#this is supposed to be for day 3: storms

[impossiblepluto]

"You think I'm gonna pass up the opportunity- 'here lies Jack Dalton, he rode the lightning'?" "Any last words?" "Well, I don't know. I ain't gonna say I love you or anything." "Yeah, I don't love you either."

[screechingfromthevoid]

Dorian with the crown keepers in some quiet taverns in quiet towns as they travel, he's always up late. He can't quite fall asleep well. So he sneaks out to a different tavern than the one they're staying at. He doesn't want to risk someone recognizing him in the morning.

At the new taverns, he goes straight to their stages. The emptier the better but it's not hard for him to convince a half drunk bard to get even drunker.

Sometimes he'd sit on the poorly lit stage and strum his mandolin and not say a word at all as he started to pluck out a tune. The chords are simple at first, something he heard in a dream. Every night spent working, adds another measure. Deeper swells and higher jumps. A mournful reverberation. He was stuck for a while.

Until he hears "glad you're not here... wish you were anyways".

Then, disjointed and seemingly unexpected, a reprise of that first plucking, an octave and a half lower. Still major, still jovial. Just. Deeper. Just... Realer.

I'll fix the transition later, he thought.

That's when the lyrics came. They weren't good but they spilled out of his mouth involuntarily. If it were up to him, those thoughts, those feelings would stay caged in his heart. Instead, a room full of strangers knew him more fully than his intimates.

Protector of air, guard of heart, bulwark of us

His simple plucked out tune, a dreamed up melody for a man he could only dream of.

You say you don't lead. But when I look to you, you're drenched in the boreal crux

A deep and quiet start to the encroaching swell, getting louder and higher.

Crowns of spiders couldn't tempt me astray from your due north

Trilled eight notes that felt like crawling legs and whispy silk on the back of the neck.

I thought you might be the wind caught in my sails. Always only you caught in my fibers

His last word carries a sour note, it sounded wrong, out of tune. Like he was.

A storm by another name, gold and red and melting black, tore us off course

Dorian's run was backwards, like he was free falling from a ledge. Accidentals plaguing it's decent.

It's harder than ever to orient through shades of grey and leave behind no remorse...

That reverberation was accompanied by a strain in his voice. Something that happened every night once he made it to that point. It came next to a swallow of something in his throat. That transition came to him, when Dorian thought about what got him out of his slump, he laughed. Bashfully, sheepishly. He always felt his face burn.

My heart aches. Stay steadfast. Fairer winds...

What a thing to say instead of I miss you.

I have stolen a world away. You are there, I am here. And all I want is to be together when we wake

His melody, their melody, picked up again. His fingers started to pluck staccatos in between the languid chords.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or so they say. This distance has only made mine bleed icar

Dorian wouldn't allow himself to end this with a confession. At least, not one of guilt. It wasn't supposed to be about his straying. It was supposed to be about Orym. It was supposed to be about the man he-

I look for the direction ivy green grows. I look to you still, to find my way.

Sometimes he ended the song with another reprise of his dreamy melody. Sometimes, his fingers would slip on the strings and rancid mistakes would ring out into the crowd. It seemed to depend on how hard they fought that day. How much more Opal stained.

Dorian would always thanked the crowd before taking up the coins that were haphazardly thrown on stage. He wouldn't set out a hat or cup, it wasn't about that, but there was always coin at his feet by the end.

He'd walk quiet streets and thought about Bertrand. Dorian understood now, what he said about walking alone at night. He stepped carefully up lulling tavern stairs thinking about picking up a bottle for a round of "what the fuck is up with that" with friend that weren't waiting for him. He slid into the room he shared with his brother, acknowledging every time that this was the first time they did that. They never shared a room or a bed as children. They didn't share much. Now fully grown, he felt they were more childish than ever.

Dorian curled into himself on his cold side of the bed and thought about how he used to have a pulsing heart beat on his skin. Whether it was across his legs, against his back, against his chest. He never felt loneliness like this before. He never felt the absence of someone before.

And he was worse for it

[mechazushi]

Calm Before The Storm {A Kn8 short story} [Directly inspired by Ch. 117] soooooo...spoilers

Kneeling on a pillow before a low peach wood desk, settled a man. A powerful man with a powerful presence, having long hair and dressed in dark purple robes with woven black silk and kaiju armor, fitting for a high ranking kaiju killer. He continued to write, unbothered by the audience before him. Standing at attention beside the official was a soldier in full regalia, his face obscured into anonymity.

"If that is everything, then everyone is dismised." Soshiro Hoshina, leader of the Hoshina clan, commanded to the squad leaders he had summoned to his personal office.

While the rest had bowed graciously and filed out in-sync, one had decidedly stayed behind against orders. Konomi Okonogi, an lower ranked advisor to the clan had stood unshaken before the forth son of the Hoshinas. She was waiting quietly for him to acknowledge her on his own. A small moment passed, filled with the quiet swishing and slicing of a stiff brush gliding over paper. The soldier, noticing that the advisor hadn't left had also noticed his commander refusing to acknowledge the wayward interloper. The soldier let out a muffled cough as a cover for him to disguise a nudge to his higher officer with his foot. Being jarred from his concentration on official paperwork, Soshiro finally decided to address the nosy advisor in the room.

"Is there something to be left said, Miss Okonogi? As you can see, everyone else had left."

"Yes, there is." The locally stationed advisor stated, "It's about your continued decision to employ someone with... lackluster talents as your personal guard. Your family remains ever concern about such choices."

"And they will continue to worry as they are prone to do so as blood relatives." Hoshina finally looked up from his work and looked at the advisor fully, "They may question it all they like, but it will not change the fact that I have made it." He looked back down dismissively to begin again on his paperwork.

"Since the fourth son of a somewhat prominent family is not in that high of demand, my guard's skills are sufficient enough for his task which, need I remind you, is escorting me across town to my family's manor and back. Nothing more." He resumed the meditative writing as a way of making his point clear and matter resolved.

Okonogi sniffed stiffly as she took the transgression silently. She bowed nonetheless and shuffled herself out the office door. After closing it behind her, the soldier let out a low sigh of relief. Hoshina chuckled to himself, somehow finding all of it funny.

"Ya know, for a group of people ya hardly see, they sure like to press on personal matters." The soldier finally spoke when he felt the sudden tension leave his shoulders.

"They're not pressing the matter, she is." Soshiro sighed as he started the process of cleaning up his brush, "She's being paid to question any decision I make that doesn't sound like any my family would make themselves." Hanging the brush on a rack and shuffling some items on his desk around for cleanliness sake, the commander eventually lifted himself from his kneeling position and let out a long and low groan as he stretched, satisfied.

"Come along, darling. After leading training and all of that paperwork, I feel a deep need for a cleansing." Soshiro said as he slid his hands into his oversized sleeves.

"I've told you not to call me that." The soldier's warning was muffled through the clay face mask he wore.

"Oh please, we're the only people on his side of the manor now. And in a few minutes, I get to call you whatever I want." Hoshina retaliated with a hint of joy undercutting the mocking statement.

The two of them filed out of the small office, the commander in front and his loyal body guard never far behind. It was well past sunset and the sky made it clear it was reaching late dusk. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the paper doors that lined the long hallway to the natural hot spring located on premises. Once they entered the outdoor bath and had closed the door, making sure it couldn't be opened easily, only then did the energy in the air begin to waver. It changed from official and stale, to feeling charged, almost teetering on playful or mischievous.

Soshiro found a lit candle on a nearby stool and followed his guard as they walked the stone path that lined the edge of the spring. Kafka did his part of unhooking metal lanterns that hung from tall wooden post high in the air and brought them down to chest level for Soshiro to light them. After making certain that any night breeze wouldn't extinguish the little flame easily, did Kafka hang the lantern back up and move on. They made a full lap around the spring and walked back to the front of the bath. Soshiro tugged on one end of a strip of leather that held back most of the glossy locks that draped from his regal head and sighed as its weight shifted.

"Well, are you going to help me or not?" The commander tittered playfully as he stoked his hair over his shoulder. He watched his soldier tug at the strings holding his face mask in place. A hand came up to rub away the thin sheen of sweat that had built up under it as the other placed the mask on a table.

"One of these days' we're gonna get caught because of your impatience" The soldier said as he made himself see clearly again.

Dropping the mask revealed the man underneath to be Kafka Hibino, once a lowly foot soldier in the Monkey squad, now currently having the coveted position of being Soshiro Hoshina's personal escort and body guard. A position he wasn't aiming for, but with how his relationship with the fourth son of the Hoshina's was going, it wasn't one he minded terribly. While it was blatant favoritism that earned him the position, it was clear to the both of them that it could never be trusted to anyone else. He began to walk over to where Soshiro was waiting patiently to have help removing the heavy Kaiju-leather plates that make up a hunter's armor.

"If you keep talking about it, eventually you'll make it so. I almost wonder if you want it to happen." Soshiro sang with a honeyed tone.

"It will happen if you don't fix the problem of not being able to keep your hands to yourself." Kafka stated as he began to mess with the ties holding the pauldrons to his shoulders. He smirked as he chuckled in his mind, thinking about all the times he had to stop his commander from launching himself across tables at people, from starting duels in the street, or making sure he didn't get caught with his hand snaking their way onto his body guard's... person.

"I haven't ever heard you complain about it before." His commander said with mock admonishment. He held onto the discarded pauldrons as Kafka began to work on the belts holding the chest piece in place. "Maybe it just means we're both rotten to the core." Hoshina continued to tease as he leaned back closer to Kafka's chest.

"It's not hard to be influenced by you when you make yourself so inviting." Kafka hummed as he leaned in closer to Soshiro's ear, "I just consider myself lucky that I'm the only one my commander had decided to make himself a completely vulnerable fool in front of." He whispered as his hands traveled southward, past the belt that held up the lower portion of armor and unexpectedly squeezed his partner's upper thigh.

Soshiro jabbed him with his elbow in retaliation, causing the two of them to giggle and make Kafka lose his grip on the belt. He finished with his task and helped remove the chest plate afterward. Once he gathered all the removed armor and set them on the table, did he offer himself up to his commander for the same courtesy. Kafka let him pull at the strings holding his helmet in place, the both of them knowing full well that he could do it himself. They knew as well that Soshiro liked the opportunity to hold his lover's face in his hands.

After taking off the helmet, Kafka took it out of Soshiro's hands so his could be free to caress his. A face marked with long healed scars and patchy scruff, it was a face he found only his commander seemed to truly love. Fingertips traced the edges of its rough details while eyes drank in its softer ones. The small maze of wrinkles that lined his lips and brow, those gem-like blue-green eyes that could melt snow capped mountains or freeze them solid, and that warmth of a good soul that seemed to seep from every piece of contact his lover's hands could make on his face. These details were expressed to him, time and time again, but he never believed them until he heard it straight from his commander's honest lips.

One hand removed itself from the helmet it was holding so it could trap Hoshina's and bring it closer to his lips, allowing a moment where Kafka could drink in the other's essence as well. Savoring the cool skin on his and smelling the ink and leather oil sunk deep into Soshiro's natural perfume, permanently etching his presence onto the ridges of Kafka's mind. He sniffed and sighed and kissed it lightly before he let it go. Kafka liked to watch intently as those same hands roamed his body, giving him the same care and attention to his armor that he gave to his commander. It wasn't long before he was stripped of his armor as well. He took it from Soshiro as laid it to rest next to the other pile on the table.

Hoshina began to busy himself with removing the cloth robes that remained, not giving them any loving courtesy like the armor was given. They were quickly shed onto the stones before Soshiro stepped foot into the searing warmth of the spring water. Dunking his head in, he resurfaced swiftly and smoothed away some errant strands of hair from his vision. He began to tug on the last of the leather strip that held the rest of his hair back as he watched Kafka from the borders of the spring. As it all fell down heavily, Soshiro busied his hands with sweeping it behind his shoulders while he continued to rudely gawk at his partner undressing.

He had seen that man naked more times than he had seen himself, and he never tired from the view. Strong muscle wrapped and coiled around the soldier's arms while his torso held a softer image. Hoshina knew better than to doubt that rounded appearance, having seen and certainly felt what that upper body was capable of. His tongue darted out and swiped across his lips in reaction to seeing the top shirt being removed fully and folded onto the table. He moved closer to the rounded stone skirting of the small pool and saddled up to the edge in quiet anticipation. As Kafka's hands reached to waist of his pants, they stilled as he developed the familiar sensation of being watched.

"Do you really have to stare at me every time I undress?" Kafka called back, not bothering to turn around to confirm his suspicions.

"Do you have to act like a bashful maiden every time I do?" Soshiro teased as he stayed rooted to his spot.

Hoshina found himself biting his lip as Kafka just sighed and removed the rest of his clothing. He moved out of the way as Kafka strode over and began to act as if he was about to enter the pool, only to sweep the discarded robes off the floor and smirked coyly at Soshiro as he walked away with them

"I don't know why it bothers you so much. It's not like I haven't had you under me or anything." Soshiro teased back as he watched Kafka continue to put away the discarded attire.

"You start up that kind of attitude this early and I'm leaving." Kafka grumbled as his cheeks flushed bright red.

"If you're not in the mood, just say so." His commander pouted as he turned away from him in slacking scorn.

"Only because I'd like a chance to actually relax first." Kafka said with easy-going indignance. He returned to the pool holding the jade comb they used whenever they came to the spring together. Soshiro scoffed, but shifted himself into position anyway as his partner carefully splashed his way in.

"It would work that way as well. Hell's, I'd like to think that you would end up more relaxed by the time I was done." he joked as he leaned back into Kafka's awaiting lap, propping himself up between his knees.

"You're incorrigible." Kafka sighed as he shook his head.

He spent the passing time slowly raking the comb through the long silken strands of Soshiro's hair, taking care to brush slowly and chip away at any knots going from bottom to top. After making sure it was free of tangles, did he take more of their time combing through it all in long passes, just to savor the feeling. Soshiro reveled in the attention, never not once hating the feeling of being attended to like this. Sure, he had servants help him dress in the morning and even do his hair, but none of it felt the same as when it was done by someone he loved. Every few passes of the comb, he would feel short nails caress and scritch as his scalp, removing an itch that he didn't realize was even there. On windless nights, Soshiro could hear a deep, reverberating hum from the depths of Kafka's chest, usually a marching chant or a drinking hymn. The repeated, loving motions, the all-encompassing blanket of warmth, paired with the harmony of the wind and leaves matching the water and waves lapping at the stone beat for beat. Hoshina would willingly go penny-less and destitute, sick and infirm, if it meant he got to keep these moments forever.

