#this is a terrible time to post a set but honestly who cares

[five-rivers]

Little thing inspired by various Justice League summons Danny posts I've seen about.

.

Interdimensional travel was hard.

It was a true statement, and one that, in retrospect, was obvious. Of course interdimensional travel was hard. It was reaching out of your reality and into one that had an entirely different set of rules. However, having an interdimensional portal in one's basement tended to skew one's understanding of these things. That was why it took Danny so long to realize that the Observants were actually worried about him.

"Wait," he said, looking up from the (admittedly very passive-aggressive) report the crowd of Observants had just dropped on his (already crowded) desk. "You want to change my summoning ritual because you think other dimensions might hurt my human half?"

"Some of them certainly will," said one of the Observants, testily.

"I didn't know you cared about that," said Danny, still somewhat stunned.

"We normally wouldn't," admitted the Observant, "but although the position of Ghost King is, politically, a figurehead, you are metaphysically vital to the Realms as a whole. Damage to you is to be avoided, when possible."

"Uh huh," said Danny, looking back down at the summoning ritual change paperwork. Although, through a combination of Danny's own nature and the nature of time across dimensional barriers, Danny still looked fourteen and spent a great deal of his time going to school in Amity Park, he had years of experience interpreting the Observants' paperwork under his belt. "Yeah, it's just that I don't think this is the best way to, like. Do that."

"It is the best way to protect you!" said the Observant who had, apparently, been selected as the group's spokesperson.

"Maybe," agreed Danny, who wasn't entirely sure that was true. "But I feel like some of these modifications would kind of be a problem for wherever I wound up."

"Then they ought not to summon you."

While Danny agreed with that sentiment in spirit (getting summoned was almost always inconvenient and annoying), in practice, he wasn't so sure. "I don't think there's any way to communicate that to the guys who are summoning me. Like, some of them get me with old Pariah Dark rituals. And most of them don't really care if their mistakes screw over other people, so..."

"Next to the well-being of the Realms, that is a minor concern."

Danny didn't disagree with that, but he wasn't about to waste time arguing with the Observants about it. They just didn't get it. He tapped his finger on another section that was bothering him. "Also, this seems to keep me from getting out of the summoning circle at all. If someone is summoning me to ask for help, that's going to keep me from doing much."

"It will also keep you from inadvertently exiting into a hostile environment."

"Even in my home universe?" asked Danny, pointedly. "This seems like something more geared to imprisonment than protection."

The Observants were silent.

"Oh, come on, guys, really? Again?"

The Observants scattered.

Danny sighed and picked up the paperwork. He didn't think it was all bad ideas, honestly, but he needed a second opinion that hadn't tried to stuff him in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep Mark 2.

Maybe Clockwork would look it over for him.

.

"It isn't an entirely terrible concept," said Clockwork, "except for the obvious drawbacks."

"The whole being trapped in the summoning circle bit," said Danny.

Clockwork nodded. "To be fairer than they deserve, there is no way to modify that portion of a summoning ritual in some types of universes but not others. Not from our own side of things, in any case."

"And I mostly can't get at the other side," said Danny with a groan. He perched on the back of Clockwork's chair. "I do want to make sure that I, I don't know, fit with other universes enough that I won't completely demolish them just by existing."

Clockwork hummed. "There are some ways to do that. There are drawbacks, however."

"Bigger drawbacks than accidentally nuking a planet because my radiation is different than theirs?"

"It depends on your perspective, I suppose."

Danny sighed. "Go ahead and tell me, then."

Clockwork picked up a pen. "You are a shapeshifter. You have multiple forms, one of which cannot be harmed through any normal means and which similarly would have little negative affect on the environment unless you acted to cause negative effects. Change the current ritual so that a summoning puts you in that form, and then further change it so that you cannot leave the circle unless you are in a form that will not automatically cause harm or be harmed by the laws of that universe."

"You mean my Ghost King form."

"All your forms are your Ghost King form."

"You know what I mean."

"I do," said Clockwork, smiling.

"It freaks people out, though."

"Your current form might, as you say, freak people out," said Clockwork. "If your summoners were, say, ants."

"Is that likely?"

"Not particularly. But consider the multiverse. Not all of your summoners will be human."

Danny crossed his arms, frustrated that there wasn't an easy solution. "I guess I could always shapeshift into something nonthreatening after. Hard to see if it's something safe without running into

"You can do more than that."

"I can?"

"Yes," said Clockwork, setting the pen to paper. "Let me show you."

.

The summoning circle shimmered and shivered as Constantine and Zatanna recited the chant, their voices rising and falling. Batman and other members of the League stood by, watching, waiting.

This, this ritual, wasn't their first choice. It wasn't their second, third, or fourth choice, either. But nothing else they had tried worked, and the entire world was at stake.

They were summoning the King of All Ghosts. An eldritch monstrosity that had once tried to conquer all realities. But the alternative was worse. Much worst. At least, with the King of All Ghosts, there was a chance that they could negotiate and that it'd want the Earth more or less intact for the sake of conquering it. At least, with this kind of summoning, they could offer a sacrifice, a bargain, a deal.

And if Constantine was good at anything, it was deals.

The lines of the summoning circle flared green, then pure white, and, without any other fanfare, the King of All Ghosts was there.

It filled the circle with starry darkness, struck with nebulae and aurorae. The clouds rippled as a star died near its heart, fiery cataclysms spreading throughout the being. A crown like the accretion disk of a black hole burned around its highest extremity.

Something like a voice, echoing and many-layered, emanated from the being. "Nghftùsh phlarûm âzgûm (1)." It paused, and the League felt it examine the area more closely. "Ko wgâ âzgûm nghftùsh derza. Ko gok hubhûfh fhtù gâh mglwnuh...(2)"

Constantine swore. "Oh, bollocks, I don't know that one. Would it be too much to ask that one of these things speak English? Just a little?"

"Nghftùsh ak. Ko ngngi. (3)"

"Zatanna," said Batman, "could a spell let us understand one another?"

"Kù-nghînku bùr fùmúu umni snîgûrip. (4)" It seemed to bend closer for all that it didn't move. "Nghftùsh laglúfhâk krîk ko phlî ak phlorza. Chthe nî hîhnâ, ka. (5)"

"I think I understand a little," said Captain Marvel, raising a hand. "I think it understands us just fine."

"Hagthu. Nghftùsh ngngi ùk nî chthe kûmpù nû gâ. (6)"

"It wants to get out of the circle," said Captain Marvel.

The veils of green light that shrouded the being rippled. "Dal phlù. (7)"

"Not without an agreement in place, you're not," said Constantine.

"Gagthashîzgathg. (8)"

"God," whispered Flash, "that hurts my throat just hearing it."

Batman shot him a glare, then stepped forward. They'd prepared a list of demands. Most of them were negotiable, but it was better to start something like this with things you were willing to remove or throw away. It took several minutes for Batman to read the whole thing.

"Ku. Chthal lohúfhâk hagthu. Fhta nghftùsh kâk phlorza ko thru. (9)"

"What did it say?" asked Batman.

"I'm... I think it said it'll do it, but it needs something from us in return."

Batman nodded. They'd expected something like this. Whatever it asked for, it would, without a doubt, be exorbitant. Then, they'd go back and forth, reducing each of their demands until they'd reached a deal both sides hated, but could accept. Constantine had bet that, at minimum, the King of All Ghosts would want the entire population of Earth as slaves.

"Nghftùsh kâk hû ko mglwno nî phnglâ gho-lobi. (10)"

"Uh," said Captain Marvel. "I think he said one of our lives."

"Hik! Rlo phlarâk kruk nîk ghû. (11)"

"Not just any of us," said Marvel. "It has to be someone who's a parent."

A tension fell over the room. They'd known they'd have to sacrifice something. A single life wasn't much, but for the King of All Ghosts to specify a parent...

"But are you sure it's just one?" pressed Constantine.

The King of All Ghosts gave off a sense of... exasperation? "Úzg, hû. (12)"

"One," said Captain Marvel. "Just one."

"And just us, not our kids or anything?"

"Nghftùsh ngngi ùk e nghuu. Gù phlarâk fush ko du? (13)"

"No, it doesn't want children. They're... wrong, somehow?"

"And it's not a sex thing?" Constantine sounded... strangely hopeful.

"Hik! Fhtùl! (14)"

"No," said Captain Marvel. "And... something about fat, maybe?"

"Oh, we're definitely getting eaten, then," said Constantine, with forced cheer. "I volunteer, then. It's not like my kids are sitting up waiting for me or anything."

"Hik nuk. Ngngi ko. E hâta phlarâk lerzaolûm. (15)"

"Not you, there's... something wrong with your soul."

"Oh, he's a picky eater, too, huh?"

"Let's not antagonize him, okay?" said Flash. "He's kind of-- He's kind of looming, right now."

And so it was. Somehow. Without moving.

"Who will... satisfy you?" asked Batman.

The entity did not move, but it managed to indicate Batman anyway.

"Very well," said Batman, before anyone could even attempt to talk him out of it. After all, his life for the lives of everyone in this universe was a very good deal. "Take me."

For the first time, the King of All Ghosts moved, all that darkness, all that light, rushing towards Batman.

There was a burst of blinding light.

When everyone opened their eyes again, a boy with black hair, blue eyes, and a jawline that bore more than a passing resemblance to Batman's was stepping out of the summoning circle.

"That's much better," he said, stretching. "No offense, dude, but you kind of suck at Ghost Speak." He turned to Batman. "What I was asking for was a template so I could exist in your universe and do what you want without accidentally blowing it up because of incompatible physics, but whatever. Not sure how you guys got me eating you out of that."

"You wanted a human appearance so you could better conquer this world?" asked Batman.

"Uh, no? You've got a pretty strong clause against conquering the world in your paperwork there. You're probably thinking about Pariah Dark, but he's old news." The boy smiled widely. "Let's get started on your problem, okay?"

I've been summoned.

You haven't summoned me before. You have a nice space station here...

I can. You can't.

Inter-dimensional language differences are so annoying.

I hope you can do something. This will be difficult, otherwise.

Good. I don't want to be in this circle forever.

Close enough.

Figures (literally, 'certainly').

Okay. That sounds good. But I need something from you.

I need one of you to be my template (literally, life-pattern).

No! It's like being a parent.

Yes, one.

I don't want your children. What is wrong with you?

No! Gross!

No way. Not you. You're crazy (literally, your soul is cracked).

[fevers-and-emeto-oh-my]

Throwing my hat in the ring here bc I've honestly weighed in on far more volatile discourse and i also feel like yammering about this.

Coming into 9-1-1, almost everyone I spoke to and everything I saw told me I would NOT like Tommy. He was rude, he was terrible to Buck, he called Buck "Evan," he walked out on a date, he made mean comments, etc.

I did take this with a grain of salt, because I rarely conform to fandom consensus on characters, pairings, plot lines, etc. (Destiel was my NOTP in SPN and I do not like Ada at all in RE, for example). I'm perfectly happy to have opinions that don't line up with everyone else's because I'm here to have fun for myself, not for anyone else. (Putting this under a cut because it got LONGGGG)

Then I get to 7x03 and see Tommy again for the first time since s2. and he is a BLAST. He's grown, he's not posturing or repressing himself. He oozes confidence off the bat and is INCREDIBLY fun (the MOUTH STATIC??? HELLO???). He has this dry wit that I fall in love with immediately ("well, unless you feel like swimming back, that's all we've got." "because we're flying into a hurricane. probably all gonna die anyway.") i am EXCITED. i am also reallyyyy confused, because THIS Tommy would have to do a complete 180 in personality or how he treats Buck for me to suddenly have the vitriol for him that's so common across the fandom.

7x04. I am smitten with how Tommy acts through the tour of Harbor--leaning reallyyyyyy close to Buck, the charming teasing lilt to his voice, his little smile. Eddie shows up and Eddie and Tommy become besties. I love this too--they would absolutely get along like a house on fire, and there's INSANE chemistry between Tommy and Eddie immediately. I don't personally like them taking a chopper to Vegas (my Eddie would never set foot in a helicopter willingly unless it was for someone he loved, like Bobby and Athena the episode prior) BUT they 110% fucked on that trip and I will not hear any arguments otherwise.

We're skipping over the buddie of it all bc this post is about Tommy. The kiss???? The fingers under Buck's chin???? (THANKS LOU) The SOFT look on his face the entire time???? I'm immediately sold. Bucktommy is immediately a new fave and I'm excited to see if I like Tommy more than or just as much as I liked Taylor.

7x05! The date. AKA instant desire to douse myself in bleach from second-hand embarrassment. I know this is where a lot of people soured on Tommy, but when I reached the end of the episode I honestly couldn't understand WHY it soured people so intensely and immediately. That date was a DISASTER for multiple reasons, but I don't think Tommy was WRONG for leaving. Buck was nervous the entire way through (implied by Tommy's line assuring him nobody was looking at them) and it's his first date with a guy, so who can blame him? His line about being an ally was uh. Yikes. But they had already eaten and were getting the check, so obviously dinner as a whole went pretty well considering the scene opens with them both content and joking around a little bit. Obviously Buck couldn't have foreseen Eddie showing up. And I don't BLAME Buck for losing his head and overcompensating--he's not even out to Eddie yet, not even sure what his sexuality means for him himself yet, it's totally in character for him to panic and stick his foot in his mouth.

I don't blame Buck, really, I have empathy for him. BUT I also don't blame Tommy. Tommy is comfortably out, we don't know what his last relationship was like, and no matter how much he UNDERSTANDS what Buck did, it still had to hurt to be there and basically be outright friendzoned in an effort to be hidden. I don't care how you spin it, the situation absolutely sucked for both of them. People get really really mad about the closet comment, and it's not a moment I particularly enjoy from Tommy, but I understand why he said it. That kind of dry poking is in character, and I truly don't think he MEANS to OUT Buck, I think he's just hurt and lashing out a little bit (which, for what it's worth, we have seen EVERY character lash out WORSE than that). If I was Tommy, I would have left after dinner instead of going to the movies too.

People get really mad about Tommy leaving Buck alone on the street. When I first heard that he did that and how MAD people were about it, I was picturing Tommy pulling over in the middle of nowhere somewhere and leaving Buck stranded. That would have also made ME mad, so it was what made sense to me as what had to have happened.

And then.....Tommy just.....got his own Uber? And left Buck on the well-lit, populated street literally in front of the doors to the restaurant? After being really honest with Buck that he likes him, but he's not sure Buck's ready to be out with a guy yet. People also didn't like that but I thought it was fair? It wasn't Tommy telling Buck Buck's feelings. It came across more to me as Tommy looking out for Buck and speaking from a place of experience as a gay man much further along into his own journey. He doesn't say it but from what he said about being under Gerrard and coming out when he went to Harbor, I'm sure TOMMY had his own growing pains just like that.

Honestly, I think a lot of the anger about leaving Buck on the street comes from the fanbase having a lot of women. If Buck was a woman and Tommy left him there, then yes, I would not trust Tommy as a love interest at all because it would mean he wasn't at all concerned for fem!Buck's safety. But if I take me being a woman out of how I look at it, it's not really an issue? Buck is a cis white male, he's broad, he's 6'2". It's not impossible for him to get attacked, of course, but it's significantly less likely, and he's standing on the sidewalk directly in front of the restaurant doors. Buck's also a perfectly capable adult; it was their first date. Tommy had truthfully no obligation to take care of Buck, and Buck has a phone and his own agency. He can get himself his own Uber.

At this point, I'm more intrigued than anything by fandom's gung-ho hatred of him, because Tommy hasn't done anything black-and-white undeniably egregious. I watch the rest of season 7 and I love him the whole time. He genuinely cares for Buck and while I had anticipated hating that he called Buck "Evan," I actually loved it. Lou gave it such an affectionate inflection that it's very endearing, and his use of "Evan" feels natural and sweet, not the forced-intimacy awkward that I was expecting considering that's how it felt with Ana calling Eddie "Edmundo."

I get to 7x09/7x10. People don't like the "enjoy it while it lasts" comment at the awards ceremony. I get to the dinner scene where they talk about fathers and the 118 as a family and Tommy says "god, I hope so" to the idea of Buck having daddy issues. Both of these things have been pointed out to me as horrible moments.

Neither line makes me hate Tommy. The daddy issues one I find exceptionally fun. At this point, and as I watch s8, I am more or less convinced that fandom hates Tommy for three different reasons: he's not Eddie, they don't understand his sense of humor, and they don't trust Buck to look out for himself.

I will be the first to say i ADORE buddie. AND bucktommy. And buddietommy is the FIRST OT3 that has INSANE chemistry and subtextual backing in canon. Every scene where the three of them are together, the three-way chemistry is off the charts and they fall naturally into what really feels like a poly dynamic, PARTICULARLY in Masks where they're two boyfriends tag-teaming teasing and taking care of their third boyfriend, Buck.

But like I said, I think fandom's hatred of Tommy comes from the fact that he's NOT Eddie. Buck is bi in canon, hooray! Except....they give him a boyfriend that's not Eddie, disappointing buddie shippers. Buck has romantic scenes with someone that's not Eddie. Buck kisses someone that's not Eddie. Etc. To me, people hate Tommy so much the exact same that they hate Taylor and Ana (every love interest tbh, but Taylor, Ana, and Tommy get the most hate and bashing), because none of them are EDDIE.

I also think the fandom doesn't understand Tommy's sense of humor or how he shows affection. It's fanon that Tommy is Italian. I totally adopt that headcanon, because in MY Italian-American family (AND on my Irish/Scottish/French-Canadian/Portuguese family on my mom's side) do you know how we show love? We break each other's balls. We tease the shit out of each other. I tell my dad he's so full of shit his eyes are brown. There's a written list on the inside of the cabinet of the words I have pronounced horrifically wrong. My dad's cousins have the SAME dry, deadpan delivery that Tommy does.

My friends and I ALSO have this kind of humor. It's ALSO how we show love to one another. I have never read a single line of Tommy's as being malicious or rude or as him not liking Buck, because to me it's CLEAR that he's joking and being affectionate. (And also, the fandom puts words in his mouth....Tommy did NOT call Buck gross in Masks. Buck SAID he knew Tommy THOUGHT he was gross, and Tommy DENIED that and tried to explain himself. Also Buck's line "my own boyfriend won't even kiss me" is followed immediately by Tommy saying "that's not true.")

The dinner scene after Bobby's heart attack made sense to me. Tommy gave Buck space to say how he felt (and i think the "your dad is alive" line came more from a place of Tommy NOT having a parental figure in a captain. I don't think that was meant to be dismissive, I think that was a misunderstanding) and honestly, if MY boyfriend made a joke about daddy issues during that conversation I would have loved it. Sometimes humor is the best medicine.

That also rolls into my last point--people don't trust Buck to look out for himself. The fandom loves Buck, for good reason, but they also baby him. Buck is a grown man. Yes, he has abandonment issues and PTSD. He probably has anxiety and he definitely has ADHD. But...none of those things mean he can't speak up when people do things he doesn't like? People get so annoyed with the daddy issues line and with Tommy telling Buck to put the screen away like it's dismissive or infantilizing.

First of all, I have (undiagnosed) ADHD. Sometimes having someone outright tell you "okay that's enough of that, go [do a task or transition to something else]" is HELPFUL. Tommy was literally sleeping on that stupid most-uncomfortable-looking couch just to be downstairs with Buck, he clearly cares about him. When you care about people, sometimes it means a little tough love. It wasn't infantilizing when MY irl friends would be like "you've had enough to drink" or "i'm making you dinner." Sometimes we ALL need some of that decision-making taken away from us. And also? Buck doesn't listen to Tommy. In the morning they talk about Buck staying up too late. It's not like Tommy got mad and took the laptop and FORCED Buck to bed.

Second of all, with the daddy issues joke. I love Buck. I do. He's one of my favorites. And yes, Buck can successfully hide SOME of what he feels. But that man is an open book 90% of the time. His heart is on both sleeves and his pants legs. If you say or do something he doesn't like, he's NOT shy about showing it (which we just had confirmed AGAIN in 8x09). If the daddy issues joke BOTHERED BUCK, his face would have fallen. He would have gone quiet. He would have left the table. Even if he didn't say it to Tommy in the moment, there would have been some indication that HE PERSONALLY had an issue with what was said. Instead he's giving Tommy a little smirk and intense heart eyes the whole time.

Not to mention, BUCK BRINGS UP DADDY ISSUES. He STARTS IT by saying "So maybe we both have daddy issues," while one of his eyebrows quirks and he gives this little almost shit-eating grin. If you're going to be MAD at the daddy issues joke, you should be mad at BUCK if you're gonna be mad at anyone, because he STARTED IT.

I won't get into how I feel about the breakup bc it's not relevant to this post really, but yea. I personally love Tommy, Bucktommy was Buck's strongest relationship imo (only a touch stronger than Bucktaylor), and my personal belief is that Tommy gets far more hatred than he deserves. (Talking about his growth from the Begins episodes is also a different post, but he grows DURING those episodes and also is clearly a better person from what we see in s7/8)

[thriftedtchotchkes]

old dogs don't change

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: weeks after sleeping together, your no-strings-attached agreement goes up in flames when joel goes on a date with another woman. you make sure that never happens again. (sequel to keep it on the low)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, ex-boyfriend!joel, jackson era, tlou 2 jesse appearance, age gap, hurt, angst, smut, unprotected piv, post-breakup sex, rough sex, public sex, rough oral (m!receiving), exhibitionism, possessive behavior, jealousy, alcohol use, briefly dating other people

word count: 10.6k

You have no idea who she is, but you bet she’s a total bitch. Is that mean? Maybe. Do you give a shit? Nope.

To be fair, you’d probably say that about anyone Joel started dating after you, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be true. Sure, you've never actually talked to her…or seen her before in your entire life, but that’s beside the point. She’s cute and bubbly, and everything you’re not, and that’s the point. 

It’s honestly a little comical how different the two of you are, and you can’t help but wonder if Tommy did that on purpose. You know he was the one who set them up. Everyone in the dining hall was talking about it this morning. The latest, hottest piece of gossip, bouncing from table to table like a cruel game of telephone. 

He probably thinks he’s protecting his big brother, but you think he needs to mind his own fucking business. It’s not like he knows anything about your relationship, not really. Well. It’s not your relationship anymore, is it? And Tommy, along with everyone else in this town, blames you for that.

Poor Joel, dumped by the biggest bitch in Jackson, who took advantage of his kindness and patience for years, and broke his heart when all he did was love her. Selfish, cold, and uncaring. Nothing like the pretty, perky girl sitting next to him in the booth they’re sharing at Seth’s. 

If only they knew what really happened.

The bar is especially busy, even for a Saturday night, so you figure no one’ll notice you blatantly glaring at them. It’s not like you care, anyway. You’re feeling warm and loose, and maybe a little too tipsy for your own good, but tonight, you get to do whatever the fuck you want. 

