strict, logical, rational self isn’t sure where you’re coming from; but he always listens to you explain your POV, and does come around to understand it. he’s very open minded, esp when it comes to you!

he loves your brain. i mean, he’s so fascinated by it. you find art, beauty, creativity and meaning in things that he could’ve never perceived in such a way. both of your brains work in different ways that are both so important.

whether you come to him about a situation all pouty, or do the opposite, acting stubborn and silent about it until he picks up on your mood shift, coming over to help you.. he’ll have a solution. he’d drop anything to brainstorm a way to help you solve your problems. for luigi, because of his logical problem solving, the solution is usually simple for him to come up with. but then you’re standing there with stars in your eyes like ‘wow luigi😍❤️ i would’ve never come up with that🤩 thank you so much😩’ and he’s just there, giddy, bc you make him feel so smart and useful. he’s so happy when he can help you in any way.

there will probably be a lot of funny moments trying to make decisions together. you might want to decide based on gut feeling, or your emotions, but he’ll be so analytical; thinking of every detail. for example, buying furniture together. you might be like “omg! this couch is such a cute colour, matches the vibe of our apartment and it feels so soft!” and luigi would be like “uhm… yeah! cute! but… (pulls out tape measure) it isn’t the correct dimensions, the fabric isn’t stain resistant, the cushion covers aren’t removable, and it isn’t well reviewed online….😅🥸”

if he’s not with you, he’ll take photos of things he sees while out-and-about, maybe exploring, and send them to you. or!!! when he comes home, he’ll be all excited to show you stuff he took pictures of, wondering what your perspective on it would be, how you would interpret it. he’ll go through the pictures with you and just listen to you gush over something artsy or interpretive, like if he saw graffiti he thought you’d find cool, a quote from a book or painting at a museum. idk!

if he goes book shopping for his own yk NON fiction books, he’ll always come back with a book or two for you. he’ll get home, probably make some sort of joke like “i just chose the book that had the most colourful cover”, when in reality he spent time at the bookstore looking through the books, reading so many back covers to choose one that he knows you’ll genuinely enjoy. or, he’ll just buy a book he remembers you mentioning you wanted in passing. even if he wouldn’t enjoy reading it, he enjoys knowing it brings you joy. and if you talk to him about a book you’re reading/read, he’ll listen as if it’s his favourite genre.

me personally, idk if it’s the eldest daughter in me, but i LOVE being taken care of + i think he’d enjoy feeling helpful. like if i was drawing on an app on my ipad and it crashed or something, i’d go running to him for help.. with anything technology related (even if i had an idea of how i could fix it myself) like heyyy my lil compsci problem solver.. help pls😇

overall, i think this dynamic is so sweet as long as you can both embrace each others differences and find that harmony. he would add more structure to your life while appreciating your perspective, and you’d add more spontaneity, empathy & creativity to his!

also idk if i touched enough on this, but this dynamic is literally a humanitarian power couple. like fighting for what’s right, with his brain and your heart!! best of both worlds for a well rounded perspective!! mwhahaha

thank you so much for submitting that! oh my god that was so much fun I’m not insane i promise (maybe a lil hehehe) it is literally 7 am i am going to sleep now. i just started responding to that ask and couldn’t stop. aaa love it!!

i hope you liked it!! don’t be afraid to give feedback, anyone! i loooovee requests like these!! keep em coming!! mwah

[teekays]

hello! if memory serves you are the blog that talked about boy band pretty as a marketing tactic (or something to that effect? the search function does not work so if i’m wrong i’m terribly sorry) and i was wondering if you would be willing to find someone from each team (can include prospects if you want) to create the ultimate nhl boy band. this is not a necessary thing to do, solely shits and gigs and if you ever feel like it doing it. have a lovely day!

HIIIIIII that WAS me and you sent this at the perfect time because i am at the laundromat with time to kill and i LOVE to discuss this.... let's chop it up.... a few disclaimers: this is subjective so don't get mad at me and i will be including prospects and ahl players where i know its applicable BUT for most of these teams i will be going off the main roster + looks alone because if i did a full deep dive vibes analysis on every team's roster and prospects it would take me like two months to answer this ask... you understand. we are being SHALLOW here today in the true spirit of the boy band industry. let's go!!!

carolina hurricanes: i know everyone wants me to say sebastian aho but he is 1) too old 2) too unsettling looking. the elf on the shelf is not boy band pretty im sorry 😭 i do love him but he's just not the vibe here... i will say based on looks either scott morrow or jackson blake and his 90s heartthrob hair. i want to say seth jarvis because he's my special pop pop but that does contradict almost everything i have said previously so i will not be biased but know that if he was a pop star i would be his biggest fan i would kiss his poster. and that's my truth

columbus blue jackets: in the interest of journalistic integrity i went to their roster instead of just saying it's obviously kj as the intimidating aloof one in the boy ("boy") band but actually i do think it's cole sillinger.... teen heartthrob. also i didn't know that he was born in columbus because his dad was playing for the team and his brother is also on the team??? imagine having a whole destiny like that and its for COLUMBUS OHIO 😭

new jersey devils: jack hughes. open and shut case argue with the WALL

new york islanders: NOT MAT BARZAL. HE LOOKS 35. STAND UP LADIES!!! lowkey i do not know any of these dudes and this roster is kind of busted as fuck 😭😭😭 (NOT ANTHONY DUCLAIR who is too old to be a boy band boy but who i do love) bargain bin team... anyway isaiah george YOU! are the only cute person the new york islanders

new york rangers: matt rempe. those pictures of him lounging around on the phone??? wow. no words. diva heartthrob behavior. it's sad what they're doing to him what are we doing to our beautiful queens :(

philadelphia flyers: after much careful deliberation.... i think denver barkey is taking it. denver is such a deeply boy band name tbh he was born for this!!! i know everyone thinks it's jamie (who i still forget is a flyer 😭) but can you imagine him on a stage? singing a song? they are reinventing shoegaze for him. negative star quality (AFFECTIONATE!!!!!!! LOVING!!!!!!!!!!!!)