Deep in the cavern of his blissfully silent mind, it took a while for Soshiro to notice that Kafka had stopped brushing and took up plaiting the infinite length. To be honest, he wasn't a fan of it. Leaving in the braid too long usually bent it into weak crimps and he could already hear the judging murmurs of his servants who had to deal with it in the morning. He was aware that Kafka was just the type of person who always felt the need to keep his hands busy. A trait that benefited him when it came to squad relations. Rarely was there ever an idle task when Kafka was released from his body guard duties. It was just how he spent his time relaxing, but did Kafka really have to take it out on his hair?

"You're doing it again." Soshiro muttered lazily, not bothering to stop his lover.

"I know." Kafka responded simply, the smile unmistakable in his soft voice.

"You know everyone hates it when you do that." The commander sighed. He heard a puffy chuckle before Kafka responded.

"Do you know why I do it anyway?" he said as he held his hand out for the leather hair tie.

"Mmm... Humor me." Soshiro softly moaned and he began to feel those gentle hands move again.

"Because no one knows it's me." He whispered, "Because it makes your hair do a fun little dance for me as I follow you around. It's something I do to you that lets me remember that I'm yours." He finished curling the long braid around itself into a snug bun and cinched it up with the leather cord

"And you're mine." Kafka tacked on tenderly, along with a quick peck to an unsuspecting commander's forehead.

"Well then... I guess I can't bring myself to hate it as well." Soshiro declared as he lifted himself to a higher sitting position.

"Especially after hearing something so sweet." He scooted himself more fully into Kafka's lap and wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

Their lips touched and moved languidly against each other. No need to rush or to stop was felt when they started, and there wouldn't be for the rest of all their night together. Such was the case when two lovers fell into a wanting dance. Kafka softly sighed as his partner's hand tugged at the hairs of his nape and soothingly massaged the back of his neck. Soshiro beamed as he felt his soldier's sharp teeth and pointed canines pull teasingly at his lower lip, causing a breathy giggle. Hibino broke away from the dance first, deciding to slowly lavish a trail of wet kissed down the taut plains of Hoshina's neck. He tasted the sulfur of the water and the salt of the sweat as he savored the journey to the hard edges of his bath-mate's bare shoulder.

It was there that Kafka decided to stop his conquest and inhale his lover's scent once again. Breathing deep and slow, he made his mind expand and bask in all that he could feel, all he could sense. His arms unconsciously tightened around Soshiro's waist as a wisp of melancholy seeped into his heart. His nose nuzzling its way back up the path he made on the neck felt very much different from the moments they were making before. Hoshina dug deep into his will to separate their chests from each other so he could look his love in the eyes. He felt his smile carry a hint of the melancholy that had seemed to enter Kafka's heart as well as invaded the sanctity of his expressive face. A hand traveled from Kafka's broad chest to tease the corner of his lips into a happier expression.

"Your mind is very loud again. It's practically coming out of your eyes." Soshiro huffed quietly as he continued to watch the other's face shift through different shades of the same emotion.

"It's just... this... the world... something's been feeling off lately. Like this isn't going to last forever." Kafka's voice rumbled with the weight that he had been feeling on his shoulders.

"You're manifesting again." Soshiro called back, thinking a joke would help lighten the mood.

"It doesn't feel like that. More so like a... premonition. A gut feeling that's arrived and hasn't left." Kafka brought his face closer, rubbing his nose against Soshiro's and sought comfort and warmth in their closeness, "I keep waking up in the morning, thinking that it's going to be the last time I get to see you. It scares me."

"I would rather be stabbed through the heart before I let things stay that way between us." His lover affirmed solidly as he brought both of his hands to cage Kafka's face, "This isn't coming from what Miss Okonogi said earlier about my family, is it?"

"I wish its origins were that simple. I've had this feeling for a while now." Kafka's gaze softened even more as he basked in their continued embrace.

"If that feeling gets worse, I want you to remind yourself of one thing." Soshiro spoke softly, treating each word like a fragile feather.

"And what's that?" Kafka whispered back, a flicker of hope sparkling in the shape of his lips twitching into a smile.

"No matter what comes, no matter what happens, may it be something trivial, or the ending of the world, I will be yours." Soshiro placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of Kafka's nose as he continued to promise, "And I will find you no matter where, no matter when, and tell you that, over and over again. In as many different ways as needed until you never feel like this again."

They continued to indulge in each other's comforting presence until their tired minds couldn't take being awake anymore. Even as Kafka felt his mind be overtaken with the inescapable need for sleep, his mind echoed his partner's sentiment over and over again. He knew those words were true, and knew better than to doubt a promise from his commander and lover, but it affected little to the growing fear that leeched onto the fibers of his emotions. One thing he said did seep in however. He knew, really and truly knew, that they would find each other. Again and again.

No matter what.

[tomandgeriatric]

I live in the Pacific Northwest and it hasn't rained all month long. it's been dry and it's like 50 degrees right now. this...is worrisome.

[mcmorare]

hello!! little psa that there are currently some bad thunderstorms in my area, so activity might be lower today and tomorrow!

[125storejuice]

.

[prismbattery]

playing bg3 completely blind is . insane . also im very bad at the game i keep getting my ass kicked. any tips. i am playing a sorcerer

[mashmouths]

@ god if you don't want me to kill myself turn my power back on i am NOT playing

[sparklyinnards]

i got all did up to see my friend yesterday and i forgot to take pics of the same outfit and makeup i've worn before. sad

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

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

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

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

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

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

You know, a Lemurian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do my neck too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you wanted to see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked better, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once he began to create, however...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

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

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Receptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently they had.

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

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

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

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

Which was dry.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

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

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

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

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, this man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

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

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

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

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

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

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

It was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not until you.

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep going like this.

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

And you had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So adorable. So endearing.)

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

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

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

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

“…Rafayel?”

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

He could… He could skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a weak man.

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep being like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Focus.)

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

And then. The tug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

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

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

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

His robe.

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

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

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

He felt a push at his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you bit him.

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? Now?

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

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

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

More than this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a homecoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

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

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

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

“Or, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was that easy to change his mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just returning to the original plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth wide open.

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

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

"Pffft!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel.”

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

“Rafayel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke first.

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

Then you yanked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a reward for that?”

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

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission to talk?”

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

“Go ahead, handsome.”

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

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

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

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

"Are you really asking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Just how pent-up was he?

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

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

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

"Rafa—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was beyond insatiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, did he listen well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel just smiled.

[tiddykittylikesskittles]

I hate being in between the rock and the hard place of a) sitting through work even when you feel like shit or b) asking for help and feeling like you're abandoning people/being a burden

[raeathnos]

.

[madamechrissy]

Would you come with me?

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary: You have been Satoru's best friend for such a long time, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. What!?!? Well, Satoru has to take a wife as he's running the Gojo corporation, and what better way to get them off his back than 'marry'? In name only, just best friends living together for a year to calm them down, sounds so perfect and uncomplicated, right!!! Well, living with Satoru Gojo makes you both question everything, is this fake marriage feeling... real? and can you just be friends after this?

CW: NSFT-MDNI- So much mutual pining and longing, not sharing feelings. This chap- making out, masturbation (toru hehe), teasing and some very kinky ass thoughts, but mostly TENSION. Eventually - Explicit sex, oral sex, it's me so a breed kink. Gonna be a miniseries, Satoru is a lil sweetie and a lil freaky ass- falls hard, ya'll both down bad. WC this Part- 7.5k

Songs for this - Lose Contol // My Boo // Friends

This was supposed to be a oneshot but it's going WAY too long, so I'm separating it into three parts! (Also ty for 5k hehe) Comments and reblogs appreciated <3

Masterlist - Part Two>>>

Part one

“You love me, right?”

You blink a bit, as you stare at Satoru Gojo, he’s been your best friend all throughout high school and even before you’ve known him. You’re sitting across from him, while he’s sipping boba with you, his Gucci shades perched on the bridge of that straight nose, a smirk on his glossy lips. You tilt your head curiously at him, of course you love Satoru, but he only pulls this when he needs a favor.

“What’d you get into this time, Toru?” You demand, he gasps then, affronted, a hand to his chest.

“Excuse me, missy? I’m just asking if you love me.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat in the little cafe. “Of course, you know I love your goofy ass.”

 Satoru takes off his glasses, those swirling blue eyes wrecking you as they have all these years, usually you can put up enough of a barrier not to let them consume you, but apparently you haven’t today. You watch those snowy lashes lower when his eyes bore into you, swirling storms of bright blue, you have to snap yourself out of it.

Being Satoru Gojo’s best friend wasn’t for the weak.

“How much you love me, hmm?”

“What is it you need, an alibi?” He snorts then, shaking his head and wrapping his lips around the straw.

“M’not Suguru, shit… no, I need a really big favor. Like… the biggest favor, but if you agree, I can really make it worth your while.”

“Okay this isn’t a mobster movie, Toru, what is it?” Satoru looks down then, long fingers swirling around the top of his cup, before his eyes snap back to yours.

“What if I said I’d help you with all that student loan debt, and buy you a shiny brand new car?”

“Satoru, I don’t want your money, I do fine okay?”

“Your car is old enough to drink.”

“Fuck off!” Your glare makes him snort in laughter. “It is not, it’s like… not even old enough to vote… I don’t think.”

“It’s old, sweets. Say you also had a place to stay, for free?”

“Satoru this isn’t Pretty Woman-”

“I love that movie!”

“Satoru! What are you getting at!?” You’re crossing your arms then, raising a brow at the lanky man across from you, whose legs are spread wide in his dark blue dress pants, he’s pulling just a bit at his silky black tie.

Satoru has taken a huge role recently in his family business, the conglomerate that owned a million different things, you know how much he detests it, but once Satoru graduated college his family pushed it more and more. At this point he was thriving, doing most of the work with his father taking much more of a back seat, his health starting to deteriorate.

You and Gojo spend more time together than ever, you know he needs his friend, especially with Suguru having left for some time, the two of them not together was always hard on him. You’d been friends with both of them, but Suguru seems to have left and found his own calling, swinging through to see you both from time to time, but much is different since those days at Tokyo high.

Not you and Satoru though.

For the longest time you pined away for him, but you never made that move, aside from one stolen kiss in a closet during seven minutes in heaven, and Satoru had it bad for you all of Junior and Senior year, but the two of you never risked it, your friendship. And now you’re glad to have him in your life, but it’s hard to even think of someone serious when he’s so brightly and firmly in your life.

“This is a huge favor I need, it’s… a lot to ask.” Satoru murmurs softly, you tense a bit, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” Your voice is a low hum as you murmur, he nods just a bit.

“Yeah it’s fine just… I’m being forced to choose a bride, and they have many candidates.” He laughs humorlessly, and your heart breaks for him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Satoru. I thought you’d have longer?”

“Yeah, I wish.” He runs a hand through his silky white locks, looking down for a moment, lips that always smirk or maybe pout actually frowning. “I need to just get it done, get em off my ass.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, why not tell em to fuck themselves, hmm? Where’s my Toru!?”

“He’s exhausted.” He swipes a hand across his face, and you lean closer, hand on his leg, his eyes sliding back to yours.

“Do you want me to help find someone? I have a lot of good friends in high families… find you someone not money hungry, not a psycho? How much time do you even have?”

“That’s not what I'm asking.” He puts his big hand over yours now, sighing, leaning closer to you. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“If I want to, what exactly?”

“Marry me?”

“What!?” He chuckles then, but even that sound is exhausted.

“You forget you’re from a top family, nah it’s not the Gojo clan but…”

“Satoru…”

“Just for like a bit? To get em to leave me alone, let me gain some more power. All for show, and I’ll help you with anything, I promise.” He’s clutching your hand, and suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning.

“Wh-why me? We… you… I…”

“You’re my best friend, it would be like being roommates damn near. You could… do your thing as long as you’re discrete.” He murmurs, you want to laugh then, as if you’ve done anything in a couple of years now. “And I would be discrete, respectful, we’d just be in name, appearance. We’re best friends, it will be a piece of cake, and most of all… I trust you.”

You try to digest all the information, blinking and trying not to think the insane thoughts that come with it, but you fail. “But won’t they want… an heir?”

Satoru’s cheeks flush bright pink now. “We don’t need to… I’d never ask you to do that, ever I swear. I’d never be an ass like that.”

You feel your heart racing as you shove back all of the images you should not have for your friend. “I know, I know. But… they’d-”

“That’s the thing, a year or so and they’ll back off. Give me time to fix some mistakes, with dad being sick… I’m not saying I won’t miss him, but how he is running shit? No, I know I can make things better, take down these shitty higher ups who are so greedy. You just could give me more time, and I promise I’ll do anything I can to help you too.”

“It’s insane, this is marriage!” You blink a bit, shifting, his hand now brushing back a lock of hair from your forehead, a familiar gesture that now takes on something more intimate.

“It can just be for show, we’ll be the same best friends as always. I have no one I can imagine even living with but you, maybe Suguru but… he’s not a girl.”

“He has that long silky hair?” You both laugh a little, softly then.

“He sure does, but… you’re prettier to look at.”

“Flattery? Stop that. It’s insane, and… how would we even explain it in such a rush?”

“We’ve been friends forever. Who wouldn’t believe that we got together? It’s even easier. I mean, maybe a couple kisses and things for show, but… you’ve kissed me before, remember?” He’s grinning wide then, you shove at him playfully. “That closet was cramped, hmm?”

“Oh shut it, that was so long ago. I mean, if you really need me, you know I’ll do this for you. I don’t expect you to go all out on anything for me in return.” Satoru pauses now, watching how the light streaming in through the large cafe windows hits your pretty face, as you explain to him that you’d want nothing in return for this!? For this huge imposition on your life.