Because Joel’s sitting ten feet away with his arm slung around another woman, and it hurts. 

It sucks way worse than him avoiding you since the last time you slept together, after all of the things you did and said on that couch. The things he said. You shoo away the thought with another swig of beer, wishing you were drinking something stronger. It's for the best. 

If you get any drunker, you’ll probably end up doing something stupid, and the last thing you need is to prove everyone right that he’s better off without you. But you can’t seem to shake the anger that’s starting to simmer below the surface. 

With the emotional toll this night has already taken, you kind of don’t want to. So, you surrender to it. Fuck him. He’s a piece of shit for parading his new girl around right in front of you, and for breaking off your agreement without so much as a word. 

If he wanted to see other people, he should’ve opened his mouth and used his big boy words. Then again, he’s always been terrible at that, so why are you surprised? 

Maybe he’ll fuck her tonight. Touch her all of the ways you like because that’s all he knows anymore. She’ll moan for him, soft and sweet, gentle in her affection, just like she’s touching him right now. But it won’t satisfy him, and when he’s panting on top of her, chasing that all-consuming release only you can give him, you know he’ll be pretending she's you. 

Asshole.

You’re still watching them, shooting daggers from your spot at the bar, when your wish from earlier is granted. Two overflowing shot glasses topped with lime are placed in front of you, and you look up to see a very attractive dark-haired, brown-eyed man smirking down at you.

"Looked a little lonely over here," he says in a raspy baritone even lower than Joel's. He clinks the top of your beer bottle with the bottom of his own. "Thought you could use some company, maybe another drink."

Well, he’s right. You could use some company, and you’d love another drink. There’s no harm in having a little fun, right? If Joel’s doing it, then there’s nothing stopping you.

"So, both of these are for me, then?" you smile coyly, reaching for one. He nods, his own smile widening.

"Could be. Can I join ya?" he gestures to the empty stool next to you. 

He has this cocky look on his face like he already knows you'll say yes, and in your inebriated state, you think it's kind of hot. It reminds you of Joel when you first met. How he knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn't give up until it was his. Until you were his.

You consider him for a moment. He’s young, maybe even younger than you, and obviously confident enough to make a move on you. Fleetingly, you think he might end up being that stupid thing you do tonight, but then you down one of the shots and decide you don't actually care. 

What turns out to be tequila burns the entire way down, and you immediately pick up a slice of lime. You’re hyperaware of the way his eyes lock onto your mouth as you suck on the sour fruit, lingering when a droplet of juice dribbles down your chin. 

It’s not a total surprise when he reaches up to thumb it away, but you are taken off guard by how strange it makes you feel. The pad of his finger is disappointingly smooth, no weathering or even a hint of a callus. You're not sure why that matters to you, but you can take a decent guess.

You chance a glance over at Joel's table and, of course, you have his full attention now. His entire body looks tense, from his hand clenched on the table to the prominent vein bulging angrily in his neck. 

Good. Now he knows how it feels.

Looking back up at your mystery guy, you run your tongue along your bottom lip, catching any remaining lime before you finally give him an answer. 

"Sure. Pop a squat, cowboy," you giggle. It doesn't even sound like you and feels wrong the second it passes your lips, but as long as Joel heard it, that's all that matters. "You got a name?"

He replies, but you're too busy keeping an eye on Joel in your peripheral to catch what he says. In the back of your mind, you think that’s probably a good thing. You'd rather not know, especially if you do end up taking him home. 

Mystery guy laughs at your noncommittal hum and you realize you’ve been caught. But he doesn’t seem upset. It’s clear he’s amused by your obvious interest elsewhere and that piques your curiosity. 

Any other guy here would’ve been pissed by your apathy, especially if they’d bothered to buy you a drink that you accepted, but apparently not this one.

He sits down on the stool next to you, pulling it close enough that his knee presses against yours. You unconsciously lean into him, your skin erupting in goosebumps despite your growing unease.

He's...baffling. A total enigma. You can’t figure out what his deal is or why he’s choosing to keep pursuing you when your eyes have been glued to another man all night. 

The thought of letting this continue long enough to find out is a little thrilling. Might as well see where this goes. If it escalates, you’re more than confident in your ability to care of yourself.

But it happens sooner than you expect. His hand finds the back of your stool and, then, his lips are suddenly right next to your cheek. You can feel the warmth of them as he tilts his head to whisper in your ear.

“Look, not try'na to overstep, but…,” his eyes dart to where Joel’s sitting, unreservedly ignoring his date. The poor thing barely notices, chattering away about something not nearly as important to him as watching you. His gaze returns to you, and you can feel him smirking. “You wanna make that guy you've been staring at all night jealous?"

That’s—wow. You didn’t see that one coming. He’s got a lot of audacity to assume that’s something you’d want, let alone offer…what? His services? 

But, then again, he isn’t wrong. Joel’s been the only thing on your mind since you walked into Seth’s tonight and saw him with her. He’s always on your mind if you’re being totally honest with yourself. It’s plain to see, obvious to every single person in this bar including the man himself.

You eye your mystery guy curiously for a second before nodding, your lips quirking into a small smirk. Maybe it’s time to prove to Joel and everyone else in this judgmental town that you’ve moved on, too. That you’re not the sad, bitter shrew that deserves to be alone.

"Yeah, actually, I do," you reply cautiously. But there's still one lingering question that has yet to be answered. "I just…why? I don’t get why you’re helping me. What are you getting out of this?”

He shrugs, and somehow you can just tell by the look in his eyes that there’s no hidden agenda. You’re not sure how you’re just noticing, but he has kind eyes. This whole time, he’s been nothing but patient and attentive, like Joel always was—...is? 

Was.

You almost wish you could fall for someone like this man instead of pathetically clinging to your past. Maybe you’ll at least get a friend out of this crazy night, if nothing else. But then you remember one, tiny problem with that idea.

“Can you tell me your name again? I promise you have my full attention this time,” you smile sheepishly. He chuckles good-naturedly and, again, doesn’t seem to hold it against you.

“It’s Jesse,” he says with a deep, southern drawl you should probably be more attracted to. “And let’s just say I know how it feels to want someone ya can’t have.”

You nod slowly, understanding perfectly. Except—you didn't realize up until this moment that that's exactly what you want. Someone you can't ever have. 

And it took seeing Joel with someone else, his body pressed up against a woman that isn't you, to realize it. Well, that fucking sucks.

You decide not to ask about Jesse's situation. It's not your business and, anyway, you're both trying to feel better about your circumstances, not worse. 

There’s a silent sense of camaraderie between you that tells you to throw caution to the wind. Tossing back the second shot, you turn your stool to face his, literally and figuratively turning your back on Joel. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Jesse,” you murmur, and you genuinely mean it. He grins, leaning in slowly, still giving you time to back out if you want to, but you don't. 

Eat your heart out, Joel Miller. This one's for you.

"S'nice to meet you, too," he replies softly. 

Then, his lips are on yours. The kiss is wet and open-mouthed, and yet he handles you so delicately. He cradles your face in his hands as his tongue brushes against yours, and you moan softly into his mouth, letting your body get lost in the way he feels. And he feels so—

Much different than Joel. 

All you can think about is how much you miss Joel's rough touch, the way he'd thread his fingers through your hair and tug you into his mouth, nearly devouring you whole. Joel kissed you like every time might be the last, right up until it actually was. 

Fucking hell, why can't you just enjoy this without him ruining it for you?

You try to forget about it, about him, licking into Jesse's mouth a little more aggressively, and he groans, his body eager and responsive. It's probably more than you should be doing in public, sitting at a bar surrounded by people but, hell, you want them to see. 

They can say whatever they want about you. You're done giving a shit.

And, boy, will they have a lot to talk about after tonight. Joel makes sure of that. It happens so fast, you barely register that Jesse’s lips aren’t on yours anymore like they should be.

One moment, Jesse's hands are trailing down your sides to your waist, and the next, he's being forcibly dragged off you. Between you stands a broad, imposing figure ensuring you stay separated.

Your mind goes blank, and all you can do is watch in shock and disbelief as Joel lets loose on him, his words possessive and almost nonsensical. 

"The fuck you think you're doin' touchin' her like that? Y'need to learn how to keep your hands to yourself, kid, before ya get yourself in trouble," he grits out angrily. 

To his credit, Jesse stays cool and collected, but it’s not enough. There’s already a few pairs of eyes on you, drawn by the physical altercation, and it won’t be long before the rest of the bar notices the impending fight.

"Respectfully, sir, s'long as the lady consents, I'll put my hands wherever she wants," Jesse replies, standing his ground. He tries to move around him to return to your side, but Joel fixes him with a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"S'that really a good idea?" Joel sounds menacing and looks even more so the longer the conversation continues. 

You’re still numb to everything unfolding in front of you and it’s not until Jesse’s next to you again, snaking an arm around your waist, that you finally come to. The reality of your situation hits you like a ton of bricks and now you’re mad. You open your mouth to retaliate, but Jesse cuts you off before you can get a word in.

“There a reason it wouldn’t be?” he turns the question back on Joel and you tense, anticipating a less-than-friendly answer. Jesse squeezes your hip in reassurance, but it does nothing to soothe your unease. He doesn’t know Joel like you do.

“Kid, do I look like I’m fuckin’ around? Take your hands off her and walk away. M'not gonna tell you again,” he all but growls, taking a threatening step forward. 

Neither of you back down. Jesse’s arm stays firm around you as your nails bite into your palm. It's taking everything you've got not to make a bigger scene than you already have.

You knew it. Since the breakup, you’ve been trying to reconcile this increasingly unfamiliar man with the Joel you gave your entire heart to all those years ago. With each passing month, the differences between the two become more and more obvious.

He's angrier now and has so much less patience. It's not that he's unkind. You know that no matter what his circumstances are, Joel will continue to be a good man. But he has a hair trigger, especially when it comes to you. 

And he wants. God, he always wants you. It’s not that you didn’t have an active sex life before everything fell apart. He just...fucks you differently now. Possessively and without restraint, like he needs to be sure you're satisfied enough to never need anyone else. The agreement to keep sleeping together was actually his idea. And it worked for a while—until it suddenly didn't. 

Now, you're forced to come face-to-face with that reality. Sitting at this bar, you spent the entirety of the night believing he'd decided he didn't want you anymore, that he was ready to find happiness in something simpler than sneaking around with his ex.

Except, it's starting to feel like maybe that's not as true as he made it seem. Like he never should've gone on this date in the first place.

"What the fuck, Joel?" you hiss, fighting to keep your volume under control. Not that it matters. The entire bar is staring at you, their eyes ping-ponging back and forth like they're watching a tennis match. "Back the fuck off. Now. This is none of your business."

"The hell it ain't my business. Some kid's runnin' his hands all over another man's girl and y'think that ain't my business?" 

His trembling hands clench into fists at his sides and, while you’re betting the rest of the bar thinks he’s preparing for a fight, that isn’t Joel. It might be you, though, if he keeps this up.

"Excuse me? And whose girl am I—yours? Because I'm pretty sure your girl is sitting over there in that booth. Or did you forget about your date?"

For a moment, he actually has the nerve to look ashamed, like he feels bad about leaving her all alone at their table and for humiliating her in front of all these people. He avoids her crestfallen gaze, likely not ready to face the hurt he’s caused. 

But it only lasts for a second before his eyes darken again, focused solely on you. As if Jesse, his pretty date, and everyone else in this bar disappeared, and it's just you and him. This conversation doesn't include them anymore. It's a private matter now.

"We're leavin'," he says with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

He should know better. That's not how things work with you. You’re a fighter, a trait he’s always loved about you, even if your ire was directed at him. Back then, it rarely was.

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm leaving with you," you scoff bitterly. "Go back to your date, I'll go back to mine, and we can forget about this. All of it. We're done, Joel."

He shakes his head, mouth tipping down into a frown like he's thinking something over. Then, he huffs out a laugh. Like, an actual laugh, and you start to think maybe he really has lost his mind.

"Y'know, I really don't think we are, darlin'," he drawls dangerously. 

He's on you in an instant, his hand wrapped tightly around your arm as he drags you out of the bar. You briefly consider resisting, but he's moving too quickly. All of those shots you downed combined with the beer you drank earlier go straight to your head, and you're suddenly overwhelmingly distracted by the feeling of his skin on yours.

Fuck, it feels like it's been so long. In reality, you know it's only been a few weeks but, god, you missed it. His hands on your body, anywhere at all on your body. You'd hate how quickly you forget about Jesse if you could think about anything else but those familiar, rough fingertips.

The way they dig into you, reminiscent of how he'd squeeze your thighs or clutch your waist when he was making love to you.

...Wait, what? No...no, fuck. Why is he making this so difficult? Why—Christ...why can't you just leave each other alone? If he never planned on letting you go, he shouldn't have broken up with you. And if he still wanted you this badly...all he had to do was ask. You would've said yes in a heartbeat.

So, you let him steal you away, out into the brisk, wintry air that does little to cool your fury or the heat beginning to coil in your belly. The door shuts noisily behind you, and you immediately wrench your arm out of his grasp before he can say a word. It's your turn to talk now.

"What is wrong with you? You can't just...fuck, you can't do shit like this!" You're seething, practically shaking in your rage, and his expression doesn't look much different. 

"And you can? I dunno what the hell you were thinkin' gettin’ cozy with some goddamn kid, lettin’ him touch ya like that in front of the whole town," he reiterates harshly. He's starting to sound like a broken record. It's the only leverage he's got, and you both know it's flimsy at best.

"Some kid? Jesse's a fucking adult, clearly more mature than you," you bite back. "And it’s a bar, Joel. That's what people do at bars."

Joel scoffs, and you can tell he hates the way Jesse's name falls from your lips. Especially when those lips were on yours not even ten minutes ago. 

"And who are you to decide who can and can't touch me? You broke up with me," you continue resentfully. "You don't get a say anymore."

At that, his face becomes unreadable. He didn't need the reminder, and you know that, but it needed to be said for both of your sakes. Sometimes you think maybe he actually forgets it was his choice to give you up. That he didn't realize his decision would hurt you as much as it hurt him.

"So, what? You gonna take him home then, let him fuck ya?" He leans in close, so close you can feel his soft, graying curls against your temple and the coarse drag of his beard across your cheek. 

"Kiss ya here—," a finger trails delicately down the side of your neck to his spot above your collarbone, then continues down to where you've been aching for him for weeks, "—taste ya here." 

You slap his hand away before he can get any further, but your reaction only spurs him on. How could you forget? He likes that.

"Y'know he can't make ya feel as good as I do. Fuck you just how y'like it, make ya cum as hard as I do," he drawls confidently, almost smugly, in your ear. "Don't ya?"

It's less a question than a statement, because you both know he's right. Joel knows your body better than anyone ever has, maybe even better than you know it yourself. Just as much as you know his. And it's sort of funny. You were thinking the exact same thing about him with his date earlier.

"Sure, Joel. Just like you were gonna take that girl home, right?" You raise an eyebrow, turning your head so your lips graze his skin. "Pretty little thing like her, I bet she likes it slow and romantic. She’ll probably even stick around for a snuggle and some pillow talk. You'd love that.”

Even as you mock him, the sneer marring your face doesn’t quite meet your eyes, and the spiteful nature of your words tastes acrid as they pass your lips. He’s so good at that. Always able to bring out the worst in you to prove his point—that he’s no good for you.

But you stand firm, your chest pressed flush against his in a show of determination. You're still in control here, unlike Joel, whose fingers are twitching noticeably at his sides like he's just itching to get his hands on you again. 

"Maybe I would. Liked it with you, didn't I?" he murmurs wistfully, and that catches you completely off guard.

His words are almost too gentle to belong in this argument, and it doesn’t feel fair. What's worse, he looks like he means them. You’d prefer the fight, the aggression of the man who dragged you out of the bar. Not this. Not these traces of your Joel. 

You can already feel your resolve slipping, and the rapid thrum of your heartbeat tells you to let it. When his hands finally take their rightful place on your waist, he’s in control again.

The cool evening air is suddenly stifling, and you’re starting to feel like you’re suffocating, your thoughts a jumbled, heated haze of anger and fear and want. He squeezes hard enough to pull your hips into his and you unintentionally buck, allowing his hands to travel up your shirt. 

There's an intensity to his gaze, tinged with an unexpected tenderness. He almost looks...sated. Fulfilled, now that you're back in his arms. But not completely, not yet.

"You still haven't answered my question," he mutters. His hands splay across your ribcage, high enough for his thumbs to tease the undersides of your breasts.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his chest to push him away so you can catch your breath, but your body won't cooperate. It's been well-trained to crave his touch. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you fist his shirt and instead pull him impossibly closer.

"You asked a lot of questions tonight. You're gonna have to be a little more specific,” you pant heavily.

It's getting more difficult to think, now, with the warmth of his body against you, his thumbs shifting higher to stroke your stiffening nipples. He urges your hips forward again to meet his, and you can already feel him straining in his jeans.

You whimper helplessly, unable to curb the way your body's reacting to him, and the soft sound causes something in him to snap. He suddenly backs you up against the hard brick of the bar's exterior and begins to grind languidly into your stomach. 

"Y'really believe that boy can take care of a woman like you? Hm?" He interrogates you, his voice gravelly and uneven in your ear. "Tell me I'm the only one who can give you what ya need. Wanna hear ya say it."

Fuck, you can't lie to him. As much as you want to, it's just one more thing your body won't allow you to do. Not when he's working you up like this. 

"You're the only one," you moan around your admission. He's still crowding you into the wall, his hands greedily roaming your soft curves.

His eyes meet yours, darting quickly to your mouth before he leans in to kiss you passionately like he’s rewarding you. It only lasts for a second, one deliciously fleeting second, before he pulls away. You’re not sure why you let him. Or why you kissed back.

"Who's the only man who can make ya scream?" he demands a little more urgently.

"You, Joel,” you murmur obediently, your lips already parted and ready for your prize.

And he acquiesces—another insistent kiss that doesn’t last nearly long enough. This time, you chase him, but he jerks his head back. He still has one last question for you. Except, this time, he looks afraid of the answer. 

"Whose girl are ya?"

He whispers it so softly, you barely catch it over the whistling, nighttime breeze. As he brushes a few ruffled strands of hair behind your ear, you answer without hesitation. 

"Yours, Joel."

His entire body relaxes. Now, he's complete.

"Damn right, you are—"

Then, the front door bursts open next to you, and he's abruptly cut off. Joel is quick to tug you around the corner into the alleyway before anyone can spot you, but he's not fast enough to keep you from seeing who just left the bar.

Jesse.

And there it is. A shock to the system, enough to clear some of that smoky, nostalgic haze and bring you back to the present. But as everything hurtles back for the second time tonight, this time around, you can’t be mad because he’s right.

Of course, you're not Jesse's girl. As pathetic as it sounds, you'll always be Joel's because he’s the only one who can take care of you and give you what need. The only man who can make you scream. But that goes both ways.

Even though he’s been picking fights all night, he hasn’t raised his voice once. It's not the way he wins his battles. So, maybe it's time to remind Joel Miller that there is someone who can make him scream. But he isn't allowed to unless you say so.

It all feels eerily familiar—his fingers digging into your waist and your lips crashing into his hard enough to bruise. You lead him deeper into the alley, back to where the glow of the string lights above the bar can't reach you, before you separate from him. 

Neither of you wants to be the one to say it, but it needs to be heard. Here, in the dark, you can be his completely, but once you part ways and return to your empty beds, that's it. Just like last time. The reasons for your breakup are still very real, and that means your relationship can't be.

"Only here. Right, Joel?"   

He stays silent for a moment, his gaze filled with deep longing and sadness. It almost makes you want to take it back. Take him back. So, when he shakes his head and cups your cheeks, kissing you like this might be his last chance, you're not surprised in the slightest.

And after this whole night—this whole confusing, fucked-up night—you let him. Right now, he needs this. Maybe you do, too.

His lips taste like whiskey and relief, and you return his kiss with all of the passion and fervor he’s pouring into you. You’re both a little frantic in the way you touch each other, but as much as you don’t want it to, it makes perfect sense. 

Those few weeks without each other felt like years, and now that his hands are back on your body and his voice, deep and dulcet, is in your ear telling you how badly he wants you, you don’t want to let him go again.

You grind the heel of your hand into the front of his jeans and his responding groan pleases you more than it probably should. This. This is yours—his pleasure, his attention, him. They belong to you and you alone. Not his pretty, perky fucking date. 

The sudden possessiveness stuns you for a moment, but it's not enough to stop the feeling from consuming you. This must be how it feels for Joel. It's potent and feels so, so…right. You're starting to think you've felt this way for a while.

"I needed you, and you made me wait so fucking long," you gasp against his lips, and the fingers cradling your face tense. You’re still fisting his shirt, nearly hard enough to tear, and you wrench it up from where it’s tucked into his pants. 

"M'sorry, darlin', I know. I know I did,” he rasps back, following your lead and dropping his hands from your cheeks so he can unbuckle his jeans. “M'gonna make it up to ya. Tell me what you want, I’ll give it to ya.”

You want everything. Everything he has to give, you want it all. After everything you've been through, the hurt he caused you, you deserve it. And right now, what you want is for him to feel so good, he'll never go on a date with someone who isn't you ever again.

Sharp gravel bites into your bare skin as you drop to your knees in front of him. He's already so hard under all that heavy fabric and looks desperate above you. Just as desperate as you are for him to replace the flavor of Jesse's tequila and lime on your tongue with something saltier and headier, and undeniably Joel.

You hastily unbutton and unzip his jeans, not wasting any more of the precious time you have left together, before tugging them down just enough to free his cock and balls. He looks...fucking mouth-watering—flushed and red and leaking, and so goddamn thick. You wrap your hand around him and he sighs gratefully, dribbling precum onto your fingers.

"This is what I want," you finally reply, keeping your eyes locked on his as you lean forward to lick a broad line up his cock. He hisses in a breath through his teeth, his thighs already beginning to tremble, and you brace your hand on one. "But you're gonna be quiet, okay? I'm gonna suck your cock and you're not gonna make a single sound."

His expression darkens, but he agrees to your terms, nonetheless.

"Sure, darlin'. Whatever you say," he nods, gazing down at you with furrowed brows. He cradles your face in his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheekbone.

The affectionate gesture isn't lost on you, but this time you accept it. Instinctively leaning into his touch, you revel in it for a brief moment before his cock pulsing a frantic rhythm against your palm becomes an unignorable distraction. But a welcome one.

"That's my boy," you mumble against the tip. Just as a pained noise escapes his parted lips, you swallow him down as far as you can take him, purposely gagging yourself on him before you can dwell on the words that accidentally just tumbled out.

Your boy. Your boy. It echoes in your mind, ricocheting wildly and painfully like a bullet. Before you can take it back, maybe even to keep you from taking it back, he buries his fingers in your hair and holds you in place. You choke around him, trying your best to breathe through your nose, but in doing so, you take in a lungful of the heady musk at his base.