pittsburgh penguins: well NOW the obvious answer is rutger mcgroarty... not even worth going through that senior center roster when he's there tbh sorry pens

washington capitals: AGAIN. SENIOR CENTER ROSTER. i had to go to their prospects page to find someone suitable and my vote is patrick leonard he's a cutie!!! also im so sorry to say this but my jaw dropped when i got to this guy why are you playing hockey you need to make a children's album RIGHT NOW. i know he could do a banger cover of the We're going on a bear hunt song. but i digress...

boston bruins: matthew poitras is adorable and exudes star quality NEXTTTT. shoutout also brett harrison who looks like a long lost jonas brother

buffalo sabres: JACK QUINNN JQUIZZY HIMSELF partly for looks mostly for vibes... he has extreme "jack dylan grazer vape apology video" energy and also he has that boyish charm... either him or devon levi (hot) not miss owen power for the same reasons as jamie. she could never be a pop star 😔 ryan mcleod used to be the oilers popstar boy but now he's got too much competition he's a little niche for the title

detroit red wings: my gut tells me simon edvinsson but a look at the roster tells me there is some competition in the form of amadeus lombardi... if we were discussing this two years ago mo seider would be the obvious answer but he's too grizzled now 😔

florida panthers: 🙄 here comes another busted fucking roster... i guess denisenko??? panthers are not really representing here....

montreal canadiens: ARBER <3 he's like the bad boy hottie in the boy band. the one that makes your dad shake his head when he sees him on tv

ottawa senators: wow the atlantic division is fucking WACK this was another case of like. okay i guess ill pick one of yous but REALLY? so congratulations jorian donovan YOU are in the boy band

tampa bay lightning: seriously what is going on in this division. jack finley looks like he was the closeted one in a boy band from the early 2000s but he's aged past that now and he has a husband and a wine brand.... so we will bring him back for nostalgia points. welcome to the team. also i have to be honest i thought of myself as pretty well acquainted with the ahl but the SYRACUSE CRUNCH? that's crazy

leafs: JOSEPH WOLL! boyish charm out the ears on that one. a real cutie

chicago: obviously it's bedard. we all know it's bedard. on the surface he has no charisma but he does have a certain kind of shy boy charm and he IS adorable... he's the one in the boy band who makes your mom tut over him like "he seems like a nice boy"

colorado avalanche: wow huge props to matt stienburg for having maybe the single most boy band roster photo i have seen yet... THIS is the guy they get in the boy band because he's already had huge success with his hit single called like, Heart React Girlfriend or whatever. this is jacob sartorius if he played hockey. this is chase dreams. this kid is going places

dallas stars: it's obviously wyjo, joining the ranks with cbedard as The Nice One <3

minnesota wild: okay i was going to say brock faber because every group needs a kevin jonas (SORRY BROCK) but WHO is kyle masters and why does he look like knockoff brendan brisson. budget briss. diet briss. we have briss at home.

nashville predators: this just reminded me cody glass is a penguin now 💔 anyway the preds have some STRONG contenders here wow.... jeremy hanzel is taking it but i think luke evangelista could pull it off... now if you asked me to be really subjective it would be ozzy wiesblatt who would also be the subject of much poster kissing and rigged "which member of the nhl boy band should you date" tests so i get him as the result but that's just me....

st louis blues: jeremie biakabutuka your radiant smile has charmed me.... welcome to the band....

utah whatevers: MONTANA ONYEBUCHI I AM SO FUCKING SORRY THE SHARKS DIDNT APPRECIATE YOU. BUT WE WILL..... also matt villalta kinda giving off brand kj... you could build a whole off brand version of that umich team just with guys from other teams i bet

winnipeg jets: dylan coghlan you will always be famous to ME but i fear you are a little too old for our purposes here.... other than him they kinda don't have a lot going for them.... brayden yager it is your time to shine as off brand owen power ♥️

anaheim ducks: some strong competition here... tz is the obvious choice but i think we need to think bigger... olen zellwegger please step forward....

calgary flames: matt coronato i am free on thursday if you would like to hang out on thursday when i am free and also join this boy band

edmonton oilers: yet another old ass roster 😭 they're lucky they got so many sabres because matt savoie is saving their asses rn

los angeles kings: angus booth is smizing in every single photo i saw of him so. come on now

san jose sharks: it's so obviously will smith i don't even know what we're doing here tbh

seattle kraken: tye kartye looks like he would be into white water rafting so he can be the nature guy in the boy band.... strong competition from tucker robertson but he's just a touch too gay porn for this vibe

vancouver canucks: JETT WOO... HELLO.... but also shoutout cole mcward for having 2014 gay youtuber phenotype. a connor franta troye sivan type face if ive ever seen one

vegas golden knights: BRISS ‼️‼️‼️ my little tabloid queen... not only is he in the boy band but he's in the news and the media. he was born to be a star. natural ham. child actor energy. alex holtz is also a strong contender for this but i think he's off on his own doing his little pop star solo act thing

this took way longer than laundromat time but it was worth it i had so much fun!!!!! thank you!!!!!!