You have always been the sweetest, best friend he has had, so important to him he’s never dared to cross that line, and he knows it will tempt him to no end to do this, but he also knows he can trust you. “Let me just take care of a few things for you, you can almost see it as a job. There will be events, meetings with the other leaders, trust me. Like anything I can do, you’ll be helping me so much.”

“Alright.”

“What!?”

He’s hugging you tightly to him, you giggle a bit, breathless. “Yeah, I’ll do it… I need a nice car though, Toru. A BMW?”

“I’ll get you ten BMWs.”

“Jesus, no. Silly boy.” You giggle as you look up at him, your best friend, but then your heart falters when he’s just a bit too close.

“Should we practice kissing now?” He teases, voice husky.

“Satoru, you're insufferable.”

He pouts now, and you swallow down the fact that you don’t know if you can even handle kissing his lips. “Aww you’re still such a brat, since middle school.”

“You’re the brat here.”

“Meanie.” You both stick your tongues out, and when he’s walking you over to your shitty car, he wraps you in a big hug in his strong arms, making you melt against him. “Mwah, mwah, mwah you’re the best friend ever.”

“Oh, stop.” He’s smacking kisses on your head as you inhale his cologne, sighing as you contemplate just what the fuck you’re doing. “When do we do this?” You ask, pulling back a bit and looking up at him.

“I can have things going in a couple weeks, something super simple, like I said we’ll just live our lives, just be friends, it’ll be fine. Like a really long sleepover, hmm?” He teases, grinning now, putting back on his shades.

You figure, what’s it hurt? Your apartment is shitty, your car is old, Gojo is your best friend, and you’re down to help him avoid a miserable marriage for as long as he can. You nod then, smiling. “A long sleepover.”

One week of being ‘fake married’ to Satoru Gojo, your best friend

Satoru Gojo thought he would control himself decently living with you, considering how many times you’ve slept over, how many movies you both have crashed out on the couch together. He’s seen you in bathing suits over the years, he’s caught glimpses of your pretty body of course, he knows how beautiful you are and he’s always maintained himself.

Satoru treasures you far too much to fuck it up in any way, despite the amount of times he’s almost lost it. Aside from Suguru, you have been the most important person in his life, and perhaps you’re closer now. But he can’t help but compare other girls to you over the years, and he usually makes quick work of the small relationships that he has with them.

However, what he hadn’t anticipated? Living with you walking around in your fucking panties and a crop top.

You nearly took him out the first morning you were here, when he went to brush his teeth, he has a huge house but of course you went to the main bathroom that divides his room and the room he set for you, it’s the bathroom you used when you stayed over. So he should have maybe anticipated it, but nothing prepared him for you bent over the sink, washing your face.

Your ass looked far too tempting in those damn boyshorts, half of each cheek tempting him to smack it, grab it, fucking lift you by it and slide into you. He was shocked when he was hard from the sight of it, he’s not inexperienced or not used to women, and he’s used to you, but something about the sight made him fucking feral, and he had to literally run to one of his guest bathrooms.

He now was almost used to you walking around in almost nothing, but this morning you’re in some little white tank top and he sees the outlines of the curve of your pretty tits, sees your nipples perked up, begging for his mouth. You’re wiping your eyes, yawning, using his Keurig to make coffee, smiling at him as if this is in any way normal or okay.

He gulps as you turn your attention to him, hair in a messy bun, his eyes struggle not to just stare at your body, he has to shut his mouth because it’s just slightly ajar. Satoru, a man who sees women naked frequently, fuck he has business meetings at strip clubs, nudity is nothing. But he can’t take it, take how your breasts are calling for him, how your thighs shift.

“Good morning, Toru! We have that event tonight, right?” You say sweetly, as his heart hammers in his chest, and then you feel his gaze on you, making your nipples tighten, more apparent as you look where he is now, biting your lip. “Shit, white isn’t the best color huh? How embarrassing… it’s kinda cold…”

“Yeah, cold.” He clears his throat, stepping closer, and your eyes drink him in, shirtless and built so perfect. You’ve seen him this way of course over the years, Satoru had no issue pulling his top off to work out, play a game of ball, but something about him in his soft sweats that show too much makes your brain run awry.

You should be immune to it, the god-like body Satoru Gojo has, how fucking perfect he is built, how pretty he is, but something makes your tummy heat up lately, especially when he comes closer, blue eyes lidded. “Um, I’ll make coffee?”

“Yes please.” He smiles sleepily, far too pretty, and you have to remind yourself, as you have all week, that you’re not with him, not truly.

It feels too easy, too comfy.

That was the point though.

“Got it.” You turn now, setting to put the pod in, tiptoeing to get his sugar, he chuckles deeply, reaching above you now, far too close to you, his bare chest pressing against your upper back. Your fingers grip the counters, feeling the cool granite of them, your breath catching.

“I’ll put them a little lower.” He teases, smirking as he sets them down, leaning a hip on the counter, and you smile, pretending to be calm, like your heart didn’t just beat out of your chest.

You’ve literally hugged this man every time you’ve seen him, you’ve even crashed next to him, why is he fucking with you so badly!? You suppose his presence in pieces was just easier to cope with than anything, but now your brain keeps having ridiculous images. Him having you up on that counter, your thighs spread, so intense you drop the spoon, it clatters to his tile floor.

“Shit, sorry.” You bend down, and your breath is right against him, over his thin sweats, and you look up at him, creating the worst images of his best friends he can ever imagine.

“It’s… fine.” He clears his throat, turning so you don’t see the clear evidence of what you’ve done.

“You okay, Toru? Tons of sugar, like usual?”

“Yeah.” His voice is gruff, as he glares at his cock, willing it to go down, you blink curiously at his back, wondering what’s wrong. You clear your throat again and hand him the cup, stepping next to him, he takes it, having put his cock up in the waistband of his boxers now, smiling nonchalantly. “Thanks sweets.”

“Of course! Can we go over a few things later today, before we go? I don’t wanna fuck anything up.”

“Of course we can. I also ordered you a dress and some jewelry, that cool?”

“Oh what? I have dresses, pretty ones!”

“I know, it’s really uppity bitches there though, you need something top notch.”

“Oh…” You trail off, a blush decorating your cheeks now, making you look even more tempting. “But you don’t know my size?’

Satoru brushes a tendril of hair that’s come out of your bun then, smirking just a bit. “Think I don’t know your size, sweetheart?”

“I… um…” Satoru has you flustered, dammit. “Oh?”

“Mhmm.” As if he hasn’t eyed your body a million times over. “It’ll be here later, I have to go to work for just a couple hours.” You nod then, for some odd reason wanting to kiss him, but you bite your lip instead.

“Sounds perfect, I have the day off!”

“Even better, go take a nice bath and relax before we deal with the snobby old fucks.” You giggle at him, you have always loved how he speaks of rich people, when he’s filthy rich, but Satoru? He’s very different.

He’s just…

Satoru.

Satoru’s heart doesn’t hammer in his chest, it almost falls out after he’s got his three piece pinstripe suit on, adjusting a skinny silk tie and peering at his silver Rolex, seeing what time it was, as you appear in front of him. The dress he picked out was a lacy black one, perfect for evening, but the way it hugs your every curve, the way your breasts are pressed up in that top?

You do a nervous spin, revealing your pretty back, the curve of your spine, the v neck so deep he sees hints of the dimples on your back. You turn back around, eyes glittering, enhanced with a little mascara and eyeliner, your lips the prettiest shade of red he can imagine. You look…

Beautiful.

Is that even the word?

How does he even explain it, when he’s speechless, when he feels his ears heat up at just how nervous he is to be in your presence then, eyeing a delicate gold necklace that hits just so in the hollow between your collar bones. You’re tilting your head to the side, hair falling softly in curls you’ve put it in, clutching your pretty little evening bag.

“How do I look, Toru? You look so handsome, but when don’t you.” You tease, and he tries not to look at the slit showing far too much of your pretty thigh, so tempting to slip a hand up it, find your surely pretty little pussy.

“You look…” He takes a breath, trying to act somewhat normal, smiling then. “You look… hot as fuck.”

You giggle then, rolling your eyes. “Oh whatever!”

“You look… amazing. Really.” He steps to you, giving into the temptation to brush the backs of his finger across the apple of your cheek, then across your jaw line, watching your breath catch, your red lips part, showing a hint of your little bottom row of teeth.

How would that pretty face look so fucked out?

God, it’s been a week, he needs to stop.

His hand falls, and you barely hold yourself together, breaths coming quicker and quicker. “You look beautiful, sweets. Gonna make quite the impression.” His husky admission makes you blush further, looking down and eyeing that little knot on his tie, as it’s like the entire room is holding its breath, everything so overwhelming, his nearness, his scent.

“Thank you, really for this dress. It’s so beautiful, and this.” You touch the pretty gold necklace, just making his eyes watch your pretty breasts rise and fall.

“Of course, it’s part of this, you know.” His little admission breaks you just a bit, for some insane reason, you felt like this was some date? You rein yourself in just a bit, smiling.

“Yes, but thank you. Shall we go, hubby?’

“We sure can, wifey.” You both laugh, the friendship of years prevailing finally, when you slip into the back of his limo with him, trying to ignore the feeling of his strong thigh pressing against yours, burning through the silky layer of the dress. “So remember the story?”

“Yeah, it’s easy to think of it happening, friends falling.” You then panic, as his blue eyes catch yours in the dark of the limo. “I mean-”

“No, of course it is. I’ll say that… I started falling in high school.” Because he did, god he did. After you all are about to be at the event, he notices it, your nerves, this just wasn’t your scene. “You look perfect, really.”

“Oh no…” He leans close, cupping your face, but it feels too good, your lips are too close.

“You do, gonna knock 'em dead, yeah?”

“We both will.” You smile tremulously, inhaling the night air greedily as you both walk up to the event, being ushered in. You’re clinging around his elbow as he casually goes about it, going into Mr. Gojo mode, you’ve seen him do it plenty over the years, still keeping his charm and sarcasm, but he’s just a force, the way he plays them all.

Knowing Gojo wants to take most of these people down is thrilling in its own way, you’ve always been enamored with how he fights for his principles, how real and raw he truly is with you about it. How humble when he’s come from everything, but still he knows that role he must play, and play it he does, his hand pressing on the small of your back as you two make small talk.

“I always thought of you two falling for each other.” Says your mom now, yes even your parents had to think it was true.

“I did too… so sudden though? Young love.” Gojo’s mom says, tossing back her silky long locks with a smile.

“What can I say? Your son is hard to resist, he’s so persistent. Like a cute little puppy.”

“A what!? Brat.” He’s glaring, but your parents and his mom are laughing, and you know it works, being real.

“Aren’t you two so in love?” Another person says later, as they observe Satoru placing a little peck on your temple, and he smiles with ease, not realizing the entire mess he’s making you.

“A beautiful couple. Gojo, you chose well.” One of his work friends says with a grin.

“We’re very lucky, both of us.” You say softly, stopping Gojo’s heart, when you peck a little kiss on his neck, tiptoeing in your heels, he turns then, your lips far too close, so close you taste the sweetness of his breath, and your eyes lock. “Aren’t we, Satoru?”

He blinks, realizing… you’re just helping him, and you’re nailing it. He tries to shove back the odd fluttering in his tummy, tilting your chin up. “We are lucky.”

The night ends up with plenty of dancing, plenty of schmoozing back and forth, and plenty of both of you being the perfect team. It was so easy, you both knew each other like no one else, the answers flow, the dancing flows, you’ve both danced in school before, you’ve partied together. You’ve been a plus one even as a friend.

Too natural, too perfect.

You soon need a breath, as you feel far too much as Satoru dances with a lovely girl, you recognize her, Gojo dated her and she’s a family friend. You assume she was a candidate for marriage as you recall her family ties, but seeing someone in his arms suddenly makes your heart break.

It’s only been a fucking week!? Can’t you keep it together!?

Later as you both get home, you’re taking off your shoes, wincing as the heels are off your feet, and Satoru looks at you curiously. “You okay, sweets? Kinda a long night of assholes, huh?”

“Oh it’s fine, Toru. Truly. Um… I recognized a couple girls there.”

“Yeah, they run in the same circles.” He takes off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves of that crisp white dress shirt, revealing the veins of his strong forearms, addling your mind further, how fucking attractive he is when he loosens that tie.

“Um, I know you said discrete, will you be… bringing them here?”

Satoru blinks at you, head tilting, soft white hair falling just so. “What? Bring who here?”

“Um, her, or any of the girls there really. If so I think I’ll probably… wanna know if you don’t mind? So I can make sure I’m in the room or whatever. A little notice?”

Satoru walks to you now, your head is tilted back when he hooks two fingers under your chin. “You think I am interested in them?”

“They’re beautiful. And we’re not together, so it’s fine! Just… a little notice would be cool?”

“And you, what if you bring someone over.” His jaw tenses, his words surprisingly sharp. “Will you tell me?”

You laugh softly. “That won’t even be a thing.”

“In a year?”

“It’s… never been a thing really.” You realize then, that you are almost spilling it, the fact that the entirety of your experience is one fuck in college, a two pump event that involved nothing really.

His brows draw together in disbelief. “Never? You don’t…”

“Listen, we’re best friends, but that’s private. Okay?” He nods, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck, looking down.

“Shit I mean you date a bit though?”

“Yeah, I do. But… it’s… I need to get out of this dress.” You say then, suddenly rushing to your room, leaving Satoru’s mind whirling.

How do you think he wants anyone when you’re here killing him.

“Toru?” You lean your head out from the bathroom a few moments later.

“Yeah?”

“This is embarrassing, but the zipper is stuck, and it’s so expensive… I don’t wanna fuck the dress up.” You murmur, he smiles, feigning ease as he steps into the bathroom, peering at you in the golden gilded mirror.

“No worries, got ya. Huh it is a little stuck…” He gently tugs at the zipper, humming a big. “Um… hang on I need to pull it up a bit.”

“Sure. Be careful!”

“You’re worried about this when I could buy you ten more tomorrow.”

“Still!”

He smiles at your reflection, hand palming your bare back then, making you bite back a gasp, body shifting in desire at just the touch, your eyes shut so he can’t see them rolling back, but he sees those goosebumps everywhere. He unzips it then, revealing lacy panties that make him pause, letting the dress fall, you’re catching it at the front, gasping.