The familiarity of it all sends you reeling. He only gives you a second to adjust before he's fucking into your mouth and biting back a litany of needy sounds that rival your own wet, audible gagging. Your grip on his thigh tightens as your throat relaxes, allowing you to take him deeper, and you can feel yourself clenching around nothing every time he grazes the back of your throat. 

Tears stream down your cheeks and he wipes them away with a much too tender swipe of his thumb, even as he continues to force you up and down his cock. But you're too lost in your pleasure to notice anymore. So fucking good, you feel so, so good. But you need more, and you're not willing to pull off of him just yet.

Tugging down the front of your shirt, you roll a sensitive nipple between your fingers, and, god, that helps. You imagine they're Joel's and it amplifies the sensation, though your fingertips are still too smooth and delicate. Then, they're replaced by exactly what you've been yearning for all night. 

“You don’t even know how beautiful y'look like this,” he grits out, his fingers running through your hair with one hand and roughly cupping your breast with the other. His hips stutter, and you moan around him. “Fuckin’ perfect. How are ya so fuckin’ perfect?”

Beautiful. More beautiful than her? Well, you must be, because you’re the one here on your knees, choking on his cock, and she’s still sitting in the bar wondering if her date will ever come back. 

He won’t.

You preen without meaning to, your eyes blearily finding his while you drool around him, dripping saliva down his balls and onto your bare breasts. It's as if the visual alone has him thrusting into your mouth faster, pushing your limits only as much as he knows you can take. You must look like a wet dream right now, his wet dream, with your watery eyes and swollen, split-slick lips wrapped tightly around him.

Yet, he's remained so, so quiet this entire time, just like you told him to. Joel likes his sex loud, regardless of where you are and who might hear, so if he’s following your rules, that means something. 

It means he'll do whatever it takes to have you. The realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice water, and then you're pulling off of him. 

“You’ll give me anything, right? Anything I want?” your voice cracks around the question, wrecked from the effort of taking him. His hips chase your hand as you continue to pump him, matching his previous, unforgiving pace. 

“That ain’t a question, y’know I will,” he replies breathily and without hesitation. 

You gaze up at him, praying your eyes convey all of the need and anguish and hope you've felt since the last time you slept together. Since the last time you were his.

“Fuck me," and you won't accept anything less than his all. Not that half-assed shit he would've given her. "Fuck me."

He understands. His heart rate kicks up, thrumming wildly against the palm of your hand, and you know he does.

The growl that rumbles through his chest is nearly soundless but powerful. An entire night's worth of tension culminating in a single exhaled breath, just before he drags you up and spins you around, bending you over against the wall. 

Bracing yourself on the harsh brick, you rush to give him better access, arching your back as he tugs your pants and underwear down to your knees. A callused hand runs upward, following the notches of your spine, while his other spreads across your waist, pulling your hips back onto his so you can feel him, heavy and leaking against your bare ass.

God, he’s so close to where you need him now. His knuckles graze your skin as he grips the base, pumping himself before the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance.

But then, for some godforsaken reason, you feel a wave of panic. Time suddenly feels like it's running out, worsening with every subtle movement he makes. The ticking clock of your and Joel's relationship, perpetually stuck at two minutes to midnight, has sprung to life and that terrifies you.

You don't want him to stop—fuck, you don't want him to stop, but you know neither of you will last long once he's inside you. The build-up was too intense and this entire night has you both wound up so tight, you could snap at any moment. 

You need to savor this. The way you failed to on your couch all those weeks ago, and might not get to ever again.

“Slow,” you tell him over your shoulder, and it's equal parts a command and a plea. If this is the last time, then you want to feel it. Every thick inch of him, while he still belongs to you. “Just…go slow.”

He nods, shifting forward almost imperceptibly so he can watch your lashes flutter as you brace for the stretch.

"Don't need’ta tell me. I know how ya like it," he replies gruffly.

He does. For now, you won’t overthink it or let yourself get lost in the nostalgia of his cock nestled inside you. You’ll just enjoy it. Sex with Joel has always been mind-blowing, and here, in a dirty alleyway, pressed up against the exterior of a bar, you bet it’ll be life-changing.

It stings like it always does when he breaches your entrance, no matter how wet you are for him. Together, you hiss in a sharp breath, mutually adjusting to the overwhelming stretch that quickly ebbs into something addictive.

"Tight as all goddamn hell," he mutters to himself, rocking into you languidly. He takes his time, relishing your walls enveloping him, mesmerized by the way you suck him in until he's buried to the hilt. 

"Would'ja look at that," he continues in awe, tracing where his cock is forcing you to yield to him. "Greedy fuckin' pussy, ain't she? M'not goin' anywhere, don't'chu worry. Gonna take care of ya...make ya feel so fuckin' good..."

He's starting to babble. Not good. Not good at all. 

Broad hands grip your ass, pulling your cheeks apart so he can see how tightly you’re gripping him, and it's too much. His hips buck, startling a pained whine out of you as he rams into that spot. The one deep inside you he can only reach when he’s fucking you from behind. Your cunt clenches, fighting to keep him there, and he growls low in his throat, hungry and territorial like a wild animal.

"There it is," he nudges it again, purposefully this time. You barely manage to bite back a sob as you gush messily around him. "Christ, honey, y'sure ya still want it slow? 'Cus it sure don't sound like it."

He's patronizing you. He knows exactly what he's doing—that's his spot. He also knows it makes you loud as fuck. But he wouldn’t. There’s no way he’d go back on his word, not after he promised he’d be discreet.

"Joel. Don't," you warn him shakily, but you're already too far gone to be intimidating. 

He pulls out until just the tip is still inside you, huffing out a distinctly calculated breath.

"Don't what? Don't make ya cum nice and loud on my cock? 'Fraid I can't do that, darlin'."

That's all the warning you get before he slams in hard. Your jaw drops, and you're positive you couldn't have stopped the wail punched out of your chest even if you'd tried.

Wrong. You’re wrong again, and you should’ve known better. It’s not the first time he’s gone back on his word, remember? Joel’s shitty lack of communication is why you’re here in the first place. Sure, he agreed to be quiet, but he never said anything about you.

He establishes a brutal pace that has you scrabbling against the wall for purchase and slapping a hand over your mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the desperate cries being forced from your body.

Please, don’t be outside. Please, please, Jesse. Don’t still be outside. 

But your luck's officially run out. 

Heavy mahogany crashes into solid brick, echoing down the alleyway, and a raucous group of people spills out onto the street, barely 30 feet from where your ass and tits are out for anyone to see. Then, the deep baritone of Jesse's voice cuts through the rest, and your blood immediately turns to ice. 

You're fucked. You're about to get caught and expose your secret to the entire town, except...Joel isn't stopping. Fuck, he's—

Yanking your entire body up and ripping your hand away from your mouth, rutting into you like he was just waiting for an audience. He snakes a hand up your stomach to palm at your chest, squeezing firmly to anchor himself as he fucks up into you with all the force he can muster.

And it turns you on so much, you finally stop caring. Fuck it. Fuck this town. Fuck everyone in that bar who made you feel like a goddamn pariah for months, crucifying you for the unforgivable sin of getting your heart broken. 

You hope his date's standing out there, too, so she can hear everything she'll never get to have. So they can all see that Joel Miller isn't the crushed, cruelly dumped old man they all thought he was.

Your moans ring out, loud and high-pitched, all but drowning out the messy slap of his hips into the drenched curve of your ass.

"That's it, darlin', let it all out," he chuckles darkly against the shell of your ear. Your next moan tapers into a drawn-out keen that he mimics, his thrusts getting shallow and sloppy. "S'for me, right? Let 'em know you're makin' all those pretty noises just for me."

Christ, you're close. And he's as close as you are, you can feel it. You turn your head, nodding jerkily into his shoulder.

"S'for you, Joel—mmph, just for you. Only for you," your words slur as he continues to bounce you on his cock. 

"Tell 'em you're mine, darlin’. Not just here," he pants raggedly, desperation coating his words. "Everywhere. You're mine everywhere."

The voices are getting closer, about to pass the mouth of the alley, and the ice in your veins quickly thaws, turning to molten lava. They'll definitely be able to able to hear you, but can they see you? For the umpteenth time tonight, you decide you really don't give a shit. You've got none left. You and Joel, that's all that matters now. 

His hand drops between your legs, thick fingers swirling tight, slick circles into your clit while he waits for you to confirm what he already knows. You've said it again and again—weeks ago, wrapped up in his arms, and earlier tonight, after the worst argument you've had since the breakup. 

And you’ll tell him again in this alley as you cum blindingly hard around his cock. Third time's the charm.

"Y-yours, Joel. I'm always yours."

His hips completely lose their rhythm, and he barely has time to breathe out his contentment before the violent convulsing of your cunt and contrasting serenity of your words send him hurtling over the edge.

"That's my girl."

He crashes his lips into yours, swallowing every noise you make as the group finally comes into view. Their drunken chattering and roughhousing aren't enough to draw your attention away from each other, but the depraved sounds of Joel continuing to fuck you through your release captures theirs almost immediately.

A few of them stop to squint into the darkness, trying their best to pinpoint what everyone already knows is happening further down the alley. As they inch closer, they can just barely make out two connected figures, and the wind carrying muffled gasps and labored breathing with it into the street all but confirms it.

"Y'all seein' this?" they whisper amongst themselves, but in the inebriated state they're in, they might as well be yelling.

And that's what pulls you and Joel back to reality. Shit. Shit. So, this is it, then. You tense in Joel's arms, waiting to get called out as the slutty girl who seduced her ex away from his date. Hell, they're not even wrong. You can feel his cum dribbling out of you, and can't help but think maybe you'd deserve it.

From where you're standing, you recognize each and every one of their faces under the string lights, and you know damn well that none of them can keep their mouths shut. Except...wait a second. They're still glancing back and forth between you and Joel in the shadows and each other. 

Oh. The fucking shadows. None of them can see shit. They have no clue who the hell they're looking at. Joel must've caught on around the same time you did, because now he's backing up, putting more distance between you and the looming crowd. Before they can get any closer, one of the younger guys cuts in front to block their path.

“C’mon, it's probably a couple’a teenagers. Just let ‘em be," he drawls, glancing back at you. Your eyes lock, and you're suddenly so grateful, you could cry. It's Jesse. He shoots you a wink before turning back to the group, shaking his head in mock admonishment. "Don't act like y'all weren't doin' the same damn thing at their age."

By some miracle, it fucking works. They all laugh in agreement, appeased by Jesse's quick thinking. One by one, they follow each other out of the alley and back onto the road to continue their original path home. Jesse lingers. 

"Glad y'all figured things out," he calls out over his shoulder, giving you privacy to tug your shirt back up. He clears his throat awkwardly before continuing, "Look, I, uh...distracted as many people as I could from comin' over here, but if y'all were gonna be that loud, maybe you should'a figured things out at home."

Jesse shakes his head again, chuckling to himself as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Anyway, y'all have a good night, now. Get home safe."

As he jogs away to catch up with the rest of the group, you start to laugh, too. You can’t help it. It feels cathartic, relieving some of the tension of this overly eventful night.

Joel’s body begins to shake behind you, his chest rumbling with what you realize is deep-bellied laughter. It gradually increases in volume as it melds seamlessly with yours; transitory, white clouds of condensation that intertwine, then dissipate.

You feel him slip out as he starts to soften, and then he turns you to face him, carefully crowding you into the wall. He kisses you again, this time slow and deliberate like you asked him to earlier. His tongue meets yours, gasps exchanged and treasured like you have all the time in the world. 

When he parts from you, it feels reluctant, but he stays close, whispering his next words against your lips.

“M’gonna get ya cleaned up, alright?” he mumbles, dropping his arm from around your waist to run his fingers up the cum leaking down your thighs. You shiver as they continue up, slipping his release back inside you. “Don’t…,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut as his forehead drops to yours, “…just—don’t go anywhere. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Maybe he’s trying to protect himself from the response he anticipates you’ll give him, but that seems silly after everything you’ve been through tonight. You cup his cheek and thumb the coarse, trimmed hairs of his beard, willing him to open his eyes. He does, hesitantly, one then the other, and you offer him a soft smile.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”

An intoxicating breath fans across your face, and the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen. His lips match the soft quirk of your own and, then, brush fleetingly against your cheekbone as he backs away and disappears through a metal side door you didn't notice before. The moment it clicks shut, you slump against the wall. 

Christ. Your mind is simultaneously blank and racing a mile a minute. Taking a deep breath, you let your head thunk into solid, grounding brick while you wait for even a single coherent thought to take root. What now? What happens next? 

There's no coming back from tonight. You both made choices you'll have to answer for, but, for some reason, that doesn't seem so scary anymore. The clock is ticking, but there's time. Plenty of it.

You're still lost in your reverie when Joel gets back with a thick wad of damp paper towels. You snort at the idea of him suddenly appearing in Seth's kitchen and having to explain himself, but maybe the racket you kicked up right outside his door was explanation enough.

"Seth didn't give you any shit for stealing his stuff?" you ask as Joel drops to his knees and coaxes one of your legs over his shoulder.

The cold air has already started to leach the warmth from the paper towels, and they feel cool as he slides them along your soiled skin. He huffs out a laugh.

"Nah, the kitchen was empty. Think they're startin' to close up for the night." 

When he finishes your first thigh, he surprises you by leaning in to press a soft kiss against your freshly cleaned skin. He nips at you teasingly before starting on the next one.

You hum in response, threading your fingers through his hair and watching fondly as he pays careful attention to his task. He continues to wipe away his drying release, trailing his lips down your thigh as he goes, until he finishes at your knee.

He gazes up at you with a charmingly crooked grin, and that’s when it finally slips out. The single coherent thought you’ve been waiting for.

“I love you, Joel,” you murmur, brushing your fingertips across his cheek. 

His smile falters. Then, it drops completely and your heart shatters. You don’t understand. But that—no. No, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. After everything that’s happened, how could you have been wrong again?

Joel sighs, grimacing as he slowly gets back up. He braces himself on one knee, clearly aching more than he's letting on, but when you reach down to offer him a hand, he refuses your help.

“S’fine, I got it. Just…,” he gestures to your jeans, still hanging loosely around your knees. You pull them up, fighting not to feel humiliated as he rises to his full height. 

You search his eyes for…something. Anything. Any indication of what he’s feeling right now, but they’re blank. Cold and distant, just like they were the night he left you. 

No. He doesn’t get to do this to you again. Not after everything you’ve been through. Not without an explanation. Not if he doesn’t want to lose you forever.

“Tell me why you broke up with me."

For a long time, you genuinely believed you could live without knowing the truth, but somewhere along the line, it began to eat away at you. Now, you want the real reason. He owes you that, at the very least.

You wait while he either works himself up to it or tries to figure out what bullshit to tell you this time. Once his hands settle on his hips, you know with absolute certainty it's the latter.

“Darlin’…,” he starts wearily, but you shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks. He doesn't get to call you that right now, and he knows it. Pausing, he nods grimly before beginning again. "We already talked about this. I’m no good for ya. It was only a matter of time before ya woke up one day and realized it for yourself.”

There it is. That same bullshit reason. You scoff bitterly, not surprised in the slightest.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Joel? We were together for years. If that was gonna happen, don’t you think it would’ve already?" you counter angrily. 

You're trying not to get emotional. This can't be a repeat of what happened last time, but it's dragging up too many painful memories. It's always the same fight. You can't do this anymore.

"You know what? Fuck you," you seethe as your self-control slips completely. "Fuck you for making that decision for me. You had no right."

At your words, his face crumples and he has the nerve to look ashamed. Maybe even a little hurt. His pained expression makes your heart ache, yet a nastier part of you believes it's only fair that he feels this way, too. He sighs, his eyes dropping wistfully to his feet.

“I did what I thought was best," he mumbles quietly as if he doesn't want to be heard. It's hard for him to say this out loud, and you realize it's because he's finally telling you the truth. "I just…I thought you’d be happier with someone else, someone who could give ya a family. Kids. I gave you up so you could have the life ya always wanted."

You eye him incredulously. The life you always wanted? Sure, you and Joel had toyed with the idea of having a family once upon a time, but that was never a dealbreaker. He should've known that. He should've brought it up before deciding to destroy your life together over an idealized fantasy.

“Oh, here we go. Joel, the fucking savior. Mr. Fix-It, swooping in to save everyone and solve every problem," you hurl back venomously. But it was a cruel thing to say, and you immediately hate yourself for it.

Rationally, you know his intentions were kind. He probably even thought he was being selfless. But he hurt you, and, through your tunnel vision, that's all you can see. You push yourself off the wall, stalking closer to where he stands, still refusing to look at you.

"So what, you thought you’d dump me and I’d immediately shack up with some other asshole? Is that really what you think of me?”

His eyes shoot up to yours and his fingers begin to tap restlessly at his sides. Now, you've pissed him off. 

“Don't go puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t true and you fuckin’ know it," he all but growls, his body shaking with a turbulent combination of frustration and adrenaline.

You're starting to feel it, too. This conversation is overwhelming both of you, but he still hasn't told you everything. There's a piece missing, keeping all of his disjointed reasonings from adding up. He's holding back and it's time for him to stop.

“Then what is, Joel?" you plead with him to give you a definitive answer. One that finally explains why you had to lose everything. Ellie, your home. The love of your life. "What’s the truth?"

Then, everything he's kept bottled up inside and allowed to poison his happiness claws its way out as a single, unwavering statement. 

“I’m too fuckin’ old for you!”

The silence that follows his admission is deafening. You watch in shock as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He's never yelled like that before or looked so defeated. By something as innocuous as his age. 

It isn't something you'd ever considered, not before your relationship and never once during. But he did. His bottom lip starts to tremble as he turns and takes a few steps away from you.

“Every day, I’d watch ya…offerin’ to take more shifts, spendin’ time at the school with Ellie and the kids," he says softly, shaking his head as he works through his next words. "And every day, I’d feel it. My body givin’ out on me, more and more. My blood pressure’s up, my goddamn knees are creakin’. Couldn’t even fuckin’ stand up on my own just now." 

When he turns back to you, his eyes are wet with unshed tears. He feels too far, but you know you can't go to him, yet. He's not finished.

"You can do better than that. You deserve better than that," his voice cracks and your whole world blurs into a wash of colors. “You’re gonna outlive me by a mile. I’m an old man, darlin’. It wasn’t fair for me to keep ya.”

For a while, you just watch each other. Tears overflow and continuously spill down his cheeks and yours, but neither of you moves to wipe them away. 

None of this is fair. You're both miserable and heartbroken, perpetually yearning for a love you've told yourselves you can't have. Months ago, Joel made a choice for both of you. You won't make the same mistake he did.

"I didn't want fair, Joel. I wanted you. A life with you...," your face screws up as you fight back a sob, "...the rest of my life with you, however long that is."

Joel takes a tentative step forward, carefully reaching out to touch you, but stops himself before he can get too close. He looks afraid...of you. Scared of the consequences of allowing you back into his heart. 

A sob escapes your chest, then, and you wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly bitterly cold and wanting nothing more than for Joel to hold you. To tell you for the first time since the breakup that he loves you and, regardless of time, won't ever stop.

So, you cross the alleyway and cup his wet cheeks in your hands, wiping away his sadness and, hopefully, his fears. He melts into the poignant familiarity of your touch and it makes you brave. This time, you'll be brave enough for both of you.

"Don't I deserve that?" you whisper, close enough to share his next breath. He watches your lips, hanging onto your every word. "Don't you?" 

His eyes meet yours, and it finally happens. The moment Joel gives in and decides to let himself be happy. He nods slowly in your grasp, reaching up to cradle your hand on his cheek. 

"Dunno what I deserve, darlin'. Not after the things I've done and the hurt I put ya through. But if I'm...if this is really what ya want...," he hesitates, his voice thick with tears and, yet, still that full-bodied, twang that sounds like home. "I'm yours. 'Til my last breath, I'm yours."

He kisses you before either of you can start crying again, and it's all there. The love he kept under lock and key to protect you, released from the prison of his own making.

His kiss feels different again. There's no hunger or rush, and the possessiveness—the need to devour everything you have to give so there's nothing left for anyone else—is gone. He's sure, now, that there's no one else you'd rather give yourself to.

His arms circle your waist and he pulls you closer, crushing you into time-worn chambray and sullied denim as you continue to explore each other like a pair of horny teenagers. Two lovers learning to give and take for the first time. Time passes slowly in this space you've carved out for yourselves, even as the moon continues to rise in the night sky and floods the corridor with light. 

Then, noisily and as if right on cue, the last-call crowd stumbles from the bar and immediately catches what the previous group missed. You and Joel separate, dazed but unhurried, to find that it's them. 

It has to be fucking kismet that, of everyone in Jackson, the first to witness your reconciliation would be the biggest blabbermouths in the entire town. The same women who talked shit about you every day for months and constantly vied for Joel's attention, standing there with wide eyes and slack jaws.

Their varied expressions almost make you want to laugh, and you can't help but snort unattractively into Joel's shoulder. Half of them are glaring at you, and the rest look either devastated or genuinely surprised. Guess you were better at hiding your arrangement than you thought, not that it matters anymore. It's a relationship again, and everyone's about to know all about it. Joel clears his throat, drawing their attention back to him.

"Evenin', ladies. S'there somethin' we can help ya with?" he drawls, breaking out the Southern charm that endeared every single one of them to him in the first place.

They all shake their heads, looking a little too pleased with themselves once the initial shock wears off and they realize you've just given them the gossip of the century. After a few fake, high-pitched pleasantries, they slink away as quickly as they came, already chatting to themselves about some shit you'll definitely hear tomorrow at breakfast. You watch them go, feeling oddly liberated.

"Guess the cat's outta the bag, huh?" You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, still chuckling softly to yourself. Joel huffs out a laugh, too, bending down to kiss the crown of your head before nodding in agreement.

"'Fraid so," he muses, amusement and a hint of something lighter glinting in his eyes. 

You haven't seen him this relaxed in a long time. As he holds you in his arms, he leans a fraction of his weight on you to ease the night's strain on his back and knees, and it makes you feel needed. Relied on. That's new, Joel depending on you like this. Things are going to be different this time around, you can tell. They already are. 

You hum, ruminating on what awaits you after your first night back in your own bed, in your own home. What everyone will think and say—to your face and behind your back—when they find out you're back together. Though, the only opinions you give a shit about are Ellie, Tommy, and Maria's, anyway.

So, yeah, you're a lot of things right now: exhausted, yet relieved and so full of hope. But you're not afraid, the cat and the bag be damned.

"I'm not," you tell him honestly as you pull away. You let your hands trail from his shoulders, down his arms, until his hands are in yours. 

Tugging gently, you walk him backward out of the alley, away from the bar and plummeting winter chill, and any lingering, prying eyes. Even the moon and stars have no stake in what comes next. This moment, right here and now, belongs to you and Joel, alone.