“I think I got it.” He says huskily, unable to stop his fingers from trailing up your delicate spine, blue eyes so bright in the mirror they wreck you, while you barely hold the material on. “Need any more help?”

“No! I mean… n-no.” Shit shit shit.

You’re soaked from a brush against your back!?

“Got ya.” He smiles just a bit, leaving you now, resting his back on the door, hand running across his face, curious how he’s throbbing with precum from seeing your fucking back.

Two weeks of being ‘fake married’ to Satoru Gojo, your best friend

You arrive at his work, the coworkers all greeting you so friendly, as his assistant Miwa escorts you, giving you both soft smiles. “Your wife is here Mr. Gojo.”

Satoru looks up in surprise, you’re in your pretty work dress, looking all cute and professional, holding a bento box in one hand, a boba in the other. You’re smiling brightly, as his lips part in surprise. “I had an early day and I thought I should bring some lunch?”

“Oh… oh thank you… Miwa if you could?”

“Of course, I’ll give you some privacy.” You hear her giggle and you smile at Satoru, looking as he’s leaned back in his big leather seat, smiling softly back at you, eyeing your hands.

“I get lunch made for me, shit I am lucky with my fake bride.” You snort, rolling your eyes and walking up to him, setting them on the desk.

“It seemed wifey to do? But also I really do have a short day, figured you might be hungry?”

Fuck you’re sweet.

Fuck you’re pretty.

God, you’re looking at him like that, leaned over just a bit, his eyes darting over your body that tempts him every day more and more, but your sweetness ruins him, the thoughtful nature you’ve always had, but now so geared to him. Is it all for show, he can’t believe it is when you open the bento and show him sushi, onigiri and greens placed so prettily his mouth waters.

“You ordered this, yeah?”

“No silly, I’ve been practicing. You helping me have some time off work has literally given me so much time… I hope they’re yummy? Oh, I didn’t make the boba though.”

“Why didn’t you get anything?” He asks, frowning.

“Oh I’m good, I just was dropping it off. You’re probably busy, taking down the villains huh?” Satoru’s words catch in his throat, looking you up and down again, before looking back down at the food in front of him.

“Stay a bit, it’ll… look good you know, us having lunch together.” He murmurs, lying out of his fucking teeth, as if he didn’t want to eat you then and there.

Your thighs spread, panties to the side, lapping you up?

Yummier than this. Killing him to imagine.

“Oh, um… where do I sit, over here?” You go to scooch a chair over, and he stops you.

“Nah those are heavy, come on.” He pats his thigh, earning your eyes widening, pulse fluttering as he smirks. “You’ve sat on my lap at parties plenty.”

“Y-yeah… but it’s… I…”

“C’mon, have a couple bites please, I’ll feel bad if you did all this for me and didn’t eat.”

“Satoru, you have bought me a new wardrobe and a car, can’t I make some sushi?”

“Sit.”

You sigh, it’s true you’ve sat on his lap, but the past two weeks of constantly being wet around him are taking their toll. You smile brightly, sitting on one of his thighs, praying he can’t feel it, the heat from your pussy as you’re pressed on a muscled thigh, and he’s picking up sushi with chopsticks, popping one in his mouth and moaning, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck that’s yummy. You made it for real!?” You giggle, nodding and trying to be more comfortable, it’s your Toru, right?

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. That’s got eel sauce on it, this one is the spicy crab.”

“You like spicy crab, here.” He pops one to your lips, and something feels too intimate, on his lap like this. “Open.”

Open.

Open!?

The pictures of you hearing him that while on your knees makes your cunt dribble, you shift nervously, clearing your throat.

“Open, silly.”

You do as he says, as he pops the roll in your mouth, and you chew, feeling the flavor hit your tongue, he grins now, popping another into his mouth, and you wonder if it’s easy for him to be this way. He’s so natural at it, sipping his boba and humming happily, all while his thigh presses where you’ve been aching for him, forcing yourself not to touch your pussy to the thought of him.

You can’t do that, it’s fucked.

You try to get up, and he presses you down, big hand on your waist, far too close when he leans the thick straw to your lips. “Take a sip, it’s so good.”

“Oh… um sure. Thank you.” You take a sip, lips pressing where his had, and he can’t stop focusing on how good your lips look, wrapping as you suck, cheeks hollowing and making his cock twitch.

You both sit there then, staring at each other, breaths coming just a little too quick from you, as he sets the drink down, but you stay on his lap. “Y’know… the event tonight, we should probably actually kiss? There will be cameras all over.”

“Kiss!?” He laughs then, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I mean it’s kind of part of it. You’re comfy with it right, not gonna fall head over heels.”

“Psh.” You already have, long ago, it’s all fucking hitting. “You’re so cocky, Toru I swear.”

“I can’t help it, my lips are so talented, you know. Makes girls fall.” He brushes his silky hair back, winking at you then, and you swear you can hear your heart in your goddamn ears.

“I remember you were pretty good.”

“Yeah, you remember?”

“Yeah it… was my first kiss.” You mumble then, looking away, sipping his boba nervously, he blinks rapidly, blue eyes wide in shock.

“What now!?”

“No biggie, we were like seventeen…”

“But you… never told me?”

“It was embarrassing.” Satoru’s mind races to that night, as does yours, as you sit in his office, just the hum of the fan and soft music playing from his little device, staring at each other, both in a haze.

You and Satoru Gojo were thrown in a closet together, you’re sighing as you’re pressed against him, peeking at your phone in the dark to see the time. Being too close to Satoru wreaked havoc on your brains at times, though you have known him so long, you couldn’t lie and act like you didn’t think of things… kissing him, maybe dating him? But you know they’re silly thoughts.

“Don’t freak out, we’ll just let 'em think we made out.” He says now, and you turn your eyes up to him, adjusting in the dark, but even here you can see the glint of those bright baby blues.

“Y-yeah. You’ve kissed plenty, though.”

“You haven’t really?”

“Um, no.”

Satoru’s gently turning you to him now, tilting your chin up while his eyes adjust to see your pretty face, you’re thankful it’s so dark that he couldn’t see your blush. “We could practice, you know.”

“Satoru!”

“What? A little practice between friends? You know you wanna kiss me.” He taunts, teasing tone as he grins.

“No way!”

“Not at all? I’m hurt, sweets.”

“Oh whatever, it'd be weird, we’re too close. Do you kiss Suguru?”

“Oh yeah, have you seen him?”

You both laugh then, when he leans down just a bit. “Well, if you kissed Suguru, I feel left out now.”

“We can’t have that. Show me what you do know, I’ll advise.”

“Kissing expert, hmm?”

“Mhmm.” You lean up then, as he bends down, your arms wrapping around his neck, you pause as his hands press against your waist, making your heart race. “Ya scared?”

“No! Goofy ass.” He’s chuckling until you lean up, pulling him down for a kiss, and your lips meet for the first time.

Your first kiss.

He pauses, your lips connecting just do something. Satoru at seventeen had done plenty of make out sessions, but they were fun, something to do, exciting at times, but nothing prepared him for it. For your sweet lips on him, tingling them, his heart beating in his chest.

Satoru falters, and he never falters.

He doesn’t slip his tongue in, he doesn’t pull you close, he freezes, so in shock at how good it feels, how right it feels. You ease back, nervous then, clearing your throat, as he hasn’t moved his lips. “I’m sorry I’m not…”

Satoru yanks you against him then, pressing your body on his, kissing you over and over, so deeply, taking your breath away, you’ve never felt something like this, you’re trembling as you feel his tongue slip against the seam of your lips. “Open them up for me.”

This isn’t silly Satoru, goofy ass friend, his husky declaration destroys you, and he uses the gasp to slip his tongue inside, swirling with yours, igniting something between you that night that you will both avoid talking about for years. When he presses you against the closet door, sighing into your lips, and you’re being picked up in his arms, as your mouths move over each other.

You both pull back, gasping as the timer goes off.

What was that!?

“If I’d known it was your first kiss, maybe I wouldn’t have… gotten so excited.” He says with a little pink on his cheeks.

“No, you didn’t cross any lines, Toru. Don’t worry.”

He wants to laugh, because oh, he wanted to.

If he’d had more time he’s sure he’d have lost it, whatever control he has now he did not have as a seventeen year old. “Was it a good one at least?”

“The best a girl could have.” You say softly, smiling at him then, making his heart race when you both sit there, far too close, and he swears he can feel your heat against the hand that’s on your thigh.

“I know I’m pretty amazing hmm?” He teases, trying to hide the raging storm inside of him, you giggle, shaking your head and standing finally.

“You’re a conceited little shit.”

“Hey!?”

You’re both back at ease, as he stands now too, looming so tall over you, his presence making it hard to remember why you’re here. “I should go.”

“We should practice, though, yeah?”

“I mean… you think we’re that rusty?” You try to feign ease, he smiles then.

“Yeah, we gotta be. We’ll bump our heads together or some shit.”

“Okay… um…” You take a sip of his boba then, clearing your throat and smiling up at him. “Let’s practice.”

Satoru brushes his thumb across your chin, your ass pressed against his desk and you’re pinned between it and him, your hands sliding up his starch white dress shirt slowly, eyes lowering to his glossy lips. He presses a kiss against your lips, and you then know it, more than ever.

Nothing is like kissing Satoru.

Nothing is like his lips making contact with yours, as your eyes close, the feeling of him working his lips over you so gently, making you tremble, making you ache in ways you have tried to hide, to avoid. He pulls back, cupping your face and exhaling, his snowy lashes low over cerulean eyes, his lips parted just so, as you both stare at each other, speechless.

You don’t know if he’s as affected, and neither does he.

“How’s that?” He asks softly, and you lean up, your fingers enwrapping in his hair, as two of his hands bar you on either side.

“Maybe one or two more? To look natural.” You whisper, and you expect a smirk, or something cocky, conceited, but he slams his lips on yours now.

His tongue is swirling against yours in moments, as you both devour each other, hungry and needy, kissing each other desperate, messy now. A kiss like you’ve never had, as his hands press against your hips, then he lifts you on the desk, your thighs around his hips, making you cry out. The sound causes him to lose any semblance of control, he’s biting your lower lip, moaning into your mouth.

“Mmm!” Your hands pull his hair now, as his slip up your bare thighs, and then you feel it, the hardness under his slacks against your heat, your panties already sticky and damp, and you pull back with a gasp.

Your eyes shoot up to his when you break apart for just a moment, and Satoru’s breath is coming in little pants, his fingers scrunching your skirt up your hips, yanking you closer. You whimper now, head falling to the side, and he’s kissing down the side of your neck, your breasts pressing against his chest, dying for him inside you, as he’s ready to fuck you right on his desk.

“Satoru… what are-” You’re trying to whisper when his lips find the shell of your ear.

“I need-”

Knock knock knock.

You both pull back, his eyes dilated to the point they’re dark, his hands still on your bare skin, as his eyes dart down your body. “Yes?” He manages gruffly.

“Twenty minutes until your meeting Mr. Gojo.” You hear, and he curses softly, turning away, trying to calm his nerves, his racing heart, all while you’re hopping down, trying to pull yourself together.

You’re almost darting out of the door when he sees you. “Shit, please…”

“No, no. We um… were practicing?” You manage to whisper, as his hand is over yours on the knob. “I got carried away.”

He laughs, without humor. “You did?”

“I did. I’m sorry I don’t even do this.”

“Just how… inexperienced are you?” He asks softly.

“A lot.”

Because she can’t help but compare every man to Satoru Gojo.

“Well, you can’t tell, you’re an amazing kisser.” You blush furiously, looking down, biting your lower lip.

“You don’t have to say it.”

“You are, shit. My god.” He brushes your hair off the side of your neck, exhaling, breath tickling you, setting your body on fire.

“Thank you, so are you. We will be good to go tonight, you think?” You whisper, so nervous to say what you want to, and he pauses, clearing his throat, his hand falling off your shoulder now.

“We’ll kill it. Thank you again for lunch.”

“Of course.” You brightly smile, trying to remember.

It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake.

As you’re repeating it in your head, Satoru is struggling to not lift your skirt up and fuck into you right on this door, he wouldn’t care if the entire office heard you scream his goddamn name. When you slip out the door he rests his head on it, the cool wood doing nothing to his overheated skin, hands clenching into his fists as he tries to calm himself.

What was that, what is that with you both?

He promised he would be respectful, he has to try to rein it all in, he has to make sure your friendship isn’t ruined because he can’t stop himself. Satoru tells himself that as he wills his cock to go down, but he can’t stop himself, soon he’s stroking it right in that seat, remembering feeling your pussy pressing against his length.

God he needs you, he shuts his eyes, imagining sinking inside you while he twists his hand up and down his length, desperate for any relief. He had some regulars he would call back in the day, but not only does it feel so wrong to do so, he doesn’t want anyone but you, he can’t even put a vision in his mind but you.

‘It’s fine, baby girl you can take me’ he murmurs softly, snowy lashes shut as he imagines fucking into you, stretching you god he bets you’re so tight, and he could feel that warmth, imagining you as he spits down on his pretty cock.

His pink tip is oozing precum while his head rests back in his office chair, he can still smell your scent, that shampoo you use, the body spray you have worn since high school, it’s you. He’d kiss every inch of your body, have you so ready you beg for him, fuck you so good tears pool in your pretty eyes, he can damn near feel is as his hand strokes faster and faster.

He lets out a soft groan, muttering a ‘that’s it, you’re so wet f’me, huh?’ to the very image of you on that desk, tasting your sweetness on his lips, while he pinches his tip, the precum and spit wetting his cock enough that the sound of him stroking fills his office. His breath quickens as he thinks of shoving your thighs up high, slamming into your cervix, ruining you.

As he cums white hot spurts all over his palm he cries out softly, the release feeling so good, he’s fought it, touching himself to you, but he can’t anymore. He quickly cleans up, panicking as he sees what he’s done, jerked off to one of his best friend’s in the world, someone who trusts him, and he’s not even holding himself together for shit now.

He exhaustedly leans his head against the desk as his alarm for the next meeting starts, struggling to remember this isn’t real, but his cock sure didn’t fucking realize that, and by the time he’s home and he sees you all dressed up for the next event? He almost has to go jerk off again.

You’re smiling all nervous in this beautiful glittering gown, and he’s once again speechless, trying to pull together his usual charm, but it falls flat. You look at him, concern clear on your features. “Everything okay Satoru?”

“Of course it is. Look at you.” He smiles, putting on the best show he can, as you wonder if you’ve over thought that kiss, he just seems so normal really.

Maybe he just got carried away, should you act normal too?But how can you, when just the brush of his hand on the small of your back shoots desire straight through your body. It’s only been two weeks, how could you hold out an entire year?

Sooo to have written this in a oneshot would have been INSANE but expect the next two parts very quicklyyy ;) Gojo is DOWN BAD my god- smut in the next hehe.

Part two

taglist #1: @plaggi @baepsays @victoria1676 @flwerie @luringfantasy @moncher-ire @allonyyourmom @kindablackenedsuperhero @evelynxxo @jkslaugh97 @sugurusfavemonkey @ninikrumbs @s4ikooo1 @bunheadusa @twinkling-moonlillie @chameleonsoul111 @nina-from-317 @naammiii @whippedbyikemen @alygator77 @uarmyhopeworldwide @1satoruu @theclassbookworm @jud3thedude @isleqt @mcromer2999-blog @silvarys @orikixx @jiejies-corner-store @assbutt-inlove-with-koreans @lordbugs @ari-sa @blue-musingss @minaa-06 @uhnosav @cvixmei @seeiin @indiewritesxoxo @loafteaw @moonlitwitchdaisy @beachaddict48 @miizuzu @honeybunnnnie @honeybunnnnie @gojosukuna2268 @haruhatake @strychnynegirl @jinjen @give-em-hellkid

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✧ Manipulative best friend!Logan with a corruption kink

warnings: smut 18+, this is not a dark fic, Logan isn’t truly manipulative but we have a very naive/innocent/inexperienced reader; first time masturbation, JOI, handjob, fingering (in front of a mirror), first kiss, pet names (bub, baby, my girl, good girl), Logan doesn’t always fully ask for consent but if he did reader would want it, so those are the type of vibes, Logan takes advantage of the situation but reader is into him too, it’s implied that reader is a mutant too but powers are not specified, mentions of alcohol, reader wears Logan’s (big) shirt, Logan is a bit gross 

This kind of got out of hand lmaoo it was just supposed to just be a short concept but I ended up writing 5.5k words lolll. It’s not a fully fleshed out fic (it’s in full sentences etc but still just kind of loosely written scenes) but I thought I’d still share <33 (gorgeous divider by @anitalenia <3)

Logan knows he wants you from the moment he meets you. He knows he needs you the second you come to the mansion and join the school. But you’re so shy and nervous that he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, so he tells himself he’ll wait for a bit and let you get used to your new life here first. 

What he isn’t expecting is that you become really good friends in the meantime. Yes, he still wants to fuck you but he also genuinely enjoys your company and cares about you. Logan has a big, fat crush on you and there’s not really anything he won’t do in order to be closer to you.

But the problem is that you’re so innocent and he can’t tell if it’s an act, if you just don’t like talking about sex in front of other people, or if you’re really like this. 

He hears you talking to Storm and Jean one night and Storm is trying to convince you to get a vibrator and you’re asking “what would I need that for? I don’t… y’know”. Storm says “you don’t what? Masturbate?”.

Logan knows exactly what shy expression you’re making even though he can’t see you, and you’re all like “oh my god, don’t say it that loud”. And he knows your pretty face must be getting all hot with embarrassment and the thought alone turns Logan on to no end. It’s quiet for a bit and Logan gathers that Jean reads your mind, and she confirms to Storm that you’re not lying.  

Logan can only hear the conversation because he’s in the kitchen and you’re all in the room next to it, but some students come in so he can’t keep eavesdropping, as much as he wants to. And he knows there’s no way you’re continuing the conversation if he’s in the room, so he has to give up for the night. He tries to ask Storm the next day about what you said and she just calls him a pervert and says to ask you himself if he wants to know so badly. 

But that’s kind of the thing. He’s become your best friend over the last few months, but there are still some things you’d never tell him just because he’s a guy, even if you don’t see him as more than a friend. Yet.

And Logan only gets more desperate when you’re drunk one evening after a girl’s night and you’re knocking at his door. It’s really late but Logan lets you in of course. You’re crying a bit and he makes you sit in his bed and takes off your shoes and slides off your jacket while you hiccup something unintelligible. 

He sits down with you and you can barely focus on what you’re saying, and then you get up mumbling about your uncomfortable tights and your skirt and suddenly you’re in front of him in just a top and panties. Logan has to gulp down a moan as he stares at the flesh of your thighs and the rolls on your belly and all he can think about is devouring you whole – until he hears you mention the conversation with Storm and Jean from the other day, “wait, what was that?”

You pout, “Well I was talking to them and turns out apparently I’m the only woman in the world that doesn’t masturbate and– and Jean went home to Scott, and Storm went home with someone she met at the bar and I’ve never even done anything with a guy, not even with myself. I just feel left behind.”

And Logan tells you something about how you’re just a late bloomer and there’s still time, because that’s what he thinks you want to hear, but you tell him it’s condescending. You don’t want to be a late bloomer, you just want to have sex. And oh– Logan can help you with that.

He has to do his absolute best to keep calm and not mount you immediately, but you’re drunk so that’s what’s stopping him. He might manipulate you a little to get what he wants but he’s not that bad. He asks “you don’t like touching yourself?” And you just shrug and say “dunno”. 

“You never feel an ache between your legs?” Logan asks, keeping so calm it’s painful. And he can practically feel the heat melting off your face at the question as your eyes dart around the room, “I don’t know, sometimes”.

 “And you don’t touch yourself?”

You shrug again, looking everywhere but at Logan, “I never really know what people mean when they say that. I, like, touch myself and it feels nice but that’s it.” 

Logan smiles, “how long do you touch yourself for?” 

“I don’t know, a few seconds.”

And he chuckles and says “it’s normal that you don’t get anywhere in a few seconds, bub.” 

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” you manage to meet his eyes briefly but look away again as you sit on your hands shyly.

“You ever watched porn?” Logan asks and your eyes go wide as if he’s just committed the worst sin known to womankind in front of you and you hug your legs and say “noo, I would never. I’m not, like, a pervert.”

Logan laughs, “Porn isn’t just for perverts. There’s more to it than choking and bondage, there’s tame stuff.” You just say “well I’ve never watched any.” 

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” 

He can tell you’re getting a bit ashamed and while he would love to train that shame out of you when it comes to sex, now isn’t the time when you’re drunk in his bed at 2AM. 

“You wanna go to sleep?” He asks, failing to resist giving a small squeeze to your knee. Your eyes fly to his hand there, gaze lingering on his fingers even as he pulls them away. You nod after a few moments, and Logan reaches out to wipe away the remnants of your tears and says “you wanna sleep in my bed? We could cuddle”. 

You grin like a child who’s just tried ice cream for the first time at his suggestion and he gives you a bigger shirt of his so you don’t have to sleep in that small, tight top you’re wearing. You pull off your top without warning and then he’s looking at you in just your underwear and he feels like he’s died and ascended to heaven even though he’s probably more likely to go to hell with the thoughts he’s having about you right now. 

You cast a shy glance over your shoulder as you undo your bra and Logan wills himself to shut his eyes, putting his hand over them because he knows otherwise he’d look.

He only wants to fuck you more when he sees you in his shirt though, and he’ll definitely have to go to the bathroom to jerk off once you’ve fallen asleep. Except that you snuggle against his side so cutely, head resting on his shoulder with a leg thrown over his. 

You’re fast asleep before he can even say good night and when he moves to get up you move closer, and now he’s got your plush tits pressed up against his side and your arm over his waist. A tent has formed in his pants and he feels pathetic that he’s measuring the distance between your elbow and his crotch, silently willing you to move just a few inches. 

He’s so horny that he’d feel no moral qualms at jerking off right next to you. He’d cum so quickly with you pressed to his side, but he wouldn’t know how to explain it if you woke up. He doesn’t want to scare you away. So he pulls away to get up, and you wake up and whine when he stands up, telling you he just has to pee to which you grumble, and you grab his pillow to cuddle with instead. 

He jerks off shamelessly, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His spit slicked-palm is starting to get loud as he strokes his cock to thoughts of you, but he doesn’t care if you hear. You probably wouldn’t know what he’s doing anyway with how innocent you are. 

He doesn’t even have to fantasise about any sexual scenario with you. Thinking about the pretty smile you have whenever you look at him is enough to have his fists drenched in his cum as he jerks himself off with both hands to stroke his entire length. 

He can’t hold back the small moan that spills over his lips when he cums, torn between hoping you heard and hoping you didn’t. Logan washes his hands and rejoins you in bed. 

He takes a moment before he slips under the covers, taking in the sight of you in his bed, imagining you’re his and that it’s the norm for you to sleep together rather than an exception. You stir as the mattress dips with his weight, swapping the pillow of his that was clutched between your arms for his bicep that you hold onto instead. You’re way too gone to have heard any of what he just did, and for a moment he feels dirty for thinking about you the way that he does. 

It doesn’t last long, of course, as he dreams of you most nights. He can’t feel bad about it though – he’ll take any dream over one of his nightmares (that he hasn’t had since he met you). And if he’s honest it turns him on how innocent and unsuspecting you are of what goes on in his head when he thinks of you. 

-

You wake up still wrapped around his body the next morning. You have a headache and Logan brings you something to soothe it, offering to massage your stiff neck too. You sigh in bliss as soon as Logan’s hands are on you, and he reminds himself that you must be touch-starved. You’ve never touched yourself, let alone felt the touch of another person that went beyond platonic or familial affection. 

He revels in the sounds he pulls from you with ease with the most basic massaging technique there is. He never wants to leave. He started off hovering over the back of your thighs, but he’s been making his way forwards and now his crotch is nestled right against the soft swell of your ass. You either don’t notice that he’s slowly moved or you don’t realise what exactly is pressing into your backside. 

It’s obvious that you’re enjoying his hands on the back of your neck and the top of your shoulders; he doubts there’s anything that could distract you from it. Except if he got hard maybe, but he’s got more self control since he jerked off in the bathroom again after waking up with morning wood and with you by his side, just before he brought you some painkillers. 

“You’re so good with your hands, Logan,” you tell him, voice all raspy, and he smirks at the innuendo you don’t realise you’re making. 

“It’s what my girl deserves,” he says, pulling a smile and a hum from your lips. 

“I’m your girl?” you ask shyly, eyes still closed as his knuckles drag over your skin. 

“O’course you are, bub.” He’s not sure in what way you interpret the pet name but he can tell you like it, hearing how your heartbeat speeds up just that little bit. You like being his, and he likes that. 

-

It’s during a particularly horny evening that Logan comes to your room. He’s jerked off twice today to pictures of you — pictures he’s snuck over the time he’s known you, you smiling as you laugh at a tv show, stretching on the sofa not realising that he’s got his phone out, or that one photo of you smiling all shyly on the day you first met him and he showed you around the mansion. Jean asked to take a picture to commemorate the day you joined them, and he remembers the way he slid his arm around the back of your waist and you placed your hand shyly on his back, smiling all adorably. 

He’s got a picture of you in a bikini from that one time you two went swimming but he keeps that for special occasions. Today was one of those special occasions, and he came all over his phone screen, cursing when he had to clean it afterwards; he even had to get the phone case off and all. 

But you still won’t leave his head for even just a second, so he decides it’s time for the next step. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you with anything, but he also just really wants you. Can’t help it. He’s a selfish man but any man would be if he knew you the way Logan did. He knocks at your door. “Yeah?” you call out. 

You grin when he steps in and closes the door behind himself. You stretch out your arms for a hug to greet him, even though you only saw him a few hours ago. He joins you where you’re sitting on your bed with your laptop. Logan turns the screen towards him, hoping to find something naughty but he should have known better. It’s just some video essay on a topic he’s never even heard of. He shuts the laptop. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” you tell him, genuinely focussed, “If I’m your girl then what are you to me? My boy sounds weird, and my man.. I don’t know.”

He almost forgot that he called you his girl to your face, and he smirks when he imagines you thinking about it these past few days. He lies down on his side, invading your space, almost touching you with how close he is next to you.

 “I can be anything you like, bub.” 

You shrug shyly, “Maybe you’re just my Logan.” 

He’s surprised at how much that turns him on. You being his, that’s one thing. But him being yours? Those two things go hand-in-hand, of course, but he thought you were still a long way off from liking him as much as he likes you. 

It encourages him to ask you what he’s been thinking about for days. He says it casually. “So, had any success touching yourself?” He uses that tame expression so that you’re less embarrassed.

Still, your eyes widen slightly and you immediately start playing with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” he smirks, “Don’t gotta be embarrassed around me. We’ve been over this.” Although, for a second he wonders if you even remember the conversation. You were drunk after all, and he considers feeling bad, but then you smile. 

“I know, but… I haven’t tried it since. I’ve thought about it but I still don’t know what to do.” He’s got you right where he wants. 

“Y’know, I don’t mind showing you. You deserve to feel good.” 

You look away, “What would you even show me? And how? Guys are different down there.” Oh, you’re so innocent. He’s having so much fun. 

“I could touch you.” He watches you experience a multitude of emotions as you think about it. Shame, intrigue, resolve. 

“Wouldn’t that be weird for you?” 

“Not at all, don’t worry about me.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure, bub.” 

You look around you, putting your laptop and your phone on your nightstand, “What do I do?” you ask, playing with the blanket. 

“I’ll just touch you a bit, okay? Just get you used to the feeling,” he tells you, both of you sitting up and he pulls your legs around his waist, gently touching all over your inner thighs, squeezing the flesh.

You’re already arching your back, scooting closer to him, and he lifts your shirt up over your hip and sees the wet spot on your panties. He’s not sure if you notice how hard he is under his sweatpants but no one could blame him for that. You’re getting so worked up and he hasn’t even touched you anywhere near your pussy, you’re breathing so heavily and your heart is beating so fast.

“Y’want a kiss, bub?” Logan asks you all sweetly, and you lean in as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your lips on his are messy but eager, and Logan loves that he can feel that it’s your first kiss. You don’t know what you’re doing but you need it – need him. 