"Take me home, Joel."

The light in his eyes burns brighter, amusement giving way to adoration and contentment. He's been waiting for this, to be given the privilege of keeping you safe and taking care of you the way he needs to—it's how he shows love. 

He slots his fingers between yours and leads you down the empty streets of Jackson. 

"Darlin', nothin' would make me happier."

thanks for reading!

[zaynessbeloved]

Hung like a Masterpiece

Synopsis: You're an award-winning artist. He’s an arrogant painter with a god complex. Forced to share a gallery, your rivalry turns into something messy, physical, and addictive. But beneath the sharp words and slow-burning stares, something unexpected begins to take shape—something neither of you can frame, contain, or walk away from.

Content warnings: Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, rivals in love and art, slow burn, gallery AU, he falls first, she denies it longer, mutual pining (but in denial), smug flirting as a love language, rough sex with feelings, porn with feelings, teasing, wall sex, “say please” energy, power dynamics, foreplay, biting, sexual tension, power play, praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, semi-public sex, orgasm control.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 10.8k

A/n: I set out to write artistic rivalry and somehow ended up with wall sex, ruined reputations, and feelings haha. Honestly? This vision fits Rafayel a little too well haha. He’s dramatic, he’s cocky, and of course he’d fall for someone who bites back just as hard. (bcs ofc he would) Enjoyyy<3

A/n: this is divided into 2 parts. the next part is already posted and you can check it out at the end!

Part 1

You met Rafayel at an art gala you weren’t even supposed to attend.

You were covering for your boss—an emergency trip, a last-minute cancellation, whatever excuse got you shoved into a too-tight dress and sent to charm donors and scout new talent for your gallery. You’d barely stepped into the room before you heard his name.

Rafayel Qi. Sculptor. Painter. Prodigy. Nightmare. 

You’d heard the rumors—about the temper, the ego, the way he tore down critics with a smile on his lips and a knife hidden in the sweetness of his words. But you hadn’t expected that. That smug little smirk, that lilac shirt half-unbuttoned like he owned the room. And those eyes, violet and glittering like they knew every terrible thing about you already.

He caught you staring.

You looked away first.

"You're from Callahan Gallery, aren’t you?" he said later, swirling wine in a glass like he cared more about the liquid than you. "The one with the overpriced taste and underwhelming catalog." 

You smiled. "And you’re the one who thinks a splash of blue and a tortured past makes him a genius."

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like he’d been waiting for someone to bite back.

The rest of the night spiraled from there.

You ran into him again two weeks later, at a museum event where you were actually on the guest list. He was leaned against a marble pillar like it was a throne, hair tied back, wearing a jacket that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

"You follow me now?" he asked as you approached the same installation.

"Please," you scoffed. "I have taste."

"Do you?" he murmured, eyes sliding over you with maddening calm. "Still wasting it on this museum’s third-rate curation?"

Another stare. Another dare. 

It became a pattern. You’d see him at events, gallery openings, even on the steps outside a café one afternoon—like the universe was playing a joke. Every time, the same routine. A cutting remark. A sharper comeback. A look that lingered too long.

Once, he brushed past you in a crowded hallway, and your shoulders touched. He stopped walking.

So did you.

Neither of you said a word. Neither of you moved. 

The tension crackled like static. 

And then he smirked, low and lazy. "Careful, cutie. I might start thinking you like me."

"You’d have to be delusional," you replied.

He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “That makes two of us.”

It kept happening.

You’d walk into a room and feel him before you saw him—like the hum of a storm building in the distance. Always too polished, too smug, leaning against something he didn’t belong to like it belonged to him. Eyes scanning the crowd like he was bored by the world but waiting for you.

“Tell me,” he murmured once at an artist showcase, lips brushing the rim of his wine glass, “do you always look this miserable at events, or am I just lucky?”

You didn’t bother looking up from the sculpture. “I save my real expressions for people who matter.”

He clicked his tongue, amused. “Then why are your eyes always on me?”

That earned him a full-body stare. Up. Down. Cold.

“I’m usually trying to figure out if you're part of the exhibit,” you said sweetly. “Or if someone just dragged in another pretentious installation.”

He grinned like it thrilled him. “And yet, you always come back for more.”

Another time, he caught you in a bookstore downtown, reaching for the same worn art theory volume. Your fingers brushed. You snatched your hand away like he’d burned you.

He didn’t flinch.

“You read this?” he asked, lifting the book between two fingers like it was a rotting peach. “I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

You turned your head slightly. “Says the man who paints in the dark and sculpts until his hands bleed.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve been reading about me.”

“I was researching red flags.”

He stepped closer. Too close. Your breath hitched.

He noticed.

“Then you must’ve found all the right ones.”

You refused to back down, even when his voice dropped, even when the silence between you felt like an inhale before something dangerous.

That time, you were the one to walk away.

But the gallery was different.

It was yours.

You’d spent weeks curating the proposal. A modern, immersive exhibit that would bring in sponsors, press, and the kind of attention your name deserved. You were already picturing your name on the placard outside the entrance when the director invited you to the meeting.

You didn’t expect him to be there.

But of course—there he was, lounging in a chair at the end of the long table, legs crossed, fingers tapping lazily on the armrest. He didn’t even glance up until the director said your name.

Then those violet eyes locked onto you.

And stayed.

You took the seat directly across from him, spine straight, jaw tight.

“Didn’t know we were accepting proposals from narcissists this year,” you said under your breath. 

He smirked. “Didn’t know gallery girls could bite.” 

The director cleared his throat. “We’ve received two strong pitches for the same space.”

You didn’t need to look to feel Rafayel’s gaze press into the side of your face.

“Oh?” he drawled. “I assumed mine was the only one worth reading.” 

You let out a soft laugh—no humor. “You mean the one with six paragraphs of metaphor and no actual structure?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Structure is for people who don’t know how to feel.”

“And feeling,” you snapped, “doesn’t pay rent.”

The director looked deeply uncomfortable, flipping through notes like they could save him. But it didn’t matter. The meeting went on around you. Neither of you blinked.

And when it ended, when the director mumbled something about “needing time to decide,” you rose from your chair and—

“Do you really think you can win this?” Rafayel asked, voice low behind you.

You turned, your face inches from his. The air between you taut and brittle.

“I don’t think,” you said. “I know.”

He tilted his head, lips barely parted, eyes gleaming like you’d just given him a gift.

“I love it when you lie to yourself.”

The stare lingered.

Hot. Breathless.

And then you both turned away at once.

As if it had never happened at all.

Two days later, the email hits your inbox like a slap in the face.

“We were so impressed by both your proposals, we’ve come to an exciting decision…”

You don’t even finish reading before you're dialing the gallery.

By the time you storm into the office, the director is already holding up both hands like he's trying to ward off a very specific hurricane.

“Before you yell—”

“You want me to collaborate with him?”

“He’s one of the most well-known artists in the region.”

“He’s a menace in designer clothing.”

The door opens behind you, smooth as a sigh. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“Cutie,” Rafayel drawls. “You’re going to give the poor man a heart attack.”

You do turn then. Slowly. Like your spine is made of steel and every inch of you is ready to strangle him with the gallery lanyard around your neck.

He smiles like he enjoys it.

“You knew,” you accuse, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Let’s just say I have a gift for seeing the inevitable.”

“Or you bribed him.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You think I’d waste a bribe on you?” 

“Enough,” the director cuts in, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. You two are firecrackers. Separately, you’re explosive. Together… you might actually change the damn game.”

You stare at him. Then at Rafayel. Then back again. 

“This was supposed to be my exhibit,” you say tightly.

“And mine,” Rafayel adds, not missing a beat.

The director throws up his hands. “Then make it yours. Together.”

You know when you’ve lost a battle. Doesn’t mean you’ll lose the war.

So you turn to him, meeting that smug, infuriating gaze with every ounce of disdain you can muster. 

“Stay out of my way, and we’ll survive this.”

He steps closer, too close, voice a soft, venomous purr. “Why would I ever do that, when watching you squirm is the highlight of my week?”

You exhale through your nose. 

“And when this all crashes and burns?”

Rafayel flashes a slow, lazy grin. “Then at least it’ll be beautiful.”

The director sighs again, rubbing his temples.

You don’t look away from Rafayel.

Neither does he.

Because this is how it always starts—with fire on your tongue and a stare that says just try me.

The shared studio space is large—vaulted ceilings, warm natural light, blank walls begging for something loud. But it still feels too small the moment he walks in.

“Already marking your territory, cutie?” Rafayel’s voice echoes as he eyes the table you’ve half-covered in sketches and mock-ups. “How bold of you. I thought we were playing nice.”

You don’t look up from your pencil. “Nice? That word doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a lion circling prey he has no intention of killing just yet. “Oh, I can be nice. But where’s the fun in that?”

You finally lift your head and meet his gaze. “Fun isn’t what this is supposed to be.”

He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to make it infuriating. “Speak for yourself. I find your little temper tantrums incredibly entertaining.”

You stand, spine straight. “I’m here to build something real. Not… whatever tortured ego project you’re planning to smear on the walls.”

“Tortured,” he muses, tapping a finger to his chin. “You have been reading my reviews. I’m flattered.”

You walk past him toward the paints, brushing too close just to make a point. “You’re not a mystery, Rafayel. You’re a cliché wrapped in silk shirts and paint stains.”

He watches you, lips curled. “Careful, cutie. You’re starting to sound obsessed.”

You whirl on him. “You wish.”

He steps in, now just a breath away. “Oh, I don’t have to wish. You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

Your heart skips—but your expression doesn’t change. “I look at fires too. Doesn’t mean I want to get burned.”

“But you still look,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

The silence that follows crackles. And then you snap out of it, brushing past again.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“No,” he says behind you, “you’re here to win them.”

The next few hours are war.

You argue over layout. Color palettes. Where to place the central piece.

He insists on raw chaos. You demand clean execution. You clash like fire and oil, feeding off the friction, daring each other to snap.

At one point, you reach for the same brush. Fingers brush. He doesn’t pull away.

You do. Barely.

“Don’t get in my space,” you mutter.

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

The day ends with nothing finished and everything burning.

But you leave with your chest full of adrenaline and something else you won’t name.

And when you turn around at the door, his gaze is still on you—leaning against the window frame like he’s been there his whole life, watching you unravel.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, cutie,” he says with a slow grin.

“Not if I see you first.”

You arrive late.

Not that he comments on it—but his smirk when you walk in says plenty. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with deep crimson paint. A fresh canvas looms behind him like a threat, unfinished and chaotic—just like him.

“You’re late, cutie.”

You drop your bag onto the nearest stool. “You’re still insufferable. Some things never change.”

He steps back from the canvas, wipes his hands with a rag that does nothing, and saunters toward your side of the room.

“You’ve been dodging my ideas,” he says, eyes flicking down to your neat layout sketches. “This—this is all control. Precision. It’s not art. It’s an instruction manual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yours is just therapy with a brush. We’re not building chaos. We’re building a show.”

His eyes gleam. “Ah, but chaos sells.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe to people too distracted by your eyes to notice the lack of substance.”

He grins, slow and lazy, stepping even closer. “You like my eyes?”

“I said other people.”

“But you noticed.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your layout, hoping that’ll end it. It doesn’t. He circles around you like a cat with too much time on its hands. And then—

A flick. Warm, wet, cold.

You freeze.

You look down. A smear of crimson paint stains the side of your white blouse. Centered. Bold. Obvious. You inhale sharply, your jaw clenched. “What. The hell.”

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all, holding up his brush like it slipped from divine grace. “You moved.”

You spin to face him. “You did that on purpose.”

His voice drops, soft and mocking. “Prove it.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “This isn’t funny. I’ve dealt with a lot of arrogant artists, but you—”

“You what?” he cuts in, stepping forward again. “Can’t handle me?”

“You’re unprofessional. You’re childish. You treat this like a game—”

“And you’re so tightly wound,” he growls, close enough now that your anger folds into something else, something hotter. “It’s a miracle you haven’t snapped.”

“I’m this close.” You raise a hand, index and thumb inches apart.

He glances at them, then back at your face. “Then do it.”

Your breath catches.

He’s right in front of you now—too close, heat radiating from him like a fire you can’t outrun. Paint-stained fingers twitch at his side, lips parted slightly, gaze locked on yours like he’s waiting for a detonation.

And god, you want to.

Not just to scream. Not just to hit. To grab him by that stupid open collar and pull.

But you don’t. And neither does he.

The tension coils like wire between you, humming with unsaid things and things you can’t afford to feel.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper.

His voice is like velvet over blades. “And you love every second of it.”

Neither of you move. The air is thick enough to drown in.

And then the director’s voice echoes from down the hall, distant but just close enough to break the spell.

You step back first. But not before his eyes drop to the paint still staining your shirt, his smirk returning like a promise.

“You should wear red more often,” he murmurs.

--------

It’s late.

The gallery is quiet, lights dimmed to a low golden glow. Outside, rain streaks the windows like the sky itself is exasperated. You’re standing in front of the main display wall, arms crossed, frustration boiling just under your skin.

He strolls in ten minutes late, of course.

Paint still smeared on his wrist, a cocky half-smile pulling at his lips. “You’re early,” he says, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Or maybe I’m just fashionably—”

“Don’t start.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. The weight in your voice cuts clean.

Rafayel pauses, blinking once before that infuriating smirk returns. “Someone’s in a mood.”

You finally spin to face him, jaw tight. “I don’t have time for your shit tonight, Rafayel.”

His brow arches. “Oof. Full names now. That’s how I know you’re mad.”

“I’m beyond mad,” you snap. “We’re two weeks out and we haven’t locked in a single final layout. You keep redoing your pieces, scrapping mine, and refusing to collaborate. This whole thing is going to fall apart because you can’t stand not being the center of attention for five seconds.”

He chuckles darkly. “No, cutie. It’s going to fall apart because you’re so obsessed with control you can’t see anything beyond your own vision.”

You step forward. “At least I have one.”

“And yet you keep circling mine like a moth to a flame.”

You shove past him toward the sketches pinned to the corkboard, snatching one off. “These are useless. We’ve reworked the same five pieces and none of them fit.”

“Because you won’t take risks,” he fires back, following you. “You want clean, safe and digestible. But art—real art—isn’t meant to be easy.”

You whirl on him, voice rising. “Not everything has to be chaos and bleeding hearts, Rafayel! You act like pain is the only valid form of expression. Like you're the only one who's ever felt anything!”

He stops. Just for a second. Then steps closer, gaze sharpening like a knife drawn slowly.

“I am the only one who’s honest about it,” he says, low and deadly.

You clench the paper in your hand, your whole body shaking. “No. You’re just loud about it. There’s a difference.”

His laugh is sharp. “Still pretending you’re above it, huh?”

“I’m not pretending anything!”

“You are,” he says, stepping so close you feel the heat of him. “You’re pretending this doesn’t get to you. I don’t get to you.”

“Because you don’t!”

You don’t realize how loud it comes out until it echoes off the gallery walls.

Silence crashes down like a wave.

You’re breathing hard, your chest heaving. His expression flickers—just a second—before the grin returns, slow and infuriating.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to lose your mind every time I get this close?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because he is close—so close your elbows almost brush, the smell of paint and cologne and whatever that scent is that clings to him like sin filling your lungs.

“You’re not special,” you say, softer, sharper.

He tilts his head. “No?”

“Just a spoiled artist with a god complex and a pretty face.”

His breath hitches, almost a laugh. Then: “Careful, cutie. You’re making it sound like you’ve thought about this face more than you should.”

You exhale—shaky, unsteady. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addicted to fighting me.”

Your back hits the wall behind you without even realizing you were stepping away. He cages you there without touching you, arms braced on either side of the wall, violet eyes burning.

“You hate me so much,” he whispers, “but you never walk away.”

Neither do you speak.

And neither of you back down.

“Back off, Rafayel.”

You shove his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. He barely moves, but he laughs—low and delighted like you’ve just played into his favorite game.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s the real you.”

Your chest rises and falls like you’ve been sprinting. “Don’t you dare pretend like you know anything about me.”

“I know you’re full of it,” he snaps. “You act like you’re above all this—above me. But every time I push, you push back harder. Every time I get close, you break.”

You take another step forward, your voice sharp as a blade. “Because you never stop pushing! You walk in with your paint-stained hands and your perfect little smirk like the whole world owes you something.”

“I never asked for the world.”

“No. You asked for me. You push because you want me to break. You want me to come undone so you can feel like you’ve won.”

His mouth parts slightly, expression flickering—just for a second. You press in before he can regain the smug mask.

“Well guess what?” you breathe. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fight dirty.”

He grins again—but it’s different this time. Twisted. Almost desperate.

“Then hit me where it hurts, cutie,” he dares. “Let’s see what you’ve really got.”

Your hands are trembling at your sides—not with fear. With fury. With fire. With everything that’s been boiling since the very first time he called you cutie with that goddamn smile on his lips.

You take another step forward, so close now your words crash directly into his breath.

“You want to be the storm, Rafayel? Fine. But don’t be surprised when I burn your whole gallery down.”

“Oh, burn me, baby,” he growls, voice rough and low. “Set the whole damn thing on fire.”

You slap a sketch from the table beside you—it flies across the floor, pages scattering like ash. Neither of you looks away. “You think this is fun for me?” you shout. “That I like wasting my time arguing with you every goddamn day?”

“You never walk away.”

“Because I thought maybe—maybe—somewhere beneath all that arrogance there was someone worth working with!”

He steps in again, chest brushing yours. “And you haven’t walked out yet. So what does that say about you?”

“Maybe I’m just stupid.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice like crushed velvet, “you’re just as fucked up as me.”

The silence that follows is violent. Loud. Too much. His eyes drop to your mouth. Yours flicker to his. Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

You’ve spent months tearing into each other like this. Fighting like it’s foreplay. Speaking in weapons. Daring the other to be the first to crack.

And now? Now, you’re both staring down the edge.

Still breathless. Still burning. Still not backing down.

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten.

His breath is warm against your cheek, and your voice is shaking—not with weakness, but with rage. With adrenaline. With everything he’s pulled out of you and everything you’ve refused to give.

“God, you’re impossible,” you snap, pacing a few steps and then turning on him again, throwing your hand toward him. “You think the world revolves around your paint-smeared tantrums and tortured artist ego—”

“And you think you're better than everyone because you hide behind structure and control,” he snarls back. “You pretend you’re composed, but you’re one bad day away from burning it all to the ground.”

You scoff, sharp and bitter. “At least I don’t walk around acting like every pair of eyes is here to worship me!”

He laughs—a sharp, furious sound. “Oh, cutie. You do. You just hate that mine don’t.”

You throw your hands up. “You’re so full of shit, Rafayel!”

“And you’re obsessed with hating me!” he roars, stepping forward.

“Because you make everything harder!”

“And you love it!”

The words crash into silence. The space between you sparks. Neither of you blink.

Your hand flies up again in some wild, angry gesture—but it doesn’t make it far.

Because suddenly his fingers are gripping your wrist—not harsh, not soft either—just enough to make you stop moving. Just enough to hold you there, suspended in the heat between you.

Your chest is heaving. His eyes are locked to yours like he’s afraid to look away, like if he does, the entire world might fall apart.

“Let go,” you whisper, though there’s no bite behind it now.

But he doesn’t. And neither of you move. And then—

Then the dam breaks.

Your lips crash into his like fire meeting gasoline, reckless and wild and furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s months of biting and resisting and pushing. His hands are in your hair. Yours grip his shirt, pulling him in like you hate him and want to crawl inside him all at once.

He growls against your mouth, and you bite his bottom lip just to spite him. He pulls back half a second, panting, eyes wild. “I knew you’d taste like trouble,” he breathes.

“Shut up,” you hiss—and kiss him again.

Harder.

This time, neither of you pull away. And maybe this doesn’t fix anything. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll scream at each other all over again. But right now—

Right now, the gallery is quiet except for the sound of colliding mouths and gasping breath, and the sound of two people finally giving into everything they’ve tried so hard to fight.

Neither of you backing down.

Not even a little.

Your hands slam against his chest, pushing him hard enough that his back hits the edge of the gallery table with a dull thud.

But you don’t step away.

Not even close.

His grin flashes, breathless and wild, hair tousled from your fingers, paint smudged on both of you like war paint. “Didn’t think you had that in you, cutie.”

You don’t answer.

You crash your mouth against his again, teeth scraping, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt like you’re trying to rip it open—or rip it off. Every part of you is flushed, trembling with heat that has nothing to do with anger anymore and everything to do with the way his body fits against yours like it always belonged there.

He groans into the kiss, hands sliding to your waist like he’s trying to anchor you—but you don't want to be held still. You want to burn.

"You’ve been driving me insane," you gasp against his mouth.

“Good,” he mutters, voice rough, pupils blown wide as his hand curls around your hip and pulls you in harder. “I was hoping I’d get under that pretty skin of yours.”

“You’re infuriating,” you hiss, tugging at his shirt. “Condescending. Cocky. Arrogant—”

“Keep going,” he growls, tilting his head to mouth at your jaw, down your throat. “It’s turning me on.”

You shove him again—he stumbles a step back, catching himself on the edge of the table, but you follow.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you breathe, chest heaving, eyes ablaze as your hands pin his hips to the wood.

He lets out a breathless laugh, mouth brushing yours. “Oh, cutie… I think we both just lost.”

And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting.

The argument becomes touch. Becomes teeth and tongue and nails. The gallery space fades into dim walls and drying canvases and the heavy sound of breath between kisses.

Your back hits the wall this time—but not by accident.

He cages you there, panting, forehead against yours. His voice drops, low and wrecked. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You look at him. Really look at him. Paint in his hair. Lust in his eyes. Your rage still burning somewhere between your ribs, tangled with desire.

You don’t say a word. Instead, you pull him in again.

And this time, neither of you stop.

You don’t stop him. You pull him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

His mouth crushes yours again, and your fingers claw at his shirt, yanking it from where it’s tucked—fingertips slipping under warm fabric, nails dragging against skin like you want to hurt him, mark him, make him feel everything.

He growls into your mouth, low and primal, and then his hands are on your thighs—gripping, lifting, pinning you back against the gallery wall like it’s the only thing keeping either of you upright. You hook your legs around him without hesitation, dragging him closer until there's nothing left between you.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters against your lips, biting the words into your skin. “All those fights, all that heat—was this what you were begging for?”

You drag your mouth to his jaw, then his neck, teeth scraping as your hands fist in the fabric at his back. “Shut up and feel it.”

He slams his mouth back onto yours—no tenderness, just fire. Months of tension unraveling with every desperate press of your bodies, the taste of paint and breath and rage clinging to your tongue.

You grind against him like you hate him, like you want to break him apart and leave your fingerprints on every inch of him.

And he lets you.