But he has to stop at some point because it’s getting harder to not fuck you, so he gently pulls away, and you grin shyly when the kiss is over. Logan leans in one more time for a quick kiss. He pushes you backwards a bit and looks between your spread thighs. You’re so wet. You’re squirming under his gaze.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, tugging at the waistband of your panties and your breathing gets shaky when his finger grazes your belly. You bite your lip and nod.

“Good girl,” he says, pulling your underwear down your thighs with one hand, eyes glued to your pussy. You’re so wet and sticky already, and your pussy looks even better than anything he’s imagined – and he’s imagined it a lot.

He wants nothing more than to fuck you, or eat you out at least, but he’s supposed to be showing you how to masturbate, so he lies down next to you.

“So, if you were alone, you might touch yourself like this.” He takes his hand between your thighs, softly touching your clit. You’re leaning into him, head against his shoulder as you watch his big hand between your thighs. It looks so right there. You look to your side and gaze up at Logan, and you can’t help but just kiss him again.

And while you’re kissing, Logan puts his palm on your pussy and starts rubbing you a bit rougher, and you become too distracted to keep kissing him.

“You like when I play with your clit?” he teases you and you nod, hiding your face in his neck. Logan moves down to fuck one of his fingers into you, then two, and you’re whimpering against his warm skin. With his palm still rubbing against your clit, you have your first ever orgasm with Logan and you hold onto him as the pleasure flows through your body.

He keeps going until you put your hand around his wrist to stop him and you shyly smile up at him. “Was that good, bub?” 

You answer with a weak “yeah”, your voice hoarse but you’re smiling and your skin is glowing. Logan pulls his hand away and shows you how your arousal sticks to his fingers, and your eyes search his because you’re not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

Your mouth opens when Logan takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks your taste off them. “Taste so fucking good, baby. You wanna taste yourself?” And he waits patiently until you’ve made your mind up but you nod and let him put one of his fingers into your warm, wet mouth. You suck on it for much longer than necessary and Logan tries to save the image in his brain for later.

He holds you for a bit as you comprehend that you’ve just had an orgasm for the first time in your life. You shyly thank him before he leaves and he makes you promise that you’ll try it again by yourself soon. That was the whole point of this, after all – nothing to do with Logan or anything.

-

Logan thought he’d be satisfied for a bit, but all it’s done is make him even needier for you. You’re so oblivious to all his flirting, and he’s sure you genuinely thought he just wanted to show you how to masturbate the other day. 

Of course, he could just ask you out, but it’s more fun this way. He likes watching you figure stuff out. He wonders how long it’ll take you to realise that he actually likes you, that teaching you how to jerk off maybe wasn’t only in your best interest but in his too.

He’s a bit pathetic when it comes to you at this point, though. As much as he’s teasing you, it’s also teasing him. It’s a bit of a low point, but he pretends to be in a bad mood to get your attention.

You come to his room in the late afternoon when you haven’t seen him all day, and you’re so kind and so caring and immediately worried when you see him sprawled in bed in his pyjamas that consist of grey sweatpants and a white shirt.

“You okay? What happened?” you close the door and sit on his bed immediately.

Logan fake sighs, suppressing a smile as he pouts exaggeratedly. “Nothing, bub. Don’t you worry about me.” He squeezes your knee to reassure you, and he watches you perk up at his touch.

“You know you can always talk to me,” you smile kindly, and he wants to kiss you so badly. He doesn’t usually talk about emotions and feelings all that much, but you’re always trying to get him to open up because it’s good for him, so he knows he’s got you with this.

“I’m just feeling a bit down today. That’s all. Don’t wanna bother you with my problems.”

“You’re not bothering me. I’m always here for you.”

He watches you gnawing on your lip as you think about what to say next, and Logan waits curiously. “Have you uh, jerked off today? I think an orgasm would cheer anyone up, if it feels as good as you made me feel the other day.”

And Logan’s all like “I’ve tried but it’s been so long since a woman touched me, and my own hand just isn’t doing it for me anymore.”

He gets hard immediately when you perk up, smiling with your sweet expression and saying, “I could help you! I hate seeing you so sad”.

And Logan pretends, saying “no, bub, I’d never ask that of you,” but you sit up on your knees and say “I really wouldn’t mind! And I owe you for last time anyway.”

“If you’re really sure?” 

You nod sweetly and brush your hair out of your face and ask, “where do you want me?”

And even just you asking that is something that will stay in his mind for a long time. He feels like you’d do anything he asked of you right now and it’s already driving him crazy. He says “just next to me here, bub. Yeah there is fine”. 

You lean in to kiss him and he only pulls away out of surprise, and you’re blinking back at him with wide eyes, apologising, “It’s just cause you kissed me last time, I thought— I thought it’s part of–”

“Yeah, baby, it is. Just didn’t know if you wanted to kiss me again.”

You give him a cheeky smile and nod, “of course I wanna kiss you. You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you”. 

Logan grins and bites his lip and says “me too, bub”, and leans in and kisses you again, basically attacking you with his mouth. He can tell it’s getting a little much for you with the way he’s eating you alive so he stops himself and asks “was that too much?” 

You shake your head, “just don’t know how to kiss like that yet.” And he likes that. Yet. Maybe he can sneak in some kissing lessons at some point, just to show you how it’s done of course, no other reason. 

You look down at his lap then and it’s obvious how hard he is. “Y’wanna you touch it like this first?” he asks you, grabbing himself over his sweatpants, the outline becoming clearer.

And you nod so eagerly, but get a bit shy when you’re touching his cock, one of your knees pulled up to your chest as you palm him over his sweatpants. “It’s so big,” you marvel, oblivious to how much this is affecting Logan.

“You wanna see?”

You tell him yes and he pulls the waistband down, and you lean closer when he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself just a few times to relieve the pressure. 

You bring a finger to his mouth like he did for you the other day, and he chuckles, “that won’t be enough, bub”. Your cheeks burn when you say “oh”.

“Here,” he moves your hand so your open palm is facing him and he spits into it.

“Now do this,” Logan tells you, taking your hand and wrapping it around his cock, guiding you up and down with your spit-slicked palm. You watch in awe as you jerk him off, his hand never leaving the back of yours.

He could cum immediately like this, but he tries to savour the feeling a bit longer.

“Does it feel good?” you ask him.

“Yeah, doing so well, bub. Think you can do it by yourself?”

You shake your head with a smile. Yes, you could do it by yourself, but you like the feeling of him guiding you, setting the pace and intensity. He grins and continues, squeezing your hand tighter so that your grip on his cock tightens too.

Logan lets you jerk him off a bit longer before he gives in. He’s proud of you for not pulling away in surprise when he cums, coating your hand and his in his cum as ropes of white shoot over your skin and onto his shirt. He lets go of your hand to pull off his shirt and watches you examine your hand full of Logan’s cum.

“Can I taste it?” you ask in a quiet voice, and Logan just about gets hard again.

“Yeah,” he tells you, but pushes his own fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrap around his two fingers and suck the cum off, and Logan can’t help but push them further into your mouth, making you giggle. You pull his hand away after a bit, only to lick your own fingers. He uses the clean part of his shirt to dry your hand off after, and you lie down to cuddle him.

“Do you feel better?”

Logan chuckles, “Yeah, bub, I feel better. Thanks.”

“Good,” you grin, proud of yourself. Logan’s proud of you too.

-

It’s still the same day when you come to his room the next time. You left after a bit to go to sleep, but now there are knocks on Logan’s door that he recognises as yours before you say anything.

You enter his room in your pyjamas – a big shirt – and some fluffy socks, a plushie under your arm. You look so oh so innocent that he almost feels bad for corrupting you. You come in, close the door, and sit on his bed again, legs dangling off the side of it. He could really get used to you being in here.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, but you ignore him, hugging your plushie for comfort.

 “I… can you maybe…” you let out a sigh, “I tried to masturbate but I can’t do it by myself. Can you show me again?” 

Maybe you’re not so innocent anymore. He chuckles and tells you of course, and he’s starting to wonder if you’ve caught on to the game that he’s playing, and if you’ve joined him, but he’d still bet money that you really are this naive. Logan pulls his full length mirror in front of his bed, not too close, but close enough that you can see yourself in it. 

He moves to lift your shirt to get your panties off, and his heart skips a beat as he’s greeted by the sight of your bare pussy, already glistening.

“It was easier to come with them already off,” you say, and he reaaally has to restrain himself so he doesn't bend you over and take you right here.

You drop your stuffed toy to the side of Logan’s bed as he sits you in front of the mirror, getting behind you, putting his legs either side of you.

“God, you’re so pretty.” He can’t stop himself from saying it as he makes you look at yourself in the mirror, legs spread.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Logan,” you say, shying away from looking in the mirror.

“You can do it, bub. I got you, okay?”

You’ve turned around to look at him better, and he chuckles when he gets it.

“Is this what you need?” he asks as he leans in to kiss you, and you moan yes into his mouth. He loves you so fucking much.

His dick is already so hard and he’s not sure if you can feel it pressing into your ass, but either way you’re not complaining. He takes your chin to make you face yourself in the mirror, and he can’t get enough of seeing you two in it together – the way he’s sitting behind you like this, imagining other positions you two could be in.

“Here,” he pushes his finger into your mouth, even though you’re already wet enough, watching you suck on it eagerly. His finger stays in your mouth much longer than necessary.

He starts gently rubbing your clit in circles, and you squirm in his arms that are around you, one on your waist, the other between your legs.

“I did that too, but it feels better when you do it,” you mumble after a while, clearly enjoying it but unsure what you were doing wrong when you did it yourself.

“Try it.” Logan takes your hand, and makes you do it yourself. You’re squirming with him watching you like this, but it is useful to sit in front of the mirror, copying how he played with your pussy just moments ago.

Logan’s not blind to how wet you are, at having him watching and guiding you, and he can’t help it as he reaches into his boxers to jerk off. He doesn’t get his cock out but he’s not hiding it. You can see the movement of his arm in the mirror and you might even be able to feel it at your back, as Logan’s fist grazes your shirt every now and then as he strokes himself.

But you’re so focussed on looking between your own legs that Logan is genuinely not sure if you’ve noticed him jerking off, and the sounds of your wet pussy are louder than his hand on his cock.

“I… I can’t,” you whine after a bit, taking your hand away from your pussy, but Logan is close, and he wants you to cum too.

He keeps jerking off, and he sees you noticing it, sitting up a bit taller but you don’t seem to mind. You’re smiling, biting your lip.

“Yeah, you can, baby. Here, we’ll do it together.” He keeps a hand on his cock, reaching around you to put your hand back between your legs, and then he pushes two of his fingers into your pussy, fucking you with them.

“You close, bub? I’m close,” he says, and the idea of cumming together with Logan makes your pussy squeeze around his fingers, so you do your best to recreate the pattern on your clit that Logan showed you, rubbing it in circles until you get the right angle.

“Good girl, that’s it. So tight around my fingers. Come on now.” Logan’s so close he has no idea how he’s still holding off, sloppily jerking his cock with one hand and fucking your pussy with his fingers on the other hand.

You lean your head back, landing on Logan’s shoulder, as your orgasm pulses through you. Logan can feel your pussy spasming around him, and he lets go too, cumming over his hand and his boxers.

You’re both out of breath for a while after, barely moving.

“Y’did it, bub,” he kisses the top of your head, and you smile at him through the mirror, turning to press a messy kiss to the side of his face. He won’t take that though, so he grabs your face, smearing some of his cum on your cheek, and pulls you to face him for a proper kiss. You smile against his mouth as you make out.

You sleep in his room again that night, but he can’t say it feels like you know that he likes you yet. He’ll have fun watching you figure it out soon.

-

✧ reblog and let me know your thoughts for Logan to appear in your dreams tonight <3

[strawberry-nugget]

To fill the empty spaces | 1

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader

Summary: Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.

-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.

Tags: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, Kirishima is a sunshine.

A/N: be kind to me i wrote this five years ago and never had the guts to post it until now :> this will be a 3 part story so let me know if you want to be tagged in the following parts

There's a strange deception about bliss and felicity in life and it is much like the analogy of the sun shining brighter after a storm, or the beautiful shades of the rainbow that cast over the sky. Happiness is supposed to be earned somehow, through hardships, or at least that's what everyone has always preached about. 

How time has supposedly promised to bring you what you want, how the universe makes sure to give you what you're in need of when you need it most. You're expected to survive through the worst storm, pouring rain and eardrum grazing blowing wind and you're told it'll be worth it. So when you see trees get blown onto the ground or when you see crushing waves that are a hundred times bigger than the ones you've seen on normal days crash onto the shore and wipe everything in their wake you shouldn't react. 

The sun shining, the warmth of the light grazing kindly over the mountain tops far across your vision should be worth it. 

Until, it's not. 

Bakugo, at least, doesn't think it's worth it and he doesn't think that you have to walk a mile before you get to rest. Mostly because he doesn't get to rest, and because walking a mile, for him, is the easiest thing in the universe. He's had too much hardship to know there's no payoff other than slamming his body into his couch after a long shift and feeling his chest tighten at the thought that he's managed to save a life. 

For him, happiness is something you shouldn't chase or take for granted. 'There's such little time for us in the world' he keeps telling himself and every time he looks at the set of pictures on the tv shelf he knows his words are correct. When once he thought his happiness had found him, he'd put a ring on her and called it a day, had a fancy wedding, threw the biggest party when he topped the hero charts, cried when his son was born; he douched in bliss without knowing it was momentary and he paid the price of stomping over the steep top of the world by falling so hard that his bones could never fully heal. 

It's been five years since his wife died, since he's had to take care of his son on his own and he's managed it perfectly so far. Showing up on every play in kindergarten, waking up at five am to make him the cutest bento in his class, clothes crisp and smelling of expensive soap, always present on parent counseling days, always present on days kids were supposed to bring their parents in to talk about their jobs, always one call away from rushing to anything he ever wants. 

The phone always rings, without fail, every single day when Kiko's teacher leaves for retirement and a new one gets hired. 

You're young, probably just landed your first job with your preschool degree and you feel like a fish out of water running a class on your own. Bakugo knows because he's seen it too many times, with the kids of his friends, has seen it happen to new sidekicks, assistants and despite not having the patience to deal with a rookie teacher who panics about everything, he appreciates the concern about his son. 