No—he loves it.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, holding you in place as he rocks against you, groaning low and dark when your hips meet his with brutal intent. Every movement is a fight. Every touch is a dare.

You break the kiss to breathe, gasping, lips swollen, eyes locked.

“You’re still infuriating,” you whisper.

He licks his lips, eyes glittering. “And you’re still pretending you don’t love this.”

You dig your nails into his shoulder. “I never said I didn’t.”

“Good,” he breathes, mouth brushing yours again. “Then don’t hold back now.”

And you don’t.

You kiss him again, bruising and breathless, with every ounce of fury and heat that’s been building since the day you met. His body crushes yours against the wall, his hands tangled in your clothes, your hair, you, as the fight turns to something else entirely.

Something unstoppable. Something inevitable.

And in that moment, there is no gallery. No exhibit. No winning.

Just two people—burning. Together.

You feel him.

Hard. Hot. Pressed flush between your legs, every roll of his hips making your breath stutter, making your fingers dig into the muscles of his back. His shirt is half-torn, hanging off one shoulder, and yours is bunched around your ribs, twisted in the frantic chaos of limbs and mouths and months of repressed need.

There’s no good place for this—not in a gallery full of delicate pieces and paint-slicked surfaces.

And neither of you gives a damn.

Rafayel growls low against your mouth, then pulls back just long enough to adjust your weight in his arms, turning sharply with you still wrapped around him.

“Where the hell are you going?” you pant against his jaw.

“Finding a spot that won’t collapse under us,” he mutters.

“Oh?” You grin, breathless and cocky. “Getting worried about breaking something, artist?”

He throws you a look over his shoulder, wild and flushed. “Only worried about breaking you, cutie.”

“Keep dreaming.”

He spins you into the small hallway by the storage room, the low track lighting catching on the curve of his jaw, the sweat at his temple, the paint smudged where your fingers dragged down his neck.

And then your hands are in his hair. Tangled. Tight.

You grip it like you’re trying to pull the arrogance straight out of him—fists tight in the soft strands as you tilt his head back and bite at the skin just below his ear.

He groans, deep and raw, grinding against you like he’s punishing you for it. “Fuck—”

“Sensitive?” you taunt, lips brushing the red mark you’ve left.

He shudders under you, hands gripping your thighs harder.

“You don’t shut up even when you’re wrapped around me,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours.

“And you don’t stop running that smug mouth even with my teeth in your neck,” you shoot back, dragging your nails up his spine.

His smile breaks into something darker—his hips slam forward in a slow, punishing roll that knocks the breath right out of you.

“You gonna bite again, cutie?” he murmurs, voice a rough whisper against your cheek. “Or just hold on and take it?”

Your response is a moan, swallowed against his mouth as you kiss him again—rough, aching, furious. Your bodies slam against the wall behind you, picture frames clattering off their hooks, and still—still—you’re clawing at each other like you’re trying to win something.

Like this is still a game.

Like neither of you can admit how badly you want this. How badly you want him.

How badly he wants you.

Your nails dig into his chest, dragging down the exposed skin just beneath the half-open shirt hanging uselessly off his shoulder. You feel every tense muscle shift under your touch, the way he shudders when your fingers rake down over his abs—mean, rough, like you're daring him to lose control completely.

He growls against your mouth, not from pain, but from the way your touch fuels him—makes him hungrier.

“You always this dramatic?” you pant against his lips. “Or is this just your usual way of losing arguments?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He grabs you by the waist and pulls—harsh and fast—your back slamming into his chest as he drags you with him through the narrow hall.

"You're not winning this, cutie," he bites into your neck. "Not tonight."

You laugh breathlessly, eyes flashing with heat and challenge. “Please, I’ve had better competition from wet paint.”

He turns sharply, pushing you against the nearest wall hard enough that your breath catches. “Keep talking.”

Your shirt is half off, riding high up your stomach, and his hands are already underneath—roaming, greedy, sliding up your ribs, mapping every inch like he’s sculpting you from memory. He palms your waist, your stomach, your chest, like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

You rake your nails down his abdomen again, and he hisses against your throat.

“I bet you paint with less intensity than you’re touching me,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, lips swollen from kissing you like it was war. “You want intensity?”

His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping tight, lifting you just enough for your legs to hook around his hips again. He grinds against you—slow, brutal, and unrelenting. You moan, low and involuntary, and his grin returns, vicious and smug.

“There it is,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Sounded a lot like surrender.”

Your hand grips his hair hard enough to sting. “If you think that was surrender,” you growl, “you haven’t even started the fight.”

“Then fucking prove it.”

And gods—you do.

You yank his hair hard—hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his head tilting back just the way you want it. The way he wants it. That perfect line of his throat exposed to you like a dare.

You take it.

Your mouth crashes against his neck—tongue licking a hot stripe up his skin before your teeth sink in, biting down hard enough to bruise. He groans, loud and raw, fingers tightening under your thighs like he’s seconds from slamming you through the wall just to get deeper.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice ragged, hips bucking up into yours in a sharp, filthy rhythm.

You suck at the skin beneath his jaw, leaving wet, angry kisses in your wake, biting again when he presses against just the right spot.

“Still think you’re in control?” you pant against his pulse.

He snarls, one hand sliding up your back to twist in your hair, dragging your head back until your mouths crash again—sloppy, biting, too much teeth. “You think this is control?”

His hips roll against yours, punishing and perfect, grinding into that spot that makes your breath stutter. His other hand slips beneath the mess of your shirt, gripping your bare waist hard enough to leave marks.

You moan against his mouth—low and furious. He swallows it with a grin.

“You manhandle me like you’re winning,” he breathes against your jaw, “but you’re the one moaning in my mouth, cutie.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You do.

Your teeth scrape along the edge of his ear, biting down. His whole body shudders against yours, and he pins you tighter to the wall, his hips driving against you like he’s trying to undo every breath you have left.

The gallery fades. Time doesn’t exist. There’s only skin and teeth and breathless groans tangled between gasps and growls.

Neither of you back down.

Not an inch.

You don’t want to win.

You want to ruin each other.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his lower back as he groans against your neck, struggling to keep you pinned and upright at the same time. His muscles twitch under your hands, jaw clenched, breath coming fast.

You lean in, voice like silk over embers.

“Getting tired already?” you murmur, biting the shell of his ear. “Didn’t think I’d wreck you this fast.”

He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh—but it’s strained. And you know it.

“I can feel your arms shaking,” you add, tilting your head with a mock-pitying smirk. “Want to sit down, pretty boy? Or maybe admit I’ve got the upper hand?”

He growls—a real, guttural sound—and suddenly his grip shifts, tightens, and he drops you.

Not carelessly. Deliberately.

One swift movement and your feet hit the floor, the cold rush of air barely registering before he grabs your hips and spins you hard—until your front hits the gallery wall, palms braced on the cool plaster.

Your breath catches. His body presses against your back, chest to spine, heat to heat, his mouth brushing your ear now, voice molten and wrecked.

“You want to wreck me?” he hisses. “Then take it. But don’t you ever think I can’t hold you.”

His hands are everywhere—sliding up your bare waist, teeth dragging along your shoulder as your shirt slips further. You arch back against him instinctively, but he doesn’t give you an inch. He cages you there, hips pressed into yours, teasing, grinding, overwhelming.

You throw a look over your shoulder, eyes lidded and dangerous. “Still sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t handle my legs around him.”

He smiles, all teeth.

Then he leans in and bites your shoulder—hard enough to make your knees tremble.

“You talk too much, cutie.”

“And you—” your voice breaks when he rolls his hips again, slow and bruising “—don’t talk enough.”

“Then let me show you.”

And he does.

He rolls his hips against you, slow and unrelenting, grinding into the curve of your ass with a precision that makes your eyes flutter shut. You meet his rhythm instinctively, arching back, matching him thrust for thrust like you were built for this.

His breath stutters behind you.

You smirk, just barely over your shoulder. “That what you wanted?” you breathe. “Me bent over and breathless after all that barking?”

But you don’t fight him this time.

You stay right where he’s put you—hands braced on the gallery wall, back arched, hips tilted. You let him have it. Let him guide the pace. Let him feel exactly how much this has undone you.

And oh, he feels it.

His hands slide down your sides, rough and reverent, slow like he’s savoring every inch. When his fingers find the hem of your skirt, he curses low under his breath—gripping the fabric, pushing it higher until it bunches around your hips.

Then his hand finds its way beneath.

You hear the hitch in his breath when his fingers slide between your thighs and meet heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice nearly ruined. “You’re soaked.”

You tilt your head with a wicked little grin. “Still think I talk too much?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other still buried between your legs, fingers testing just how wrecked you are.

“All that yelling,” he murmurs against your ear, “all that attitude… and this is what you’ve been holding back?”

His fingers move again and you gasp, your forehead hitting the wall. He chuckles darkly. “You love fighting me. Admit it.”

You bite your lip, barely able to breathe. “Only because I know how it ends.”

“Like this?”

He thrusts his hips again—harder now. Deeper. Your moan breaks sharp against the gallery walls.

“Exactly like this,” you pant.

And this time, you don’t mock him.

Because there’s nothing left to say—just the rhythm of hips and hands and hot breath against skin, every movement crashing louder than words ever could.

His fingers trail slowly, deliberately, over the thin fabric between your thighs—barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch. He could ruin you right now, and he knows it. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans in, voice a rough whisper against your ear, smug and dripping with heat.

“Lace?” he breathes, fingers brushing again, slow and taunting. “You wore lace to the gallery, cutie? That for me?”

You let out a breathless laugh, curling your fingers against the wall, hips arching back into him just enough to tease.

“Please,” you pant, turning your head enough to glance at him over your shoulder, eyes burning. “Don’t flatter yourself. I forgot you’d be here.”

He presses harder, the heel of his hand grinding against you through the soaked lace, fingers trailing slow circles that make your legs threaten to give.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, mouth at your throat. “So this wet little mess I’ve got my fingers on—that’s just from the art, then?”

You moan before you can stop it.

His grin is devastating.

You growl, voice wrecked and cocky. “You’re such a smug bastard.”

“And you’re dripping all over my hand.”

You snap your hips back into his, hard enough that it knocks the air from both of you.

“You talk too much,” you pant, breath shaking. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

His fingers slip beneath the lace.

“I am.”

Your breath catches hard—your hand slams against the wall, nails scraping the paint. You hear him chuckle low behind you, wicked and satisfied and so, so arrogant.

And you love it. You fucking love it. Because this is how it’s always been with you and him. Fighting. Biting. Pushing.

Only now, your battleground is skin and heat and breath.

And the war is still on.

He knows it now. Exactly how you like it. Not careful. Not sweet.

Combative.

His fingers move with purpose now—no more teasing. No more slow circles or gentle brushes. He works you the way you argue: hard, relentless, like he’s proving something with every movement. And you meet him step for step.

Your hips grind into his hand, your moans low and ragged, your head tipped back so your breath hits the wall and bounces back to meet your gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he growls, fingers curling just right. “Me taking control. You don’t want slow—you want a fight.”

You claw at the wall, body arching into every stroke, voice sharp and breathless. “Then fight me.”

His free hand grabs your hair, not too hard but hard enough, dragging your head back until your mouth opens in a gasp. His lips are at your neck again, biting this time, really biting, as his fingers work faster, rougher, perfectly ruthless.

“You’ve been begging for this since the first time you mouthed off to me,” he grits out, breath hot against your ear. “You just didn’t know it.”

You laugh, wrecked and shaking. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” he snarls, pressing his hips against you, letting you feel all of him, hard and ready, his fingers never stopping.

You shudder, legs trembling. “Cocky asshole.”

He thrusts two fingers deeper. You moan.

“Say it again,” he pants.

“You’re a cocky, arrogant, smug—fuck—” your sentence collapses into a moan as your body tightens under his touch, nails scraping the wall, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that. Come for me like you fight—loud.”

And you do.

It rips through you like lightning, sharp and blinding, your body shaking with it—your moan long, breathless, broken. And he holds you through it, fingers steady, the other hand tangled in your hair, holding you in place like he’s claiming victory.

When it finally settles, when your legs threaten to give out, he leans in close—smug, panting, lips brushing your ear.

“Still think I can’t handle you, cutie?”

You laugh through the high still humming in your bones.

You’re not done. Not even close.

You twist in his arms, eyes glittering, mouth swollen, and shove him back against the opposite wall with a wicked grin.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

And just like that—the fight begins again. You turn on him, your body still pulsing with aftershocks, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.

The buttons don’t stand a chance.

They snap open one by one under the force of your hands, the fabric yanked apart so violently it leaves threads hanging. His chest is exposed now—paint-smeared, sweat-slick, flushed from head to toe—and your breath catches.

He laughs—chuckles, like he lives for this.

“Of course you’d tear it off,” he mutters, half-wrecked, hair wild, grin feral. “You just can’t help yourself.”

“I warned you,” you pant, pushing him back against the nearest surface again, your palms splayed across his now bare chest. “You like control. So do I.”

He groans as your nails drag down his chest—no softness in your touch, only fire. You suck a mark into the skin beneath his collarbone, biting until he hisses, grabbing at your hips in retaliation.

“You fight dirty,” he growls.

You grin against his skin. “So fight back.”

Your hand dips lower, unceremonious, hungry, clawing at his belt like you’re trying to rip it open with sheer frustration and lust. You fumble once—he notices—and of course he fucking smirks.

“You need help, cutie?”

You shoot him a glare, then finally yank the belt free with a satisfying snap, gripping the leather like a weapon.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you growl, leaning into his ear.

He exhales a shaky laugh, hands gripping your waist tighter. “Then why do you look like you’re starving for it?”

Your only answer is your hand sliding lower, possessive and unapologetic, fingers curling around the heat beneath his clothes.

His head drops back with a curse, his laugh dissolving into a groan. “Fuck—”

“Still cocky?” you murmur, biting his shoulder again, fingers tightening. “Still think I’m the one who’s losing?”

He grabs your wrist, not to stop you—but to ground himself. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good,” you breathe. “Then die begging.”

And that’s it.

He’s had enough.

He pulls you in—hard—kissing you like he’s trying to shut you up, but your moan only fuels him. It’s war all over again—teeth, hands, hips, heat.

And this time, there are no rules left.

You don’t warn him.

You slide your hand inside with a sharp, purposeful movement—no hesitation, no mercy—and wrap your fingers around him.

He gasps, hips jerking forward instinctively, his hand flying to your wrist like he might stop you—but he doesn’t. He can’t. His grip only tightens, not to resist, but to endure.

Your lips curl into a smirk against his throat.

“Still feeling in control?” you whisper, fingers tightening just enough to make his breath catch in his chest.

“Fuck—” he growls, jaw clenched, body shivering against yours.

“You always have something to say,” you murmur, licking the corner of his jaw. “So say it. Tell me what you want.”

He bites his lip, refusing. Pride warring with the pulsing heat in your hand.

So you start to move—slow, deliberate strokes, your palm working him with maddening confidence. His hips twitch again, knees bending slightly under the weight of it.

“You want it?” you breathe, voice all fire and sin. “Then beg.”

His laugh is wrecked. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re hard in my hand.”

You tighten your grip slightly—just enough to make him groan, head falling to your shoulder.

“I can stop,” you whisper against his ear. “You want that?”

His breath stutters.

“I didn’t think so.”

Another stroke.

He curses again—louder this time—his hand sliding up to your waist, gripping hard like he needs something to hold onto.

“I want—” he grits out, voice raw, teeth bared.

You slow your hand. “Say it,” you hiss. “I want to hear you say it.”

His head snaps back up—violet eyes dark, wild, burning. And he finally snaps.

“I want you,” he growls. “I want your mouth. Your hands. Your goddamn fire. I want you to ruin me.”

You smile—sharp, victorious, wicked. “Now that,” you whisper, pumping your hand again, “wasn’t so hard.”

He shudders—completely at your mercy now, undone by your grip and your grin and the heat still crackling between your bodies like lightning before the storm breaks.

And you're just getting started.

You feel the shift in his breath before you even move.

He thinks he’s won something—thinks your body pressed against his, your hand still stroking him slow and merciless, means he has the upper hand again.

So you smile—that smile. Devastating. Dangerous.

Then you drop to your knees.

Right in front of him.

His breath catches, and you look up through your lashes, fingers already dragging his waistband down, exposing all of him inch by inch like unwrapping something you earned.

“Shit,” he breathes, chest rising and falling like he’s already halfway undone.

You grin wider. “Still think I don’t know how to handle you?”

He groans, head tipping back for half a second before he catches himself—before the cocky bastard returns.

“You know,” he pants, his hand sliding into your hair, not guiding, just there, “this is going to fuel my ego for months.”

You kiss along his hipbone, lips ghosting just above where he needs you, slow and maddening. “Let me guess,” you murmur, breath hot against his skin. “You’ll make a sculpture of me on my knees?”

He lets out a wrecked laugh. “I might. Haven’t decided if I’d need to exaggerate the attitude or not.”

You nip at his skin, just enough to make him twitch. “Careful, Rafayel. I am the one holding your entire dignity in my hands.”

“Cutie,” he groans, voice ragged. “You’ve been holding it since the moment you opened your mouth.”

You lick a slow line up his length just to shut him up—and it works. His breath stutters, his hand tightening slightly in your hair, hips rolling forward before he catches himself.

You don’t look away as your mouth closes around him.

And that—that’s when he forgets how to speak.

His hand fists in your hair now, no longer teasing, and he moans your name, low and desperate and completely wrecked. And still, he tries to fight for control, hips jerking, voice sharp.

“You don’t get to—fuck—you don’t get to win this.”

You pull back just enough to smirk, hand stroking him again, slick and steady.

“Watch me.”

And then you take him deeper.

He chokes on a curse, thighs shaking now, every muscle coiled like he’s trying not to fall apart right there. Like he’s trying not to give you everything.

But it’s already too late. Because you have him. Right where you want him.

And no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise—he loves it.

You love this. The way he gasped when you dropped to your knees. The way he twitched when you wrapped your mouth around him.

But what you love most—the part that drives heat between your thighs—is the way Rafayel, arrogant, cocky, insufferable Rafayel, is finally too wrecked to speak.

You take him deeper, your fingers curling against his hips to hold him still, your mouth hot and unrelenting. His groan rips through the air, low and broken, head tipping back as his hand tightens in your hair like he’s barely hanging on.

He tries to stay in control—of course he does.

But you feel it. The way his thighs tense. The way his breathing shatters.

You pull back just enough, mouth flushed and slick as you glance up at him, still stroking him slow and merciless.

“You gonna break for me?” you whisper. “Or are you still pretending you’re in charge?”

His chest heaves, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “Cutie…”

You smirk, wicked and electric. “Lose it, Rafayel. I want to see you fall apart.”

And then you take him again—all the way this time, deeper than before, your throat tightening, tongue pressing just right.

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

His hand fists in your hair, hard now, dragging your mouth against him as his hips buck forward, needy, wrecked, real. His other hand finds your shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck—fuck,” he gasps, head bowed, hair falling into his eyes as he watches you ruin him. “You’re gonna make me—shit—”

You moan around him—on purpose—and his whole body jerks, his control unraveling in your hands like silk threads being pulled loose.

He’s not cocky now. Not smug. Not teasing.

He’s yours—breathless, broken, bucking his hips into your mouth like he can’t help it anymore. Like he needs this. Needs you.

And god, you love it.

You hold him steady, guiding every movement, letting him use your mouth as he loses himself entirely—grunting, moaning your name, curses falling off his lips like prayers.

Until finally, finally, he breaks.

And you don’t let up until he’s trembling, panting, and ruined—body pressed to the wall, hand still in your hair, breathless and completely gone.

When you finally pull back, slow and deliberate, your lips are swollen, your eyes dark with satisfaction, and that smirk—

That smirk could kill a god.

Rafayel looks down at you, chest heaving, hair wild, eyes blown wide. You lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Well,” you murmur, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That shut you up.”

He laughs—wrecked and ruined and loving every second of it.

He’s still gasping, still flushed and ruined from your mouth, but you don’t get a moment to gloat.

Not really.

Because his hand is already under your chin, yanking you upward with a growl, dragging you to your feet so fast you barely register the motion.

And then your back slams against the gallery wall again, hard enough to make you gasp—but not from pain.

From heat. From need.

“You smug little brat,” he breathes against your mouth, teeth flashing in the low light. “You think that was enough to shut me down?”

You grin, breathless. “Didn’t hear you complaining—”

He cuts you off with a brutal kiss—biting, deep, all tongue and teeth and possession. His hands claw at your hips, dragging your skirt higher with impatient fingers. Your own hands are already tangled in his open shirt, then sliding up his bare back—scratching, digging deep as he grinds against you.

He hisses into your mouth.

“Fucking hell, cutie—”

You tug his hair, hard, dragging his head back so you can bite at his throat again.

“I told you not to call me that when I’m on top.”

“I told you I’d take it back,” he growls, and then he does.

His hips press hard into yours, hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you again. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, your head falling back against the wall as his teeth catch the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” you pant, voice shredded with heat. “You’re not done fighting.”

His hand slips between your bodies, rough and hot against your thigh.

“Oh, I’m not done,” he rasps. “Not even fucking close.”

And then you’re clawing at him again—hands on his shoulders, his back, tangled in his hair. You pull him into you like you’re trying to rip the smugness out of his body, gasping when his hips roll up with dizzying precision.

His grip bruises.

Yours leaves marks.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

“You gonna break again?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear, dragging your nails down his spine.

He growls, thrusting hard. “Only if I take you with me.”

“Good.”

Because this—this mess of sweat and fire and biting mouths—isn’t about losing or winning.

It’s about how far they’ll go to destroy each other.

And how badly they want to come undone together.

Your head is spinning, hair tangled in his hands, your thighs bracketing his hips as your back hits the wall again—hard, hot, perfect. His mouth is all over you, kissing, biting, breathing curses against your skin, and your hands are pulling at him like you want to climb inside him and tear his soul out.

You want this.

You both do.

You can feel it in the way his body trembles against yours, the way he growls when your nails dig too deep, the way he gasps when you roll your hips up to meet him.

And still—you fight.

“You’re holding back,” you bite out, clawing at his shoulder. “Scared?”

He grins against your collarbone, breathless. “Scared you’ll start begging.”

You growl, dragging him down into another kiss—furious and messy, teeth clashing, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. You rut against each other like you’re already there—like it’s already happening—and it almost is.

Your fingers slide between your bodies, tugging at the last barrier between want and need, and you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound when you whisper against his mouth, “Do it.”

He still hesitates.

So you spit fire.

“You’re all bark, Rafayel. All talk. You don’t have the nerve—”

He growls. And that’s the end of it.

He grabs your hips, manhandles you into place—like you weigh nothing, like you’re his to lift and hold and take—and lines himself up, eyes burning into yours as he finally, finally thrusts in.

Not brutal. But controlled.