So every single day, without fail, he picks up the phone (no matter if he's on patrols or doing paperwork) and begrudgingly answers your stuttered questions, “yes Kiko might not want more food but he's too shy to say it”, or “Kiko isn't allergic to the ointment your emergency box has to offer, but I packed the one his dermatologist gave him because it works best for his eczema”, or even “Yes I'm willing to talk about what Kiko keeps drawing this week.”

It's always a topic concerning overall health and attitude issues that a teacher who was called in two months before graduation and hasn't worked with the class for longer can't have knowledge on. And still, with raspy apologies, Bakugo promises to send you a few notes about your queries, because the other parents have already done so, and he's ashamed to be the last in line. 

Your voice gets more stern over time, your calls become shorter, so short that all you ever need to ask is who's picking up Kiko today—even though the answer never changes; Kirishima both drops him off and picks him up- and then you hang up. 

Today's call, though, catches him off guard, it makes his feet freeze on the ground, his teeth clash as his jaw tightens. You've dropped a bomb from the other side of the phone 

"His friend Daichi manifested today and we thought he wouldn't," You say, voice sounding far, crazed, digital. "I think it's high time we discuss that Kiko might be… quirkless." You breathe out after a long pause and for the first time today, you sound apologetic -as you should—like you're begging to say sorry about the situation, like it's your fault his son hasn't manifested a quirk. 

With his hand cupping his face, fingernails scratching at the seams of his jaw where just a slight scruff pokes out of his skin, Katsuki  sighs. He glances to his right, catching Kirishima's sharp smile.. His face snaps into a serious one when Bakugo says, "I'll be there at three." 

Thick fingers trample the screen of his phone pushing the end button a thousand times before he's assured he's hung up, shoving it into his pocket with a hitched groan.He looks over at Kirishima with hurt painted all over his face, feeling the mellow jabbing blooming inside his chest and in return he collects a serious gaze, one more apologetic wave burst that hits him in the stomach. Like a villain on a winter morning. 

The thing is, Kirishima is a friend close enough to know when something is wrong and this is a moment where Bakugo knows he won't keep his mouth shut. 

And so, the question isn't late, not even a second, it shoots out of his friend's mouth and it corners Bakugo into the nearest wall, his head spins, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Kiko's teacher huh?" Kirishima questions and Bakugo nods and then he makes his note "you look bummed man. Is it that serious or did she ask if Kiko has any allergies again"

It's not like Bakugo doesn't need a little pushover to spill what's in his head, but still, he rasps what's left of a winter cold in his throat, clears his voice before he mutters "She said" his head is in his hands "that he might be quirkless"

Kirishima mouths an oh, silent, his jaw tensing like the blond's had a while ago, but his face doesn't contort in sadness like Bakugo's does, instead, his ears perk, his brows travel up against his forehead. 

"Don't worry bro, that doesn't make Kiko any less better than the rest of the kids."

That was quick and truly, Bakugo doesn't know where Kirishima finds all of this positivity. However, he supposes it's written over him like ink on a page, he's meant to see the good in any situation and put it on his plate, split his meal in half and call his glass full even when it's almost empty. Despite being in his early thirties and not being a schoolboy anymore there's always a goofy smile plastered all over his face and Bakugo thinks that maybe, maybe it helps him soothe that emerging ache inside his chest. 

Or maybe Kirishima should write a book about how to always see the good out of everything and retire from his career as a pro hero to be a life coach. Because Kiko might be the son of Dynamight, but Bakugo's head is suddenly filled with images he's shoved to the back of his brain. 

Kiko is the son of the number two hero, without a quirk in class full of gifted kids, he's expected of so much and there's so little he can give back because he's a child, a shy little child that Katsuki had to bring up on his own. And as Kirishima rambles about important people that are quirkless Bakugo keeps thinking about the times his son falls asleep in his arms and how guilty he feels for being a mean kid to Izuku for being quirkless, how he couldn't handle it well if anyone treated his child like that. 

"His teacher is quirkless too" Kirishima says, patting Bakugo's back softly but that raises an eyebrow of the blond's. How exactly does he know that? 

Not that it's his place to ask, or rather shoot this -gossipy- question at Kirishima, but there's a curious part of him when it comes to you. Apart from the fact that you sound like you're about to shit your pants every time you're on the phone with him, he's managed to land his eyes on one precious kindergarten picture of Kiko's class with you in the middle. And he can't really see much, not with a naked eye and not with his glasses, you simply have a smile on your face that matches the kids' but still you look proper enough to have landed the job at that prestigious preschool. 

So when Kirishima adds a small "she's very cute and very smart" Bakugo gets a bit irked at him. He says it like he's the lead in a drama talking about the qualities of her crush even though she's being treated like shit most of the time. 

There's a bursting feeling inside him that makes him shoot a question directly into Kirishima's face. "Are you flirting with my son's teacher?" 

"Nope" Kirishima puckers his lips and looks away

Bakugo couldn't really care less about Kirishima's love life, he grunts, but there's this fear that overwhelms him when he thinks about his itty bitty baby son dragging Kirishima into the car while he's flirting away with anyone that stands in his way. There's this throat tightening feeling when he imagines his baby's belly grunting in hunger, a panic when he thinks his shirt is sweaty enough for him to catch a cold, or even worse he waits until he gets home to tell Kirishima that he fell and scraped his knees at school today and Kirishima probably has his thoughts taken over by his flirting when he's promised to take care of Kiko. 

Sick sick sick. The thought makes him completely sick. Sick enough to consider working even less to be able to be the one to get Kiko from school every day. Fuck the hero ranks, fuck wanting to be the best. 

"... for you"

Kirishima's voice is nothing compared to the worries inside his head, but as a shiny drop of sweat falls over Bakugo's forehead he's forced to ask for a repeating of his words. 

"Come again?"

"Just saying man, just saying, she's uh, you'll like her" 

Whatever Kirishima suggests, Bakugo knows it's a nuisance, but he promises himself he'll talk to you about his concerns on the matter. You sound like a good teacher, like you worry about Kiko a lot and Bakugo thinks that he can trust you on not allowing his kid to be treated like he treated Izuku. 

Kirishima hunches Kiko over his shoulders the moment he walks out of the kindergarten doors. 

You can't suppress a giggle when you see the interaction, bent on waving them off with a little back and forth shake of your hand and a smile; in the two months you've been working here, Red Riot shows up almost daily to pick up Kiko, because -as you learn- Dynamight works longer shifts a few weeks before his son's birthday so he can take a few days off. 

And when March is about to roll around the corner and you're still unsure of the fact if that's possible, your coworkers that have been here before you keep reminding of you on the daily, that it's only a few days down the line that Kiko's father will be picking him up at twelve every day and then they run off to the break room to talk about how they can't wait to feast their eyes on Dynamight -because he looks so damn good in person. As always you excuse yourself, the subject of Dynamight's attractiveness being something that isn't really your concern to talk about. 

Mostly, you have your views on how he's come to treat the daily heroic deeds like an office job, and although you suppose that as a single parent he doesn't have much choice you often compare the bits and pieces of today's Dynamight to the one from tens of years ago, when you watched him on TV debuting as a pro, fresh out of college. You frankly remember tricking your mother so you could zap between channels to simply watch him go, watch him beat villain after villain. 

You're sure there's a routine in being a hero for over a decade, what you do and what you don't, how when you're faced with choices to set priorities you take your own paths in life. And that's probably how Dynamight gets to have a week to himself for him and Kiko -you wonder, if Kiko is happy at home with his dad, if that week helps him feel like his father is an ordinary human being, not someone that gives a piece of him to everyone- if there are evenings of quietness where the hero's phone doesn't ring with an emergency. 

And would he do it for anyone else? 

You've always been fascinated by heroes like him, the sheer amount of courage it takes to be your own person and have a life, live your own heaven or hell and then go about your days trying to make sure the world is safe. 

You wonder if Dynamight's yearly one week absence makes any difference to the hero world, but as you look at Kiko writhing over Kirishima's shoulder you're convinced that it doesn't.

There's probably a faded Dynamight poster hung onto the wall of your childhood room that your mother's clinging onto, and there's probably a five year old child in you with bright gleamy eyes like Kiko's watching the UA sports festival, amazed by the blond. 

Perhaps there's this fangirl of a child inside you when you call him that's screaming at you for having the guts to put on your big girl voice and talk to him. And sometimes you distinctly remember crying your eyes out the day he got married, so much that your middle school friends kept rubbing that on your face even until graduation. 

Still your curious eyes travel back onto Kiko. He's twisting himself over Kirishima's shoulders and a part of your heart drops at how dangerous this looks from afar. But it's impossible for this mountain of a man to drop someone as small as Kiko. And the contagious giggle of the child is finally getting to you- Kiko doesn't usually laugh that much in class, nor does he ever seem as active as he is when Kirishima picks him up. 

It makes you wonder, just how his interactions with his father are. 

Kiko is a ball of energy at home, sometimes, Dynamight tells you. 

Or rather, grunts at you. 

He gets to the kindergarten on 3.17pm with a fresh split on his cheek and pouty lips. And he mutters that he is more than sorry for being late, although there's nothing to be sorry for, you tell him, because he is a hero and that's a job he can't clock out the second he wants. 

"I'm working on it" He says and red eyes gleam dangerously into yours. You can't shake the feeling that he's angry. At you? At himself? At the villain that delayed him? 

"It's really no big deal" You mutter, breath choked inside your chest and you gesture to him to have a seat across from you in the break room. 

Your chest aches in a fast heartbeat; this is the same Dynamight that used to look back at you through a piece of shiny magazine paper in your teenage room- his eyes are deeper than carmine, with vermillion specs and copper rings adorning his irises. That's definitely something the poster in your room would never show you; the missing high quality of such fierce eyes, it's almost hard to speak when you look into them. 

When you inspect his face from this close, your mind runs back to your coworkers, how they always talk about him and how beautiful he is- for a second you don't blame them, you'd love to gawk over him too, forgetting your words stare into those slant red eyes and get lost into them- but this is your big girl job. Your first serious job, and the faint expression line between Dynamight's brows signifies that your excitement has to be cut short. 

He's not here to cater to you healing your inner teenager by looking at a person you were a fan of. 

So you cough in your bent elbow to relieve the tension in your neck, your chest, and you arrange the notes in your hand by shaking them onto the table next to you. 

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?" You offer and the hero shakes his head. 

"No, I'm good"

You wonder if his wound hurts, or if he's nervous of what you're about to discuss with him- perhaps calling him to simply announce that his child is probably quirkless was a little bold of you, but calling parents to counsel or inquire them about their kids is essential in this school, or so your boss had blabbered endlessly about. 

"These are a few notes about Kiko" You mutter quietly and hand him the pack of notes. It's not a pile, nor is it only two pages long. He glances at them with a sigh, tired eyes going over the paper before his fingers, thick and shaky with determination, reach out to take them from your hands, slightly brushing over yours. 

And your heart is on fire. Great. Exactly what you need to fix your gaze in how small the paper looks into his hands. We're his hands always this big? Were they this big in your poster? Even if they were, you can't think of it right now, you clear your throat again and eye the notes -not his hands, the notes- and say "you'll have to go over them at home if that's not a bother, it's mostly in class progress and some behavioral issues I've noticed-"

"Behavioral issues? What behavioral issues" 

It's his time to paint on panic all over his face, head twitching to your direction instinctively when the word drops from your mouth. You haven't had enough experience with panicked parents, especially being around panicked parents when you're panicked yourself, but there's a skip in your heart beat that urges you to prioritize your work over your thousand aeon old crush on Dynamight. He's nothing but a parent who's looking at you with a query like all others. 

"Is there anything wrong with my son?"

You shake your head, lips crushed together, jaw tight "no no," You kindly muster up your voice "He's a quiet one, I think we should work on him being a bit more social"

"He's plenty social with my friends"

"I've noticed" You nod once, thinking about how Kiko behaves towards Kirishima versus how he behaves towards his classmates "but it's important to be able to be a bit compatible with people his age"

Dynamight nods as well, eyebrows quirked and knitted at the same time, his eyes going over the pages of notes he's flipping through. "I understand" He gulps and you read through that look almost instantly

"He's not a problem child, if anything. He's very smart, very witty. Just very shy, very quiet"

There's a stillness of air, a lack of time and space as he drags his eyes across your face once again, papers clutched in his hands, his lips pursed together so tightly there are dents all over his jaw. Unlike him, he notices there aren't scars across your face, skin delicate, looking soft, plump, young. There's a tiredness in your face that can't match his, the level of what's weighing him down is more than you could ever graze in your life and you look young.

Kirishima, stupid shitty hair that he is, infiltrates his mind just now, the inside of his lips tucking under his teeth; you do look cute. He was right. Your clothes look comfortable, baggy but appropriate for work, with colors that would look nice and calming to the kids you're in care of and he suddenly gets why Kiko is so fond of you. 

You have your way of saying things. Carefully, tenderly. Like you could break him even by saying that Kiko doesn't know how to count to five. You fear you're going to break him by telling him things he already knows with a timid, shy smile across your face, a very polite voice, bowing again and again. There are no expression lines on your face, not one on your forehead, not nearly enough near your lips. 

"As for his quirk. I'd say it's very unlikely that he manifests one but you should give him some more time" You watch as he nods, eyes wide as you open your mouth again, "did his mother have a quirk?"

Bakugo almost hisses, the question caught him off guard, sent his eyes to the corners of his kids and forced a huff out of his mouth. The sorry you utter isn't necessary, he knows and tells you so, but the words he wants to speak gather inside his mouth, hide under his tongue. 

"I avoid talking about my late wife" He says and you bite your lip. You should have known. Dynamight's wife died in your late teens, but there wasn't much known to the public about her -maybe the fact that she was in UA with him, or maybe that she quit trying to be a pro at an early age- but her funeral was broadcasted by channels and you remember hungry media, restless reporters violating his personal space for a shot of him and his son. You remember the chaos, the mourning. 

Your face drops. 

Maybe life didn't go on for him as it did for you. Life wrinkled his eyes and dented his face . You think there's probably been a time he's had a very small baby in his arms, in his mid to late twenties, unsure of what to do, with not as plenty scars in his face -maybe just the one across his nose and the one over his lip- you can't help but stare and assume, perhaps a little rude at that. 