Intentional.

Like he wants you to feel it.

You cry out, fingers digging into his back as he fills you inch by slow, deliberate inch, the stretch dizzying, the heat unbearable. Your head falls forward, your forehead hitting his shoulder as he presses in deeper—steady, devastating.

He groans, low and wrecked. “Fuck, cutie...”

You grip his hair again, tugging hard, gasping. “More.”

“Always so greedy,” he pants.

“Then give it to me.”

And he does.

With every slow, grinding thrust, he claims more of you. And you take it—arching, trembling, whispering curses into his ear as he moves just right, just enough to keep you teetering, but not falling. Not yet.

His hand slips beneath your thigh, pulling your leg higher, angling deeper. You both moan—raw, unfiltered, desperate.

“You feel—” he can’t even finish.

You chuckle darkly. “Speechless again?”

He bites your shoulder. “Not for long.”

And just like that—you’re fighting again. But now it’s skin on skin. Now it’s hips and moans and hands clawing for more.

And the war between you?

It’s never felt this good.

You don't ask. You demand.

Your nails dig into his back, your thighs tighten around his waist, and your voice—hoarse, wild, wrecked—snaps into his ear like a whip.

“Harder.”

He growls, the sound primal and guttural, and answers the only way he knows how—with a sharp, brutal thrust that makes your head hit the wall, your gasp punching out of your lungs like he’s knocked the breath out of you.

“Like that?” he pants, voice low, rough, feral.

You don’t answer.

You ravage.

Your mouth finds his neck and you devour him—licking, sucking, biting, leaving red, blooming marks down his throat like you want the world to know exactly what you’ve done. He groans, hips snapping into you harder, faster, his control fraying with every grind of your body against his.

“Fuck—” he hisses, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your ass, keeping you anchored as he drives into you like he can’t stop even if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t.

Neither of you do.

You move with him, against him, for him—grinding down, gasping, your body slick with sweat, nails leaving trails across his bare skin. You tear at him like you’re starving. Like this is the last time you’ll ever breathe.

“You wanted control,” he groans, lips at your ear. “You wanted more—”

“I want everything,” you spit back, clenching around him as you pull his hair, dragging him closer, deeper, harder.

“You fucking have it,” he growls, and then he thrusts again—so deep, so perfect, your vision goes white.

Every snap of his hips drags you closer to the edge. Every panting breath, every curse through clenched teeth, every bite—pulls you into oblivion.

And it’s coming fast.

You feel it.

He feels it.

“You close?” he rasps, biting your jaw, the line of your throat. “You gonna come for me, cutie?”

You grip his face, force him to look at you—your eyes wild, your lips swollen, your whole body trembling as you grind against him like you own him.

You throw the words at him like a blade, voice shredded with lust and defiance.

“I’ll come when I’m—”

But you never finish the sentence.

Because Rafayel’s eyes flash, and in a split second, his grip tightens—hands sinking into your hips, fingers bruising, holding you in place—and then his thrusts change.

Faster. Deeper. Harder.

He slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you—and god, he’s succeeding. Your head tips back with a gasp, your nails clawing at his shoulders, scraping down his back as his pace grows brutal, relentless.

“You were saying?” he grits out, voice rough, breath wrecked as his hips piston into you over and over again.

You choke on a moan, your mouth open, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure inside you coils too tight, too fast, too much.

You try to hold it.

You try.

But he knows. He feels it. The way your legs shake. The way your walls clench around him like you’re already falling.

His lips find your throat, biting hard as he growls, “Come for me.”

And then—

You break.

It hits like a wave crashing straight through your core, tearing the air from your lungs. Your back arches, your cry sharp and loud as your body shudders violently against his. You clench around him so tight he groans, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

You’re breathless, wrecked, trembling.

And still, he keeps going—dragging you through it, refusing to let you fall alone.

“That’s it,” he breathes, panting against your ear. “God, you feel—fuck—”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is his name—rasped, broken, desperate.

And he loves it.

Because he won this round. But you’ll make him pay for it.

Later.

You’re still shaking—legs locked tight around his waist, body flushed and burning, mouth open as you suck desperate gasps of air. But your hands don’t stop moving. They claw into his shoulders, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, dragging him closer.

Your lips find his neck again—biting, growling against his pulse.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you rasp, voice raw, breathless, trembling. “Finish what you started.”

And god, he does.

Your walls pulse around him, still tight, still clenching like you’re daring him to lose it. His thrusts grow messier now—less control, more need, more of that beautiful chaos that lives between you.

“Fuck—fuck, cutie,” he gasps, eyes squeezed shut, head buried in your shoulder.

You squeeze around him again—tight, hard—your body urging him on with every flutter, every trembling aftershock still rolling through your core. Your nails rake down his back. Your voice drips into his ear, half growl, half command.

“Come for me.”

That’s it.

He chokes out a moan—deep, hoarse, wrecked—his rhythm falters, then crashes completely. His whole body jerks as he drives into you one final time, hips pressed flush to yours as he comes undone.

You feel it in the way he shudders, the way his fingers dig into your hips like he needs you to keep him grounded. He groans your name like a curse, like a confession, like he’s been holding it back since the first fight you ever had.

His body collapses against yours, panting, gasping, trembling.

And you just hold him there—your hands still in his hair, your lips brushing his neck, both of you slick and ruined and still burning.

Neither of you says a word.

Not yet.

Because there’s no need to.

Not when your bodies have said everything.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body buzzing in the wake of everything he just did to you—and what you did right back.

You feel him slowly, carefully pull out, and you wince, just a little—still sensitive, still shivering. His hands stay on your hips, steadying you. And then, unexpectedly, gently, he lowers you back down, settling you against the wall as your feet find the ground again.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of ragged breaths and the drip of paintwater in the distance. His forehead leans against yours, and his eyes—still a little dazed, still blown wide—search yours for something he doesn’t dare ask for.

You smirk.

“Wow,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Didn’t think the great Rafayel Qi had a soft touch in him.”

He huffs a laugh, that same ruined chuckle from earlier, but quieter now—less cocky, more real.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “So the bruises on my hips were just for decoration?”

“Oh, no,” he grins, “those were entirely intentional.”

You laugh, breathless and raw.

His fingers graze your waist, light now—absent of heat or hunger. Just there. A quiet tether in the silence.

And then, without thinking, one of you says it: “Well... I think we finally found the gallery aesthetic.”

The other snorts. “Chaotic passion?”

“Unresolved sexual tension in acrylic and sweat.”

“‘Artistically combative,’” he offers, mock-serious. “‘With expressive use of biting.’”

You both laugh—real laughter now, the kind that shakes your chest and steals the weight from your bones.

You’re still tangled. Still flushed. Still bare.

But something has shifted.

And neither of you wants to say it out loud yet.

So instead, you stay there—back against the wall, his hand resting at your waist, your finger idly tracing a line down the buttons you ruined.

And for the first time, there’s no need to win.

Not yet.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

[nerd-at-sea5]

are u pro palestine... we have the same interests but i dnt want to follow u if ur weird

honestly this blog is for silly little thoughts about lesbians and such and the occasional personal story or opinion but it’s about time i got one of these. so buckle up long post ahead and it’s not gonna be a cut and paste yes/no answer bc yeah. just read the thing

first of all: im jewish. raised jewish and will forever be jewish. i'm proud of it. i'm not super religious and don't really believe in god but that doesn't mean i'm any less jewish.

second: i believe in a 2 state solution. i don't like terrorists. i think hamas needs to be held accountable for the murders and horrors they've committed, because frankly i think they're a bunch of monsters and terrible people. i don't agree with a lot of the stuff that netanyahu does either because that stuff is also not ok. but overall: fuck hamas.

that being said, i believe that israel has the right to exist. i believe that the jews deserve a homeland where we can be safe. i believe that a 2 state solution is the safest and smartest option. but i will also say that as the correct and historically accurate definition of zionism is to believe in the movement and protection of the jewish state - i am a zionist and i am not going to shy away from what i believe in.

i am aware that people will not like this about me, and i am aware they will try to tell me things about myself that are not true. so i am going to set the record straight and go back to posting about my silly little tv shows.

israel has a right to exist and to defend itsself

hamas are terrorists and should not be in power

i am in favor of a 2 state solution

the people of gaza don't deserve to live in horrible conditions because of the terrorists in power

jews and israeli's don't deserve the hate and abuse that they're experiencing because of people who don't know how to fact check

the hostages should be home. this is non-negotiable, they should be home.

and again - im aware that this isn't the yes/no answer you want, but i can't give that to you because its much more complicated than that.

lastly, if you want to unfollow me for any of these things please go ahead, i don't care. i implore you to fact check yourself before sending hate and threats to people online or in real life (or assaulting/hurting people, seriously just don’t do that.)

if you pick and choose who to engage with online due to political opinions that's up to you, but a difference in opinions isnt 'weird' its just human.

[bwat5-blog]

Saying Goodbye: Arcane's Songs Of Grief

**Spoilers For Arcane**

Working on a Jinx post the other day it occurred to me I'd never really delved too much into the music even though it is SO IMPORTANT to the story. This is less critical analysis and more just something that interested me so if you don't care I don't blame you! But I get something out of it every time I get to spend time thinking on and digging into this show, so maybe you will to. This won't be too long as quite honestly I feel that-

A: These are fairly self-explanatory

B: I don't have the mind for lyric/poetry analysis and never have

1. Vi's world falling apart

Goodbye: song by Arcane, Ramsey, and Riot Games Music Team ‧ 2021

So this is the song that plays at the end of season 1 act 1 when we were all collectively saying something to the tune of "OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!?"

It was a beautiful and tragic moment in the show and seriously set the tone for the rest of the story. I see this song as Vi's perspective as her world is completely falling apart around her.

Vander is dead

Mylo & Claggor are dead

Her possible last interaction ever with her little sister was deeply traumatic for the both of them, leaving her with crushing guilt over her loss of control and hurting Powder

She has literally been kidnapped and imprisoned in an adult prison without cause or trial (there is no pit of hell deep enough for you Marcus)

"I can hear the sound of a heartbeat before it goes out Won't ever leave my memory of bloodshed all around, And I can see a tear on my father's face before it falls out" :

Vi is hearing Vander die and telling us she won't ever be able to shake the memory of all this death and pain. And that comes back around unfortunately...

"Oh, my enemy, how could I have ever let you down?

Oh When all these trees saw us grow Cut our teeth and make our bones right here We'd play with shields made of stone Share our dreams and sit our thrones":

I see this as all about Powder/Jinx and Vi's crushing guilt over how they were parted. The trees watching them grow and the place where they played and dreamed of better days clearly being Zaun. But the line that is so indicative of Vi's trauma here is "how could I have ever let you down". As her guilt over how things happened will go to impact the course of her entire life.

"Be still, 'cause I see smoke up ahead and I got steel in my hands We will return like warriors, I swear, that we'll find glory up ahead Tell me

Where is my home? I don't recognize the faces anymore, no Where is my friend? The one I've known since I was only just a kid

I think it's time to say goodbye Goodbye, goodbye Goodbye, goodbye, woah":

This entire last section speaks to Vi's future when she returns to Zaun. Her entire world has changed. Powder has become Jinx. Ekko is a rebel leader and a warrior. The demon (don't yell at me Silco people I'm talking Vi's POV) who took her entire world away from her sits in her father's house. And when Vi returns she returns with fury and steel aiming to reclaim what she lost. Until she has no choice but to admit the world she knew is gone. Which takes us into our next song.

2. Jinx loses everyone

What Could Have Been: Song by Ray Chen and Sting ‧ 2021

I'd call this the song that captured the world's attention from Arcane. I mean having Sting alone was huge but this whole sequence was once again so beautiful and horrifying at the same time. Vi spends the whole show trying to get through to Jinx up until this point and you want to believe she is going to pull it off. Jinx is recognizing what Silco took from them, and the Council is starting the vote for Zaunite independence.

But it all falls apart. Silco is dead, and Jinx feels like Vi cannot love her anymore and feels rejected by her after everything that has happened. And this song begins, taking us into Jinx's POV as she lashes out in this moment of terrible grief and loss and angry. I'm not going to do the lyrics for this one like I did above because they are all pretty clear and direct. As Jinx makes the long walk to her destiny and fires the weapon that will destroy her people's chance at independence, she is telling Vi, Silco and the world how they have wronged her.

But the trick with Jinx is to remember she is an unreliable narrator. So when we are with her in this moment seeing it through her eyes we have to remember we cannot take everything at face value. So even though throughout the show we have seen Vi's guilt over what Jinx has become driving her, and after Silco's death Jinx essentially seems to blame Vi for what follows because she cannot "love her like she used to" because they are different. Where does that missile actually go?

I am the monster you created You ripped out all my parts And worst of all, for me to live, I gotta kill the part of me that saw That I needed you more

I hope you know we had everything And you broke me and left these pieces I want you to hurt like you hurt me today and I want you to lose like I lose when I play what could have been Oh, what could have been

Why don't you love who I am? What we could have been

I am your ghost, a fallen angel You ripped out all my parts I couldn't care what invention you made me 'Cause I, I was meant to be yours

I hope you know we had everything And you broke me and left these pieces I want you to hurt like you hurt me today and I want you to lose like I lose when I play

I want you to hurt like you hurt me today and I want you to lose like I lose when I play What could have been

3. Death touches Caitlyn Kiramman

I Can't Hear It Now: Song by Arcane, Freya Ridings, and League of Legends ‧ 2024

This song takes us into Caitlyn Kiramman's POV as she is plunged into the darkness of her mothers death at the hands of Jinx. Once again visually and musically it is a stunning moment. There is a notable difference to this one compared to the other two that I wanted to mention.

Vi's song-"Be still, cause I see smoke up ahead and I got steel in my hands, We will return like warriors, I swear, that we'll find glory up ahead Tell me"

Even with all of the loss and grief and pain in the rest of the lyrics there is a moment of hope. A promise of justice and righteous return

Jinx's song- "I want you to hurt like you hurt me today and I want you to lose like I lose when I play What could have been"

Full of anger and blame and hurt . Nothing positive but A LOT of emotion.

Now let's look at Caitlyn's lyrics:

There is an ocean so dark down below the waves Where you watch while these dreams gently float away And there is a silence so soft it's only memory Like the way your voice always sounds when you sing to me

But I can't hear it now Just tell me how to keep breathing while pretending I'm not drowning I don't know if I could I watched the door close for good 'Cause I couldn't keep it open

I just watched as the door closed for good 'Cause I couldn't keep it open

Just tell me how to keep breathing while pretending I'm not drowning I don't know if I could I watched the door close for good 'Cause I couldn't keep it open

Vi and Jinx are full of emotion and pain and loss but they are expressing it, even if it is misguided or negative. Caitlyn is drowning in her grief but trying to force herself to keep going and failing, and blames herself.

"But I can't hear it now ,Just tell me how to keep breathing while pretending I'm not drowning"-

Caitlyn so badly wants to hear her mother's voice again but she cannot. And she is trying to go on, be the new head of her house, testify before the council and everything else while maintaining her composure when inside she is completely and utterly destroyed. I mean for gods sake, revisit the moment she finally is alone with the person she can show vulnerability with:

it's like she barely makes it to Vi before her legs give out...

"I watched the door close for good 'Cause I couldn't keep it open"-

These are the last words of her goodbye to her mother. Not a lament of how the world is changed and she has to say goodbye. Not an angry accusation at those who wronged her. But blaming herself...

Conclusion:

Anyway! I hope you get something out of this. I did by writing it. I love the music of this show, and as a life-long band nerd and music lover seeing a show weave it's music into the storytelling in such an original way was truly special to me. Thank you for reading and take care!

[mrsjoeythehurler]

Bloomsbury comments.

Eluciens & Gwynriels,

Who are you to tell people what their favorite moments from a series should or shouldn’t be? If someones favorite scenes from acotar have to do with Elain and Azriel, who cares? You don’t see anyone in those comments bashing those who said anything Gwyn or Lucien related. It’s honestly extremely disappointing that you all think it’s okay to be so entitled and disrespectful to others who haven’t done anything other than share their favorite moments. A lot of my personal favorite moments in ACOTAR are Elain and Azriel scenes because I love them together and think that they’re cute. I also love so many Feysand scenes as well as they are the two main characters. There is nothing wrong with saying that your favorite scene is Azriel saving Elain from Hybern, Azriel finding out Elain was a Seer or even Azriel giving big husband energy by helping Elain set up the table. All of those scenes are in the books and have happened for a reason. There is nothing wrong need to be so terrible towards anyone in those comments. There’s no need to be so terrible in general.

I need you all to wake up. Take a step back and look at how you are treating innocent people, because it is not okay. The things you have said are awful. You are all literally bullying people just because they have certain tastes or different opinions from yours and that’s disgusting. I would never in a million years go into the comments of a post and hate on someone. I would never be so unbelievably vile towards someone who has a different opinion than I do. I see the Gwynriel and Elucien related comments as well in the recent BB comments. No one is attacking them, yet elriels get attacked by you guys constantly, all the time. Why? Is it because you’re upset their aren’t enough Gwyn and Azriel or Elain and Lucien moments in the books? Is it because you don’t like the fact that others have different opinions than you? Is it just the fact that you feel the need to be hateful? What is it? Because I don’t see any reason for any of the rude comments you and your friends decide to share. The hatred that you have for Elriel’s needs to be studied because it has become that insane.

Complaining about emoji’s being used as if you all didn’t spam SJM’s comments months ago to have Gwyn related emoji’s? There’s nothing wrong with putting emoji’s after something you say. Most people do that. The flower and the bat remind people of Az and Elain, so after they say their favorite scene and it happens to he one that involves both Az and Elain, of course people may add those two emoji’s that they believe represent the characters. Who are you to be so judgemental on that? Haven’t you done the same with Gwyn and Azriel multiple times? Again, havent you all spammed SJM’s comments with the teal heart and the bat too? There’s no need to always be so hypocritical. Who cares about emoji’s being used. Imagine that being your biggest issue to focus on and complain about. I would consider yourselves lucky if that’s the case.

I am not here to argue with anyone. Frankly, I am fairly tired of this entire situation because I find it ridiculous. You all need to learn to be nicer and more respectful. That is not an argument, that is a fact. The things I’ve seen are so unwarranted and just outright unbelievable. I am not saying any of this as someone who would love to see Elain and Azriel get together finally. I am saying this as a person who’s life does not revolve around ACOTAR. Please be more respectful to others. Please learn not to spread hate towards innocent people and please take the time to understand that there is nothing wrong with anything that has happened in BB’s comments. People were sharing their favorite moments in the series. Whether it was Feysand, Nessian, Elriel, Lucien or Gwyn it doesn’t matter. They are all moments written in the books for a reason.

[junelovesaz]

Hidden Feelings. Part 2

Note: Hi everyone! I apologize for the delay with this second part. I had some issues and I've just been able to finish it. Again, I appreciate the time you take to read me. English is not my first language, and I apologize if this is terrible. Love you! ❤❤❤

Psdt: I want to thank everyone for all the reblogs, likes, and comments on the previous post 😭😭😭 It really brightened my week, I adore you all.

The tags are located at the end. If you want me to tag you for the third and final part, let me know.

Part 1

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Demons, I had forgotten how much I struggled with getting up early.

Especially after staying up late after dinner. I was sure I had passed out on the couch, but I had woken up in one of the rooms I used when I stayed over. I had a slight suspicion of who had brought me there, but for my own good, I decided not to dwell on it.

I forced my body to wake up and get out of the comfortable sheets. I took a quick shower, and the house already had the Ilyrios leathers ready when I stepped out, so I left a grateful remark aloud before getting dressed.

I figured most had stayed over, so I tried to make as little noise as possible as I sneaked into the kitchen to have some leftovers from the night before. It was really delicious, so if I was going to say goodbye to good food for the time I was away, I would make sure to enjoy these last bites. I couldn't stay at the Ilyrian camps, it would be very suspicious if I did after Rhys was asking what had happened to those females. And if I wanted to get answers, real answers, I'd have to make sure to be careful. They would guess my motives for being in the camp as soon as I set foot in it. So, ruled out.

However, there was a tavern a bit further away, nothing a few minutes walk wouldn't solve, with rooms upstairs. The Ilyrians frequented it for drinks. Therefore, that would be my biggest advantage.

A hand on my shoulder brought me back to reality, and I let out a startled shriek before turning around.

"What the hell…"

Oh.

When I noticed the hazel eyes and the shadows in tendrils spreading around the room, I relaxed.

"You scared me to death" I whispered slowly. Az smiled slightly, and for a moment, I held my breath. "I made some noise so you'd hear me, but you were committed to the mission" he pointed at my half-eaten food. I shook my head while suppressing a smile and hurried to clean up what I had messed up.

"Leave it, I'll do it" his voice interrupted me again, as his scent enveloped me, and he gently took things out of my hands. I glanced for a moment at the action, at his scarred hands moving, beautiful as anything I had seen, yet I couldn't ignore the fact that he was making an effort not to touch me, as if consciously avoiding brushing against me. A pang of pain shot through my chest, and I raised my guard again.

How foolish I was being, a complete and damn fool.

"It's okay, Azriel. I can handle it" I tried to say firmly but quietly, unaware that he was looking at me, studying me, searching for something. His wings fluttered softly, and shadows roamed freely around the room, around us.

"Why do you call me that?" he asked slowly, and I looked at him slightly confused, while tendrils of shadows wrapped around my fingers, tickling me a little with their cold touch, but managing to make me smile affectionately at them.

"Call you…. How?" I replied back, distracted by his shadows.

"Azriel" he said flatly. "You stopped saying my full name shortly after we met, and you've gone back to that for several weeks now."

I didn't respond. Obviously, if there was anyone in the world who could notice those things, it would be him. But I couldn't answer him, not honestly, at least. I couldn't tell him that I couldn't call him Az without it hurting, because it made me think of him with love, and I couldn't allow myself to continue that, not when I saw him with the beautiful Archeron sister. So I continued playing with his shadows, avoiding answering, but I felt his attentive gaze on me until the tendrils returned to him, and I had no choice but to lift my head to find him a short distance away from me.

"Did you take me to bed last night?" I asked, changing the subject. Az simply nodded. "Thank you" I whispered, not knowing what else to say. I swallowed hard and stepped away, ready to leave once and for all, before I did or said something I would regret later.

"Y/N" he called "Is everything okay?"

I tensed in my place, of course, he had also noticed that. "Yes" I lied without looking at him as I moved to put some snacks in the small backpack that, oh surprise, he had given me in a past solstice and I always carried with me.

"If it's about dinner, I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, it's forgotten" I interrupted, because if he said anything more, my heart would warm completely, and I would end up lowering the walls. "No" he said firmly, "questioning you like that made it seem like I thought you weren't capable. It's not about that" he looked at me confidently, his hazel eyes fixed on me, almost making me shiver.

I didn't want to know what else it was about because that would hurt my already wounded heart more, so I sent the curiosity to the deepest place in my mind and gagged it with all my might.

"It's okay, Azriel" I smiled slightley "Apologies accepted" I took my backpack, ready to leave this house once and for all and sink into self-pity while freezing to death in the Ilyrian mountains.

"I still think it's a bad idea for you to go alone" he blurted out once I had turned my back, causing me to freeze in place.

"We've talked about this, you know I can do it"

I took one more step before his voice sounded again, "I'm not saying no, just maybe…"

"Azriel, I really don't want to have this discussion again, please" I interrupted quickly. I didn't want him to offer. I couldn't let him, because then I wouldn't know what my reaction would be, and it would give me away.

"You're being irrational, you know?" he shook his head in a resigned tone.

Well, thank Mother he didn't insist further. I released the breath I was holding, and I supposed he realized that I wouldn't give in this time. Not even for him, despite the fact that, in the last few centuries, the word 'no' was never in my vocabulary when it came to Az.

"Maybe" I waved my hand without turning, "See you later, shadowsinger"

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That same afternoon, I was already settled in the rundown room of the tavern. I had to persuade the owner to give me the most decent place possible, and honestly, if this was the best he could offer, I'd take it. It was either this or sleeping on the outskirts of the camp freezing my butt off.

I wrinkled my nose as the smell of mold burned my nostrils. By the Cauldron, Rhys had made me too spoiled.

"Y/N" I heard a voice in my mind.

Speaking of being spoiled…

"I can hear that" the voice spoke again.

I smiled softly. "Of course. Oh mighty High Lord" I replied mockingly.

"I'm glad to see you're in better spirits, Y/N" he responded, also teasing, and my smile faltered. A hint of humor seeped into my mind, and I realized that's what he wanted: to mess with me.

"Don't you have a mate to attend to, Rhys? Instead of bothering me?" I retorted sharply.

"Feyre is very well taken care of by me, thank you for your concern. And to answer your other question, you promised a nightly report" he remarked in that tone of superiority.

Right. "Well, there's not much to update. I'll be staying in that tavern near the camp, a bit off the beaten path to avoid suspicion. And most people here don't know me, so everything should be fine. Tomorrow I'll inquire more about the deaths of those females. A curious outsider at first, and by nightfall, I'll have answers. It shouldn't take more than three days" a touch of approval filled my mind, and I smiled slowly.

"Let me know if you encounter any problems, Y/N" Rhys paused before asking "Is everything okay?"

I knew what he meant, and I knew I could tell him because Rhys wouldn't say a word. But opening that little crack would make everything come to light, would make me collapse, and this wasn't the time or place. So I responded with a joke instead, "No, Rhys, this room smells terrible, and the food is tasteless."

His laughter filled my head. "I didn't know you had become so spoiled aside from lazy" he said in a soft tone, and I understood… I understood that Rhys knew I was lying, but he was letting it go to avoid pressuring me. He had noticed my mood at dinner the night before, my need for space, and yet, he had decided not to comment on it.

My heart warmed. I would give my life for him, for my entire family in general.

"Thank you, Rhys" I tried to pour all my gratitude into that simple phrase, but I knew it wouldn't be enough. "For everything" I paused. "Now, go to your neglected mate before I go kick your butt myself"

His laughter filled my head again before disappearing completely, leaving me alone with the thoughts swirling in my mind.

What was that earlier with Az? When I left, he seemed concerned. I understood his position. He didn't want me to come alone in case something went wrong, especially knowing how much I detested the Ilryos for their harsh customs.

Maybe that's all it is. What else could it be? After all, I was almost as well-trained as the three of them. However, Az was the one who had been most reluctant to let me go alone. And what if…

No. I forced myself not to consider any other possibility that gave me hope. Because I had seen it, I had seen how comfortable he was with Elain, and how today, before I left, he made an effort not to touch me even a single inch.

A familiar pain filled my chest, so strong that it forced me to hug myself tightly as I wrapped myself in the blankets of the bed.

Perhaps, this was how it was meant to be. Three brothers with three sisters. There was no place for me in that equation.

And yet, I couldn't help but think of the times his eyes softened at my poor attempts at baking, even though it tasted like crap and not even Cassian could stomach it, Az would eat the entire portion. Or when in training, my muscles were so stiff that I just wanted to drop to the ground, and he provoked me, knowing what to say to touch the competitive fibers within me, forcing me to get up because he wouldn't let my pride be trampled upon. Even the times he played dirty to make me lose a fight, he knew what to do to distract me.

But none of that mattered. Not when he was with Elain.

It hurt, of course it hurt. It's not like I had been displaced from my place beside him. It's just that seeing him with the Archeron sister made me realize that I wasn't indispensable, he could be fine without me. That's why I had distanced myself, for my own good, for the sake of my feelings, of the unrequited love, and for… their sake.

That I couldn't have Az didn't mean I wouldn't let him be happy with someone else.

And by distancing myself, I supposed I had unintentionally done the same with the others. That's why I had missed some training sessions, why I had stopped going to some family dinners, because it hurt to see him. I knew Cassian was worried, I had seen it in his eyes, and for Rhys, it would be as easy as delving into my mind to know, but he would never do that.

I knew they would let me deal with whatever was happening in my own way, that's why they didn't pressure me, none of them, not even Mor, until I was ready to talk.

And that thought made me realize that I wasn't trying hard enough. I had felt lonely because I had unjustly pushed them away. When I got back home, I would make sure to do my part, I would try to be happy for Az and Elain, I would stop skipping training sessions and dinners to avoid crossing paths with him.

I loved him, and seeing him with someone else hurt me, yet I wouldn't let that affect my relationship with my family. I would pay attention to conversations during meals, I would no longer be a ghost. I had finished with self-pity.

However, I still felt glad to have volunteered to participate in this mission. They deserved all the peace they had, and if I could provide them with more time of tranquility by doing these things, I would. I would postpone everything for as long as possible and offer to go anywhere. And with that last thought in mind, I let sleep take over me and slept peacefully for the first time in months.

@going-through-shit @isa1b2h3 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @willowpains @mariahoedt @charlotteintumbleland

[bairdthereader]

Charlie Spring, An Appreciation: Part 1, Courage

Nick Nelson gets a lot of love, and justifiably so; I'll be the first to admit that he's amazing (see my many Nick-related posts as evidence). But I hear all too often that Charlie is leveling up by being with Nick, or that Nick is too good for Charlie. I beg to differ—vehemently—and here's why, part 1 (of 3, maybe?).

I often find myself in awe of Charlie during some of the quietest and least dramatic parts of the Heartstopper show and comics, because his bravery, resilience, and tenacity are displayed in ways that seem inconsequential, but are actually incredibly meaningful and telling. This boy has a thread of steel running through him, whether it's obvious at first glance or not.

We see this almost from the very beginning, when Charlie is assigned to a new form and told that he'll be sitting next to Nick, "one of the rugby boys," and, "I'm sure you'll get along swimmingly." Here is not only Charlie's worst personal nightmare, but also a teacher who is blithely unaware of the terrible position he's just put Charlie in--being placed in close, daily proximity to the type of person Charlie associates with the darkest time of his life. But we don't see fear on his face, or even that much dread—this tells us so much about him in just a nanosecond. There's resignation and bitterness, yes, but Charlie knows he can withstand this, because he's been there before and survived. This is borne out in later conversations with Nick where Charlie assures him that "I'm used to it." This is a horrifying injustice, one Nick rightly calls out, and it shows Charlie's resilience in the face of a degree of cruelty that many people never experience.

This little moment outside of the changing room is another revealing scene. Charlie knows exactly what he's walking into, exactly the kinds of comments and sly bullying he's going to experience in that room. He knows he will have to have his guard up every second, that he will have to prove himself to this group, even though he shouldn't have to. He also knows he'll be fighting his own self-doubt, and so this experience will be a battle on two fronts. (Three fronts, if you include trying to hide his feelings for Nick.) But he does it anyway. Sure, you could argue he's doing it solely to be near Nick, but I think this is also his way of making sure that those boys don't dictate his actions or his life. This is Charlie taking a stand. And this is just one example—he does this over and over and over again, in many different settings and situations.

Case in point, calling it off with Ben. Charlie has been the victim of what is essentially brainwashing and abuse from Ben for months. Ben has told Charlie verbally and shown him physically that Charlie means less than nothing to Ben, and that Charlie can never expect anyone to ever want him or care for him. And Charlie often, tragically, believes him. That Charlie is able to break free of this vicious cycle and take the steps to distance himself from Ben shows his immense inner strength. You can see on Charlie's face (thanks to Joe Locke's inimitable talent) that he can't even believe he's done it. And we have to keep in mind that this happens long before Nick is a real possibility, so we can't say Charlie does this for Nick. He does it for himself.

I do have to include one of the more iconic scenes, because this ⬇️is Charlie's clarion call, his hope, his banner, for the rest of this story. He knows he has a lot of problems to work through, that he's complicated and sometimes hard to interpret, so it's easy to see this scene and think Charlie's words come from a place of insecurity (and of course that is some of what's happening here). But he's strong enough to both acknowledge it and ask honestly that Nick not let those parts of Charlie become the focus of their relationship. He requests, even during this moment of almost brutal honesty and vulnerability, that Nick see him completely, as the whole person he can be, because Charlie knows that person is there inside himself. The self awareness and bravery this takes is enormous.

There are a million other moments like this that I could write about, both big and small:

But I'll end this already lengthy post with this: When one considers the amount of sheer courage Charlie has to exert just to live his daily life, it almost defies understanding. Charlie Spring is a gladiator of the mind and heart, completely worthy of any good thing.

[katerinaaqu]

What do you think of Menelaus?

Oh that is a good one! For starters I think he is one of the characters that have been massively misunderstood by the modern day narratives. Menelaus in most cases is depicted like a brute who forced Helen or something of that kind to explain as to "why would Helen cheat on him" (whenever they do not support the idea that Helen was kidnapped of course) and they miss the point of his character completely. Also they tend to forget that Menelaus was Helen's choice for her husband. He also did everything to get her back. In the Iliad Helen was truly showing where her heart was set upon when she tells to Paris that he should have died out there

Menelaus is a very complicated and important character extremely emotional and loyal to the people he cares about. In the Odyssey he shows how deeply he cares by showing how terrible his psychological condition was by being extremely depressed thinking on how Odysseus was gone. He also was feeling deeply for his brother Agamemnon, for whom he was also capable of doing anything for and with whom they have been through so much together including their exile or all the trials and tribulations they had been through and I think their relationship is not talked enough either!

All in all I think Menelaus deserves much more attention and much more love as a character apart from the usual "aww the violent husband that Helen wanted to get away from" or even just the "wife guy that wanted to get his wife back". I would love to see more on his friendship with Odysseus, his emotional turmoil with the family of Clytemnestra's side, his love for his wife, his relationship with the rest of the kings and last but not least more content with his brother Agamemnon and how their cursed life affected them!

I admit that even I haven't written much featuring him although I want to! My first mention of his I believe was in the third part of my fic "Guilt"

Also protagonist to my Helen one-shot "The Why never asked and the Because that never mattered"

As well as deuteragonist to my Iliad inspired fic "I Take that Back"

I plan on including him in more works in the future because honestly he is worth of more attention

[multifandom-nerds-blog]

S7 ep 1 compliant mini fic with established Corvus (Cause Sorens face was bloody in one scene and clean in the next one somehow)

Maybe a bit similar to the one I posted a few days earlier, but who cares.

"Oh, right. Right! Because I'd be dead!"

Corvus could only shake his head at Sorens antics. Not without smiling though. The relief of seing him alive was strong, and gave him enough energy to stay on his feet even after the long day followed by flying for hours.

Though seeing the castle like this really was terrible. They had seen the smoke from far away already, and it wasn't much better up close.

Their capitol. Their castle. The home of Ezran, Callum and Soren. And well, after two years also his home, though this was obviously much worse for his friends who had grown up here. But Ezran was with Callum for the moment, so he could focus on Soren.

"Opeli is on the way to the Banther lodge with most people." Soren said while keeping his arm around Corvus shoulder. "I stayed here with some guards to keep the fires under control and look for uhh... stuff."

"You mean anything salvagable?" He didn't mentioned the ever so slight shaking of Sorens hand on his shoulder. Or the quite trembling of his voice. It would most probably just lead to Soren closing his walls.

"Yeah. Yeah! That. Also Barius and some others are going to the sorrounding towns for supplies and help to set up cam- what are you doing?"

Corvus had put his hand up to Sorens face. Unable to ignore the blood on the blonde mans face and hair any longer. He turned around to properly face his partner, Sorens hand not leaving him but sliding on his other shoulder instead when he moved.

"What happened?", Corvus asked. Lightly tracing his thumb over the streak of blood going through Sorens eyebrow. He didn't flinch so either he had pushed the thought of injuries to the back of his head, wouldn't be the first time, or it wasn't as bad as it looked. Corvus guessed for both, head wounds were nasty bleeders after all but Soren was also extremely stubborn and ignorant about his own wounds at times.

"Oh that?" Soren took his hand of his shoulder to poke his own forehead, with a bit more force than Corvus liked him to do. "Right. A flying stone hit me. Not as in the Stone knowing how to fly. Just a stone from the rubble flying into my face."

Corvus hummed while taking Sorens hand away from his face with his own to stop the poking. He would probably hear the whole story later. After everyone had time to collect themselves a bit.

His free hand started looking through his pockets while not letting go of Sorens in his other hand.

"So how was the wedding? Probably fancier than a burning castle. Though it was a sunfire elf wedding, so maybe they have some traditions about burning stuff?"

"Not exactly.", Corvus answered. You could probably say that Queen Janais relationship to her brother burned to ashes, but that would be a pretty rude oversimplification of the matter. He could also still feel the bruises from when Karims followers captured him during the battle. "The wedding is a... long story."

"Later?", Soren asked.

"Later.", Corvus agreed.

Finally he found the clean handkerchief he usually kept on him. Though honestly surprised it was still there and clean after everything. And finally Soren showed a reaction to his wounds when Corvus reached up to his forehead again.

"Ah." Soren's face flinched. Corvus might have not even noticed if he hadn't spend so much time of the last two years studying the other man. "You don't... have to. It's dried anyway."

For a moment Corvus wanted to ask if he was okay, but... that question seemed senseless in the current situation. But he could see that the adrenaline was starting to leave Sorens body. And there was a look in his eyes that was all to familiar to Corvus.

Right. Lord Viren was in the dungeon while Katolis had burned down. So what happened to him?

"We should still clean it up.", Corvus settled on. He let go of Sorens hand to cup his face instead in both hands, looking into blue eyes.

Sorens skin was warm, which confused Corvus a bit. His partners skin was usually ever so cold, but now warmth was somehow streaming from his body into Corvus hands.

"Your warm.", Corvus stated. "Do you have a fever?"

"Heh, well, most people would probably call this a normal body temperature."

Soren tried to crack a smile, but Corvus just raised an eyebrow.

"It's just from... the fire. Well. Kinda. But it's wearing of already." Soren laid one of his hands over Corvus', as if to prove it, even if his hands were usually even cooler than the rest anyways. "Everybody who was here is running hot right now. But as I said. It's wearing of already. You're gonna have your walking iceblock back soon enough."

There was obviously something Soren was leaving out in his story, but Corvus decided it would be better to talk about this later. As well as the unavoidable topic of wether Viren was dead or alive.

Later, Corvus thought. Later was good.

He ran his right thumb over Sorens eyebrow again, rubbing some dried blood of in the process. Soren responded by lowering his head until their foreheads meat.

"I... I'm...", Soren stuttered.

"It's okay. I've got you."

He could feel Sorens other hand landing on his shoulder and gripping on to him.

"I know."

"But now, really, let's find some water to get all that blood of your face."

"Hm, okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"It's also in your hair."

"WHAT?" Soren promptly jumped back to check his hair. "Why did not nobody tell me?!"

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

This is such a dumb gripe to have honestly but every time I see a writing choice that is so clearly just a lore inconsistency being taken at face value by the fandom, using it for nonsense analysis which most of the time results in character salt.

I don't mind salt at all, but my god if I see one more post about the whole thing from Werepapas… "Oh Marinette is so evil and doesn't care about Adrien-" No. Shut up. This isn't about Marinette as a character, this is just the writers pulling new amok "lore" out of their asses that was never established before.

Like... do none of these people realize this??? Is this a case of people having zero... no, fucking negative media literacy or are they deluding themselves to oblivion into thinking the writers knew what they were doing there?

(I'm sorry for the rant. You can ignore this ask if you want, I'm just sick and tired of reading the same stupid takes over and over again and I wanted to vent)

I don't think it's a dumb gripe at all! That kind of thing gets on my nerves, too. As I said in another post on the topic, I get why someone would find Werepapas upsetting. There's a visceral negative reaction that comes from seeing Marinette break Adrien's amok, but the problem isn't Marinette's actions. Not really. There are actual multiple writing issues at work here:

The writers decided to have this super serious moment in an episode that didn't have time to actually set up that serious moment and let it breathe. Marinette should have been given time to freak out over smashing the rings while also seeing it was her only option. Denying her that undermined her character and denied the moment proper narrative weight. If the writers didn't want to give her time to think the moment through, then they needed to up the threat with something like Adrien's grandfathers running toward her, forcing her to act now.

The amok lore is so poorly established that we have no idea what Marinette knows or even what we apparently don't know. Does she know that he's a senti? Does she know that you can apparently break amoks without releasing their feather? No one knows even though the writers had five seasons to set this shit up!

The akuma being the rings was silly since it doesn't even seem to matter to the plot. If Marinette isn't going to be allowed a proper freakout over smashing the rings, then just use a different object for the akuma.

This should never have been Marinette's fight in the first place.

That last one is the big one for me. I touched on it here, but for me, this episode was just a mini version of the season five final. In terms of the episode's plot, your question should not be, "why did the writers have Marinette break the rings?" It should be, "why did the writers have Marinette be the focus of another episode about Adrien family dynamics?"

Marinette should have never been put into the position where she had to make a call about the rings because it's not her fight. Time and time again this show has let minor characters be the ones to win when a fight involves their loved ones, but when it's Adrien's loved ones? He gets left out even though the fight is literally centered around a character feeling like they have no control:

Chrysalis: Hello. Forgive my intrusion. (Puts her hand on Milly's shoulder.) You've had enough of people fighting and making decisions for others, haven't you? I know what would be fitting for you – to finally be in charge. I can give you this power. Only if you agree, of course. (Milly looks up and smiles.)

That's terrible writing. I'm not looking for another Adrien akuma, but it's really weird that his newly introduced Grandma is the one getting akumatized over this issue and not him given the fact that he's the one who we've actually seen suffer long term. If anyone has a right to snap over this particular issue, it's Adrien. Similarly, if anyone has a right to save the day here, it's Adrien.

The last two seasons were packed with examples of people other than Ladybug getting to save their family, romantic partners, and friends. Why does Adrien never get those moments? Why was an episode about his custody focused on Ladybug fighting his grandparents? That should be what upsets you, not the dumb ring thing which was obviously not going to kill him. It was there for cheap drama, nothing more, nothing less. That's why the episode didn't give it the attention it deserves.

That and the fact that it would be too strong of a serialized element for this show as you'd have to know all about the rings to get what's going on, but that's just why the akuma should have been something other than the rings. I'm not sure why the writers tried to make the rings matter at all in this episode because it really doesn't work. There's not enough time to give them proper weight for viewers "in the know" so it's just an endless parade of Marinette being way too casual about this super important thing because the episode can't let her react properly without openly acknowledging Adrien's status and other serialized elements.

I read through the script and it seems like Ladybug's brief hesitation over breaking the rings is the only moment where the episode even tries to acknowledge what the rings are. Outside of that, they're treated like normal rings because Marinette doesn't react to any of the ring-based shenanigans that go on like Adrien giving the rings to his insanely controlling grandfather:

Emil: Hand me the Grahams' twin ring. (Adrien, without protesting, takes the rings off and sets them down on the table. As Emil reaches for them, his wife interrupts him.)

Or the rings being lost. Two moments that should have been accompanied by horror and Marinette considering that maybe Adrien should know what exactly those rings are. But there's not time for that so we get a total mess instead, making me very glad I'm not watching this season. Based on the way Lila was handled in previous seasons, I knew the writers were not going to be able to handle another lie-based subplot without people looking terrible and, oh look, I was right! It's just that Marinette is the main victim this time instead of Alya.

Minor side note now that I've read the script: Emilie, why did you make your family's deeply treasured heirlooms your son's remote control? That seems incredibly short sighted. You had to know your family might want them back, right? At the very least, you might want to pass on the rings to Adrien or his kids and then where are you? If you're going to give your kid a remote control, go with a custom one!

And if this was about breaking free of your family's control by claiming something of theirs for yourself (which I bet would be what the writers claim) then talk about being oblivious! You turned a symbol of control into a literal control! There's potential for something interesting there, but only if Emilie gets to be something less than perfect and canon doesn't seem to be going there. Fanfic writers go nuts with that one if it sparks an idea.

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

Red Flags

Oh my god I've been so burnt out I'm so so sorry but I WROTE SOMETHING FINALLY

“Right, so…” Lily starts, settling down in front of the others with a coffee in hand, “what are we thinking?”

“I have a feeling we’re all thinking the same thing,” Mary says, shaking their head to themself. As Lily glances around, everyone nods in agreement.

Remus Lupin has terrible taste in men.

It’s an infamous fact among the group, really. Somehow, Remus manages to find every weird, rude, and downright horrible man on the face of the earth. He's not stupid, but he is impressively good at ignoring all of the warning signs. Lily remembers, more than once or twice, picking up the pieces, shouting at the exes, even stopping Remus from taking them back. It always sucks to see him that upset, and Lily just couldn't take it anymore.

So, they've developed a system.

It involves a lot of internet stalking, going through social media after social media, looking for pieces of evidence, things they can mention directly to the guy in question. If they can figure out if they're exactly the same as the others, which they usually are, they can scare him away before it’s too late. Remus isn't exactly… aware, of their system, but it works, and they need it to keep working. It's better that Remus is a little upset that his boyfriend of two weeks has ghosted him, rather than a painful betrayal.

This newest guy, though? They can't find anything.

“You’d think someone with the name Sirius fucking Black would have something slightly shady on his socials!” Marlene says with a groan.

“I mean, the name’s red flag enough, right? Everyone knows the Black family,” Peter says, but James is intervening before anyone has a chance to agree.

“Hold on, they essentially got rid of him five years ago. I don't know that we can still hold his name against him.”

Yeah, that makes sense. Unfortunately.

“Okay, well… what does he do for a living?” Mary tries, only to get a good few shrugs.

For someone who posts ten times a day, this guy is really quite quiet about his private life.

“I think he's a doctor,” Peter says eventually. “That’s what I found when I looked him up. Pediatric Surgeon?”

“Oh, so he literally saves kids lives,” Marlene says, exasperatedly throwing her hands in the air. “I'm sorry, he can't be Mr Perfect! This isn't how Remus works!”

Lily wants to say that maybe it is, maybe he's turning a corner, but she bites her tongue. They don't actually know anything real, anything substantial, about this guy. All they know is that he grew up in a very prominent family, and can build a careful social media presence. That means nothing.

They need to dig deeper.

“You know what this means, right?” Lily says grimly. “We have to meet him.”

Remus knows exactly what his friends are up to.

They think they're so brilliant at hiding their little… background checks on anyone he even so much as mentions wanting to date. Well, he can't exactly blame them. He's dated some absolutely horrendous people, and he knows that. Showing up at Lily’s as a crying mess wasn't exactly his finest moment, so he gets why they're so concerned.

Sirius, though? God, they’re never going to have to worry again. For a good few weeks, Remus had thought he'd made Sirius up. He's never fallen for someone as quickly as he's fallen for Sirius, even though they're taking everything so slowly. Honestly, he'd move in with Sirius tomorrow, if he asked, but Sirius is too good to ask that so soon.

That doesn't stop Sirius from panicking a little, as Remus keeps setting the table for dinner with his friends.

“What if they hate me? I mean, what if I set a really bad impression and they hate me forever-?”

“They definitely won't hate you. Believe me, you'll click with them. Especially James. I have a feeling he's going to love you.”

James is always the most supportive. He at least tells Remus before the others start to interrogate them.

“But what if-”

“Hey, don't panic.” Remus reaches out and takes both of Sirius’ hands in his. It sends a little thrill through him, the way Sirius’ breath catches in his throat. “Just… don't feel intimidated when they start asking too many questions, and you'll be fine.” Sirius nods once, and Remus squeezes his hands reassuringly.

There’s a knock at the door before they can kiss.

Remus groans as Sirius drops his head onto Remus' shoulder. He takes a breath and takes a step away, as Remus tries to quash the nerves. He knows how much they're going to love Sirius, but it isn't really helping. He doesn't want them freaking him out and scaring him off.

Still, it's too late to give them all the boot now, so, with a slight hesitance, he accepts his fate and opens the door.

“Hey, guys! You’re all here… at the same time,” he says, sticking a perplexed expression on his face. Mary smiles brightly as Remus steps aside to let them all in.

“What a coincidence, right?”

They’re really bad at hiding things.

James is the last one in, and Remus holds him back quickly.

“Please tell me they're not grilling him. Sirius is nervous enough.” He knows the answer already, but James shrugging apologetically only confirms it.

“They didn't find anything online. You know what that means.” Remus nods once, trying to bite back a groan. “They're doing it because they care.”

“I know. Just… please give him a chance. He's… Prongs, he’s amazing.” He watches James’ face soften, and it gives him the slightest glimmer of hope.

Maybe this'll be okay.

“So, Sirius…” Marlene starts, the moment they all settle at the table.

God, it's already starting.

“What’s your favourite thing about our Remus?”

Honestly, Remus is pretty sure that's a tricky question. He's never seen anyone answer it right. There's always something wrong with the answer. It almost feels like a cruel start.

“Oh, wow, I don't think I could pick!” Sirius says with a smile. “I mean, unless you let me pick everything,” he adds with a wink. It draws a smile out of Remus, and James is already positively beaming. The others, though, exchange a confused glance.

“What, so you can't think of anything?” Peter says disbelievingly.

“Oh, I just meant- I think everything about him is amazing.”

A blush immediately spreads it's way across Sirius’ face and, oh, Remus could look at him forever; could watch his face turn rosy until the end of time.

“What d’you think of his writing? Y’know, his breakout piece on euthanasia?” Lily asks, resting her chin in her hands.

“I thought his breakout piece was his intersectionality one?” Remus turns to him, stunned. He didn't even know Sirius had read any of his articles.

He's also right.

Christ, he must be ticking some kind of box for his friends.

“Right, this is stupid,” Mary interrupts Remus’ train of thought, and he's already dreading whatever they're about to say. “If you have any intentions of hurting him, we’ll quite literally kill you.”

“Mary!” Remus says quickly, his hand reaching out to grab Sirius’.

“No, he needs to hear this!”

“Why? Because you couldn't find anything when you looked him up?”

It's enough for the group to lapse into silence.

“Listen.” Remus forces himself to take a breath and slow down. “I know why you do all of this, and I get it. Really, I do. I appreciate how much you care. Sirius, though, he's… guys, he's wonderful. You don't have to worry this time.”

James nods, Mary also seemingly placated. The others, though, turn to Sirius.

Yeah, that makes sense.

“Honestly, I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I wouldn't dream of hurting him. I'm falling in love with him more every single day-” He cuts himself off with wide eyes, immediately turning to Remus.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

“You love me?” Remus asks. It's almost like his friends just… vanish, in that moment. All he can see is Sirius, sitting beside him, telling him that he loves him.

“Shit, I didn't mean to say it like that!” Sirius groans, his face reddening by the second.

Okay, accidentally telling him that he loves him.

“I wanted to plan something nice, think of the right thing to say, not just- God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this-” He buries his head into his hands, muffling his panicked rambling.

“Sirius?” He tries quietly. Sirius just shakes his head minutely. It's really bloody endearing.

Remus is going to have to go about this differently.

Slowly, gently, he reaches out and pries Sirius’ hands from his face. He lets himself lace his fingers through Sirius’, as their eyes meet and Remus’ stomach flips.

“I love you, Sirius,” he says softly. “Christ, how could I not?”

Sirius’ face brightens in an instant, and Remus can't help but beam right back at him. He can practically feel the tension in the room lift.

He has a feeling his friends won't be worrying about him anymore.

[gffa]

On the topic of book recs, what do you think of Master and Apprentice? I read it when it came out and it’s been so long the only thing I meaningfully remember was liking Rael and I’m honestly still surprised he hasn’t shown up more.

Oh lmao what to say about that book--there was so much I liked! But there was also so much that utterly baffled me! I spent a lot of time trying to get my head around the narrative of the book, what it would tell me versus what it would show me, and that kind of drove me crazy and I wrote so many posts about it, to the point that I'm sure I was deeply annoying lol. Ultimately, I like the book! But I like it in a very specific way--that I think it shows Qui-Gon as someone who is deeply flawed in a very caring way and he should be allowed the space to be flawed without it being used to condemn him. Like, so much of that book drove me crazy because Qui-Gon would say he didn't think the Jedi should be so tied to the Republic and that it was mistake, but then what saves the slaves at the end of the story? That Obi-Wan acts as a representative of the Republic so that the organization was forced to let them go. But this isn't remarked on, it's just there! Or Qui-Gon would say that the Jedi aren't doing more to change things and then, when he is offered a chance to be on the Jedi Council, where he could make the changes he was looking for, he turns it down because he doesn't want to stop being Obi-Wan's Master and wants to continue doing whatever he wants. But I'm not sure the narrative recognizes the structure it's setting up, despite that it kept coming back to it again and again. So, ultimately, I recognize I may be reading against authorial intent (but honestly I'm a Lucas-centric fan, so that's the only word of author/authorial intent I often care about XD), but to see Qui-Gon being written as kind of full of himself, but in a likeable way, someone who didn't see the things he was doing while preaching at others, who was kind of terrible with actually talking to Obi-Wan (the book does acknowledge this!) made me actually enjoy it, but in that specific lens, rather than with Qui-Gon being 100% right or 100% wrong. My other qualm about the book is that it was billed as a Qui-Gon & Obi-Wan story, but honestly it's really not. Obi-Wan is there a lot, he even gets many point of view scenes, but the story didn't really have much to say about him (and it's not the author's fault, I thought she did great with Obi-Wan's character in her From a Certain Point of View story even when it was from Qui-Gon's point of view!) and I wound up with nothing to say about Obi-Wan in that book. Me! Nothing to say about Obi-Wan in a book! How??? But I loved the relationship Qui-Gon had with Dooku--for memory, I think it was a lot warmer than some people see it? Which made sense to me, given that Dooku seemed to genuinely think Qui-Gon would have joined him when he talks to Obi-Wan in AOTC. And I enjoy Rael as a character, too! I wish he'd shown up in more, other than Dooku: Jedi Lost, because he's such an interesting addition and a semi-reflection of Anakin's character (given his struggle with the Jedi lifestyle, the late adoption, etc.) There were also some banger lore quotes (that one about Qui-Gon saying that the Jedi creche taught them all about how darkness was inside them all is one I trot out often) and I think I'd enjoy a reread. I know it sounds like I'm bashing on the book or on Qui-Gon, but honestly I don't intend it that way, and I'd actually like to reread it someday to see if my feelings have evolved on it.

[mageofseven]

How about a reader that was pregnant when they were chosen as an exchange student ? Like the baby's father is not in the picture and reader *isn't* involved with boys romantically and when the boys discover readers pregnant after lesson 16 they're just "oh Shi-"

This is an old ask from before my long ass hiatus, but I'm honestly still really interested in this.

Okay so here's some set up info for how Imma do this:

MC knew she was pregnant, but was so overwhelmed about it that she welcomed the fact that she was magically kidnapped into going to demon school and that she had something to distract herself from the literal growing problem in her uterus.

The baby was also transfered to the new body after what Belphie did to her.

Like it was requested, MC is not currently dating any of the Boys.

They found out because they had her get checked by a doctor despite Barbatos making sure she was okay with his time power; this was mostly done out of over-protectiveness and no one actually thought anything would come of it.

I don't do reader posts so obviously this will be MC.

Now that that's out of the way, let's give this a go!

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

Lucifer:

Is visibly shocked by this and has MC explain herself.

When he hears how her boyfriend knocked her up and abandoned her not long before she was brought to the Devildom, the pride demon makes a mental note to ask her for the man's name at another time so he can handle that little pest.

Feels terrible guilty about what she went through and even worse that she went through it while pregnant.

I see Lucifer as this heavily anxious man with a soft spot for kids and that includes babies that are works-in-progress (WIP).

Hovers around her constantly after that, making sure she taking every vitamin and supplement she and her child needs.

Just becomes super protective of her while also trying to pretend he's not.

Eventually takes her off of cooking duty so she'll have one less thing to worry about.

Despite not being the father or having such a relationship with her, he takes full responsibility for all aspects of this from teleporting her here while pregnant to Belphie offing both her and her child in her last body.

Doesn't go as far as to call himself this child's father, but anyone who saw this man hovering over her would definitely think he was.

Like always, Lucifer just wants to take care of his family and now sees MC and her child as such.

Mammon:

Literally freaks out while trying to pretend he isn't.

To him, her being pregnant just made this whole situation 1000000x worse.

Feels bad that he didn't know about her kid.

Like, he's the brother whose been by her side the most and he never even noticed anything was off with her.

He's not the most observant man so I'm not surprised.

He's her First! She should have just told him, or so he tells her.

Keeps an extra close eye on her to keep this crazy freaking human from doing anything bad for herself or her kid

And let's face it, she literally got herself killed not long ago so anything can happen.

The further her pregnancy gets, the more this man tries to keep his brothers away from her.

He just extra possessive as time goes on.

I mean yeah, this kid ain't his but he wishes it was so freaking much but he's still gonna look after the two of them.

Honestly, this man wouldn't be able to handle a single other bad thing happening to his Human.

Leviathan:

Ohmanohmanohman--

Is really freaking out and doesn't even try to hide it.

I mean this is serious!

Not only did MC die but so did her WIP kid????

I mean yeah, they are both back but this all still sucks.

You know the phrase 'kicking a person while they're down'? Well this is like using a freaking flamethrower while the human was already down!

Honestly becomes super awkward with his Henry after learning about her pregnancy

But slowly gets used to it as he discovers that MC just wants him to treat her as he always has.

Yeah! He can do that!...kinda.

He feels bad that he can't help her through most of it.

This man knows absolutely nothing about pregnancy and feels like he is mediocre at comforting people at best.

Still, if she ever needs someone to distract her with anime so she doesn't have to think of the little WIP in her uterus then Levi is her man.

Satan:

Honestly...this man is less than thrilled.

MC is the first person he's ever truly gotten close to and that includes his 'brothers'

So to hear that the person he cares about most is pregnant...

Well on the plus side, he knows there's a human man in the other realm for him to torture so that makes him feel better.

Doesn't like kids, but is at MC's side as much as possible.

One of the brothers willing to hold her hair back during bouts of morning sickness.

Not one to hover, but does get a little protective when Belphie is in the same room as her.

Knows the Avatar of Sloth won't hurt her anymore but...well, he still can't get the image of MC's dead body out of his head

And angy boy is still angy at him for it.

Other than that, he reads a shit ton of pregnancy books to learn what MC's body is going through and different methods to comfort her through it.

Asmodeus:

Honestly, this usually chatty brother was speechless when it was announced.

When he saw all eyes fall on the human and make her overwhelmed, he ran to his friend and hugged her tightly.

Was the one to hype up the other guys and get everyone to say they'll take care of her and that they have her back

Because honestly, this woman and her child literally died for his family; you can bet your ass he's going to make sure each and every one of his brothers does their part in taking care of the pregnant human.

Doesn't immediately think about killing the runaway baby daddy, but if it becomes a family field trip to hunt the bastard and kill him, Asmo is so down for it.

Mostly focuses on what he can do for MC in the moment though.

Another brother to comfort her during morning sickness.

It's gross af but he uses it to remind his brothers that hey! I'm getting close to a vomiting woman each morning so y'all better be as dedicated to the cause as I am.

Beelzebub:

This man literally did nothing wrong, but acts as if it's all his fault.

So much happened in his family right under his nose and things led to such extremes that his twin literally killed this woman and her child.

More or less feels like he needs to step up and pay atonement for what his twin did

And is probably the brother who takes care of her the most.

This situation has shown how much he actually wants to be a parent one day

And literally asks MC later in her pregnancy if he can be her baby's daddy

He doesn't care about genetics at all, just wants MC to let him help her raise the child and make him a daddy 🥺

Literally the sweetest man to ever exist.

MC would be a fool not to accept.

Belphegor:

Probably the guiltiest of all of the men.

I mean, he did it. He killed MC and relished in it.

Granted, he didn't know she was carrying a little hitchhiker, but still.

Belphie lost himself in his pain to such a strong degree that...he wonders that even if he did know...would he have been able to stop himself from doing what he did

And honestly, the fact that he doesn't know scares the hell out of him.

Avoids MC for the first couple months of her pregnancy because honestly, he feels too guilty to even look at her

And... honestly, he doesn't know if he even trusts himself around her.

Thanks to Beel's encouragement, the sloth demon slowly finds himself interacting with the pregnant human

And eventually decides that the best way to atone for what he did (if it's even possible) is to take care of her and the kid the best he can.

He doesn't like kids and just sees pregnancy as unnecessary torture for people with uteruses

But honestly, none of that matters anymore.

He may not have been the one to knock the woman up, but he did fuck up the worst out of everyone in this situation.

Will feel better whenever the family hunting party starts and he can give that pathetic man a taste of what he deserves.

Looks like it's Human Season for this hunting demon.

Diavolo:

Also a man with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Other than the actual process of making the baby, everything that happened was either because of something he directly or indirectly did to start up the exchange program.

Also regrets not having regular check ups on his exchange students because surely they all would have discovered this sooner and prevented anything from happening to the pregnant woman.

Has regular doctor visits scheduled for MC to make sure she and her baby stay healthy and pays for all of it, including any medications she may need during this progress.

Pregnancy can be really fucking expensive, but the prince makes sure she never has to worry about that side of things.

Just focus on staying healthy and letting your baby grow, MC; he and the other men will handle everything else.

Barbatos:

Knew before everyone else did.

I mean, this man literally had to make sure the baby transfered over too.

This man is seriously a hero that doesn't get the credit he deserves nor does he seek such.

MC and her baby are safe now and that's all that matters to the butler.

Honestly frets over the woman on the inside, but shows no sign of it externally.

Is the man that takes her to all her doctors appointments and was there when she discovered the gender of her baby.

Congratulated her as she sobbed happy tears and was honestly grateful that he could share such a moment with her.

Honestly becomed really attached to MC during her pregnancy and looks forward to watching her child grow up.

Solomon:

Honestly, his intuition had been tingling for a while on this subject.

He suspected this pregnancy, but figured it was none of his business and didn't want to pry into the fellow human's personal life.

If he would have known such an event would happen with Belphie though, he would have stepped in and got answers.

He didn't though. The sorcerer had no clue how events were going to unfold.

Hindsight is telling him that he should have pryed more, but his manners told him it was right to respect the woman's privacy.

Doesn't do too much in regards to taking care of his friend since the demons seem to have it all covered and even seem to somewhat resent the sorcerer when he tries.

Believe it's better not to step on any toes, so to speak.

Is still a good friend to MC though and always offers an ear if they need to vent about the process with someone.

Simeon:

This all happened before the pregnancy had progressed enough for him to sense the baby.

He did however sense...something within the human since he met her, but didn't understand what.

Hindsight is really hurting this poor angel's heart 😔

Become the woman's biggest support in an emotional sense.

Pregnancy is hard and hormones flare and everything can seem so stressful, especially to a scared single mom.

This man is often the one comforting her when she breaks down into tears, even when it's over small stuff like someone ate the last cookie or she lost her pen.

He makes sure MC knows how strong she is and that she will make it through this this difficult time.

Luke:

Demons!!! Back away from the pregnant woman or this chihuahua will bite.

Okay, not really, but the brothers make this joke a lot.

Luke is very protective of MC in this situation.

Since he is just a child, he wasn't told what happened between her and Belphie in complete detail.

Really just thinks the stupid demon hurt her feelings and the angelic boy will not allow it to happen again!

Grows increasingly curious as MC's belly grows; angels don't have kids in this way so this boy has a lot of questions about what's happening to her body.

The fact that there's an actual baby just chilling and growing in her belly boggles this boy's mind.

Is honestly excited for MC's baby and feels like he about to be come a big brother!

This boy is determined to do his part and take care of her just like the adults do.

Mostly just keeps her company and bakes for her when her cravings give her a sweet tooth.

Little Lukey keeps her spirits up and MC loves him for it.

[delayed-affection]

Hi, I loved slumber party. Can u write about somehow convincing Justin to let u cut his hair or him asking u to cut his hair but it’s ends up really bad in your opinion but he likes it but the internet have a field day and u get upset and he defends u on social media

Uh oh

Oneshots Navigation

Justin Herbert x reader

Warnings: referred to as girlfriend once and her twice

Word count: 1.0k

His kind words and reassurance help to alleviate some of your guilt and embarrassment. Justin asked you to cut his hair for him you thought he had gone crazy. With his hair being a big part him and his image so it was weird that he was putting his trust in you.

And you were doing fine or at least you thought you were for a moment.

You were very careful with scissors, following his instructions to the best of your abilities but you’re honestly a visual learner and his instructions weren’t really of any help.

You tried your best to be careful, but each cut felt like a mistake and you felt increasingly frustrated.

By the time you had finished, you were tired and stressed out. Begging him to not look in the mirror.

You pull at his arm trying to get him to stop walking, “Please don’t look, I’ll get you a hat or a beanie that you could wear until it grows out.”

He chuckles as he unintentionally drags you to the bathroom with him, “It can’t be that bad.”

When you get to the bathroom you see his smile falter for a split second and that’s when you know it’s bad.

“You hate it.” You groan backing up into the wall.

He shakes his head and pulls you back over to him, “No… I don’t hate it, it’s just a little shorter than I expected.”

You look down at your hands, “It’s also choppy and one half of your head looks fuller than the other.”

"It's just a haircut, it's not a big deal." He tries to reassure you, but you’re still feeling a bit insecure.

“It’s YOUR hair and I messed it up, it is a big deal.” You argue.

He puts your face in his hands, making you look at him, “You did great and I like it. No correction I love it and I love you, okay?”

You nod, “I love you too but I still think it’s bad.”

He gives you a quick kiss, “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why did you let me cut your hair?” You quip.

~

A couple days go by and everyone has seen his hair, the media team even posted a tik tok asking the players what they thought about his new cut.

And let’s just say they didn’t hold back on there roasts, letting the world and you know that they all hated it.

Sitting on the couch you read through the comments and they were just as cruel as everyone else.

The embarrassment starts to set in and you can't believe you made such a terrible mistake with his hair.

You try to console yourself with the thought that it wasn't such a big deal and that his hair will grow out soon, he can wear a hat when he’s not wearing a helmet. But you can't shake the feeling that you completely fumbled something this big.

You continue to read through the comments, trying to find something encouraging or sympathetic, but there is none to be found.

Now, more than ever, you are completely regretful of your actions.

When Justin comes back home you’re quick to apologize over the haircut once more. He’s barely through the door when you come rushing over, phone still in hand.

“I’m so sorry, Justin, i should’ve listened to your instructions better. I should’ve just said no when you asked me.” You tell him but you were talking quite fast, “I knew it wasn’t good, I knew-“

He shuts the door and drops his bags, “Baby, baby, slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Your hair.” You stress, “Everyone is talking about it and how bad it is.”

He gives you a look screams what the hell are you talking about, “What? Who’s everyone?”

“The social team, the guys… every nfl fan ever.”

His face stays the same and he doesn’t respond, he really needs to look at his socials every now and then.

You had him your phone, “Look.”

You stand there as he watches the video, listening to jokes and comments his teammates made about his hair.

He turns off the phone and pulls you into a hug, "You know, it's really not that bad. My hair will grow back. In the meantime, I'm happy you tried to do something nice for me. I'm not upset, so don't worry about it, okay?"
His kind words and reassurance help to alleviate some of your guilt and embarrassment.

He can tell that the comments are still getting to you a bit.

He sighs and slips your phone into his pocket, “No more phone for you.”

You try to move around him to grab it but he avoids every advance you make.

"It's for your own good." He adds with a smile, "Look how about we do something else?”

He pauses to think for a moment, “We could do that paint and sip thing you’re always talking about?”

~

Justin stands at the charger podium after practice, answering the questions being thrown at him by the press.

It’s nearing the end of the conference and no one has asked about his hair, Justin thought that he had lucked out.

Until a reporter asked, “What happened to your hair? Did you upset your barber?”

Though it was intended as a joke he knew how it would effect you.

He shrugs off the question, “Well my girlfriend did it and she already feels bad about it so please keep your comments to yourselves.”

Another reporter is called on to ask a question, “Can I ask was it her first time or…”

He gives them a short nod, “It was and I will admit I didn’t give the best instructions so it’s not her fault. And just as I told her, it’s just hair it’ll grow back. If people don’t like it, then they shouldn’t look at me.”

He knows he was a little rude with his last comment but if it means standing up for you, he’s fine with it. Plus he was getting quite fed up with everyone.

Now he can only hope that the unnecessary insults and hate calm down.