But for the record, you never would have thought you would be teaching in the preschool his son attends. 

"She was a psychic" Dynamight grunts through his teeth 

"Incomparable quirks sometimes cancel eachother" You yelp, quietly, then speed up your words as you add "I'm quirkless too, if that's any comfort, I got shot with a quirk nullifier when I was a kid on my way back home from school"

Whatever Dynamight thinks, he doesn't respond. He looks at you with big, red eyes, face contorted in an apologetic mask, one you've seen on TV after he catches himself swearing on live interviews. You wonder if you're comforting. Any. But you hope there's a part of him that feels like his son can be included somewhere, somehow. 

"M sorry" He finally mouths but it doesn't sound forced. It's more constipated when he adds "That must have been before the raid to arrest Overhaul" 

"Oh we were taught about him in hero ethics class"

Bakugo curls his brow, curiously. The leap in the generation between his and yours continues to grow, and he's aware now, more than ever. There was never a hero ethics class when he was at school. "Hero ethics?"

"Yeah, and basic quirk anatomy, they're like major subjects you have to take throughout all of your university years"

"I wouldn't know," He sighs, "but I'd like your advice on how to approach Kiko on the quirk thing. How do I say something that doesn't scar him, or hurt him?"

Your breathing gets caught in your throat before you ever come up with a reply. Words are forming in your brain, years of academic knowledge flowing in your neurons as you're trying to figure out the exact answer to this question, the words of endless professors turning your brain into mush. If you could think of a way to feel, you'd feel sorry for using Dynamight as a parent with whom you're challenging your skills. 

And in between year four basic quirk anatomy and child psychology for preschool teachers as an extra class you had to attend, you pick out a selection of exquisite words, woven by the wrinkles in your brain, washed over the anxiety in your gut. When you open your mouth, tongue dry and ready to clash with your palette, lips ready to make the first smack, voice almost at the brick of catching space in air, Dynamight's phone rings. 

"Oh fuck" He panicks, mouthing a quick apology, bowing his head, squinting his eyes "this is an emergency, I have to take it" He says and you nod. His fingers -you notice they're thick, too thick, the back of his hands rough and chapped so much it makes you gulp- quickly reach to push the button to accept the call and he curses when the touch of his screen seems to act up.

He curses again when it stops ringing, but his hands are quick to make searching motions, waving back and forth in the open space. He's searching for a piece of paper and a pen, anything, and you-smart as ever- give him the lilac paint marker in your hands and, of course your hand. When he clicks his tongue you cringe. You feel stupid, embarrassing, like earth could swallow you whole right now and you wouldn't have a damn thing to protest about. 

Still, he scribbles something on the back of your hand and the ticklish sensation of the nib across your skin kicks in instantly. When you read it you gasp, barely, and you hope he doesn't hear over the sound of his phone timing again. 

"This shit won't cooperate, help me" With pleading eyes he turns the phone to you, tapping his foot erratically and you pick up the signal; you swipe up the button and he presses it to his ear immediately. You don't realize now, but the way your hands linger onto his for the second time today has made your skin crawl, itch, and it will do so for the rest of the week. 

The back of your hand reads, in bright lilac, 'Beetles children playground, Saturday 5pm'

When you enter the indoor playground the smell of plastic surpasses almost any other. 

There's something nostalgic about it; how these walls accommodate child after child, how the maintenance of enormous swirly slides is executed by precautions for kids to not scratch their knees, to fall on soft plastic covered mattresses when they jump out of the gigantic machine operating head of a tiger that acts as a slide. 

Part of you misses that -the days where you've tried to convince your parents to take you to a place like this to play- but whatever's left of that part of you is smiling, awkwardly, lips pressed together as you spot Dynamight in the labeled 'parents resting place' cafeteria. Part of you misses not caring about how you look, your mannerisms, but still you hug your coat closer to your chest when Dynamight finally notices you, nodding his head. You bow from afar, eyes closed, lips pursed -only then you notice Red Riot sitting across from him on the small wooden table. 

The sight of him -despite being a tad intimidating due to his enormous size- eases your nerves. He looks over at you, waving his hand, his grin plastered across his face. You're used to seeing him like this, nice, welcoming, talkative and enthusiastic, so your steps to their table aren't counted. You're assured -somehow in your head because Dynamight snorts too, leisurely- that there's not even a single thing to be worried about. 

You study your clothes for any wrinkles a few feet away from the table, ready to curse yourself if there's anything sort of like a wrinkle in your long work skirt, but its loose wooly material has proven to be a savor once again. 

Tentatively you smile at the two men when you reach their table, bowing your head and opening your mouth to greet them when Red Riot steals the words out for your mouth. 

"Hey teach" He greets, hand still waving at you when you look at him, muttering a small "hello" in response. 

Bakugo clears his throat when he notices the way you and Kirishima look at each other, it's not any of his business if you want to stare at each other to the end of the world anyway, but it doesn't have to happen at the parents lounge in a playground. So he's rolling his eyes to the back of his head, gripping his coffee mug tight -too right for it to be normal- in his hand and speaks up "Thank you for meeting me here"

It's so blunt that Kirishima bursts out in laughter while your eyes shoot open, confusion written on your face. Dynamight grows red, piping hot as anger plumishes his face with every choke of laughter Red Riot takes. 

"Dude, don't make it sound like that" Kirishima laughs again, eyeing the chair in front of you "I think you scared her, look at her, come on teach, sit down"

"What the fuck. I didn't. Shut your face shitty hair"

"Please excuse him, his vocabulary is so colorful for a children's playground" Kirishima smiles at you when you look at them with a shook expression on your face. 

Dynamight's foul language isn't a secret, in fact most of your co workers were and still are intimidated to be in a position to ever reply to any of these tantrums, and if you're honest, you are too. You strive to be professional, to look bigger than you are, more significant. And Kirishima is allowing you to believe that somewhere behind Bakugo's- Dynamight's foul language there's some respect to you, to the roof of the place you're under. 

"It's okay" You shake your head and finally make a move towards your chair 

You don't really look at Dynamight a lot, but you definitely notice the multicolored plaster that sits across his nose, decorated with dinosaurs of all colors. There's one on the cut on his cheek as well. It's cute, kind of, the way they contrast his eyes and his hair. You dont think youve ever seen him dressed so casually, or in any context that would allow him to rock such bandaids on his face, so it's even more peculiar to see him pull out Kikos green water bottle from his backpack the second he sees him approaching.

“Having fun?” he asks his son and the little blond nods with a huff, out of breath “you're all sweaty, we should change your shirt”

The kid objects and looks at Kirishima for what you guess would be support but he does not utter a word before he downs half of his water bottle. “Daaaad”

“Nope, don't look at Kirishima, he's not going to get you out of this. And say hi to your teacher” 

Bakugo moves his head to the side and Kiko peeks with a tilted head at you, smiles and bows slightly before saying “hello miss, thank you for coming to my party” and you smile back at him and bow as well, while muttering a small happy birthday. 

There aren't any kids from the kindergarten, only a few other heroes can be spotted on the other tables of the cafeteria and you're guessing it's the ones that are parents already, maybe in their circle superheroes’ kids are all friends with each other. Your train of thought is quickly interrupted by Kiko munching on a piece of toast Bakugo had given him.

“Now you swallow your bite and i-” Bakugo says as he retrieves a clean long sleeved shirt from his backpack, but is cut short before he gets the chance to finish his sentence

“Okay bye daaaad” 

“Come back here! Kiko! Kiko!”

“Damn bro chill, it's just a sweaty shirt, he wants to play” Kirishima remarks with a giggle and you follow suit when Bakugo lets out a frustrated huff.

“Parenting isn't easy” you say, and sip on the juice that was served to you a while ago.

“You have kids, teach?” Kirishima asks, intrigued by Bakugos reaction to his question. You miss the way he kicks his blond friend under the table

“Oh no no, I just happen to be around so many parents at work and I've seen how challenging it can be. But I do hope to have kids someday." You reply, feeling a bit embarrassed for admitting your desires to have children to two of the top five heroes in Japan. It's not like you can always have everyday conversations with them and it's a tad uncanny that they feel so free spirited to talk about mundane things like a family with someone like you. 

But the way Kirishima nods understandingly, and the way Bakugo rolls his eyes before growling “careful what you're getting yourself into brat” - not in a mocking way at least - makes you feel more comfortable.

“Oh shut up bro, you have a golden child. Never whines, never throws tantrums! You literally have nothing to complaint about”

“Well, a child turns out this well mannered only because of the way they've been brought up” you suggest and you swear there's a mischievous grin that covers Bakugos face momentarily

"Damn right!! But, It's not easy, that's for sure," Bakugo finally speaks up after a moment of silence, "but it's worth it. Seeing Kiko grow up and learn new things every day, it's amazing. He's a good kid, I couldn't imagine my life without him now that I got him" His tone is softer than you're used to hearing from him, and it catches you off guard.

Kirishima, on the other hand, is still grinning from ear to ear, looking like he's enjoying every moment of the charade between you and the blond. "I think you'd make a great mom, teach. You're so patient and kind with the kids at school."

You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, and you take a drink of your juice, hoping to hide your blush. "Thank you, Kirishima. That means a lot coming from you."

Bakugo grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but you can tell he's not unhappy with the conversation. There's a comfortable silence that falls over the table for a few moments, until Kirishima speaks up again.

"So, teach, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a little celebration tonight. We were planning on going out to a bar and grabbing some drinks." He winks at you, and you feel your heart skip a beat as your eyes fall all over Bakugo’s whos clenching his jaw. “Bakugo always celebrates Kiko’s birthday like this. Man… he's too happy to have him.”

"I would love to join you guys," you say, smiling, but i can't, i have a uhm-, i-"

"that's fine" Bakugo growls, don't push it shitty hair" 

Kirishima smiles a wide grin that covers his face from one ear to another “oh come on! pleaseee”

You're taken aback by how childish Kirishima sounds, but being invited to something like this, with two pro heroes nonetheless feels kind of exciting. So you accept, shyly, there's not much you could do when you flicker your eyes over to Bakugo’s when they look at you like he's expecting you to say yes as well.

Kirishima's smile, despite being inviting at first, is dimmed slightly when Bakugo gruffs in response. Sure, he persists as his eyes plead with him -and you in time. “Come on, it'll be fun. I promise. Please join us teach”

Your gaze is so confused as you stare at him, hesitating to give a positive response. It's just so unbelievable that Dynamight and his best friend are trying to make plans with you.

Kirishima's wide grin falters for a moment at Bakugo's gruff response, but he quickly regained his enthusiasm, his eyes pleading with you.

"Please," Kirishima chimes in, his voice taking on an insufferable pleading tone.

You feel a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Kirishima's eyes—sure there are no prohibitions about spending time with parents outside of work, but you hesitate over actually saying yes to spending time with someone you’ve always admired as your hero.

Despite Bakugo's apparent disinterest, you find yourself unable to resist Kirishima's infectious energy. He's too sweet, always is. Maybe once won’t actually hurt. 

Just one drink.

With a hesitant smile, you turn to Bakugo, hoping to convince him to change his mind. "It would be fun," you say, your voice soft but earnest. "I'd really like to join you guys. I think"

Bakugo's gaze flickers to yours, a hint of annoyance flashing in his crimson eyes that’s shot at Kirishima, because he can see your hesitation, before he sighs heavily, as if conceding defeat. 

"Fine," he grumbles. "But only for a couple of drinks. We won’t be keeping you for long”

Kirishima lets out a whoop of excitement, his grin widening even further as he claps Bakugo on the back feverishly "Yes! This is gonna be awesome!"

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt. 4 of the clone/reincarnation au. The bats find out Danny can be scary.

[Pt 3 here] [Pt 5 here]

Tim is pissed and terrified. He's frantically trying to find a way out of the current situation without Danny regressing on all his progress.

Danny had been with their family for almost 2 years and had come such a long way from the scared kid he was in the beginning. He's going to therapy and can handle interacting with people in general without help. He still tends to cling to familiar people in new situations, but it doesn't have to be Tim or Cass. He goes to school now as Damian's "under socialized and traumatized twin". The official story is that he was separated from Damian, then abused and denied a proper education because he was the second born as well as a meta. It's a believable story between the batfam and Danny's own behavior. But Danny has gotten so much better!

Sure, Danny still has some major issues and won't admit to having someone else's memories, but he's actively working on the former and the batfam is figuring out how to bring up the later without spooking the kid. Tim's not sure if Danny thinks they believe his flimsy excuses over weird comments or the constellations in his room that don't exist or not, but no one wants to push him. It's obvious he had a family that is all now dead, and he was experimented on until he died in the 90s or early 2000s, before he was somehow reincarnated or something into a clone's body. The running theory is that Lazarus waters were used to prolong his original life before he was tortured to death, and his soul or something got connected to the pit somehow during that time, so when that same pit water was then put in a soulless husk, Danny's essence started changing it to reflect that. It took a year and a half to get a blood sample from Danny without him panicking, but the result? Danny's blood's "plasma" is concentrated Lazarus waters, it's "purer" and thicker than the normal stuff. They had to keep their questions and tests light because the moment they commented on his weird blood, Danny had the largest meltdown he had in months, so currently, most of their theories are theoretical. Kid has a LOT of medical trauma.

But Tim is getting off topic. The reason he's freaking out is because the family got caught as civilians. It was supposed to be a nice day out. Tim, Bruce, Damian, Dick, and Danny were out at the mall. Jason was supposed to meet up with them for lunch since it was just a bonding trip. But they can't have nice things.

The only plus side of this situation is Jason hadn't arrived. And this is a plus, because the kidnappers? Joker and his goons.

It was an awful coincidence, even Joker looked surprised to see he had the Waynes. Dick, Damian, and Bruce do their best to keep the mad man's attention away from Tim and Danny. Danny's trembling form is pressed to Tim's back.

"Why does it have to be clowns? Why does it have to be clowns?" Danny is mumbling hysterically. Tim doesn't think Danny has interacted with any sort of clown while with them. Clowns are hard to come by in Gotham for obvious reasons. Meaning this is a Before trauma.

"Tell a different jok-" Dick is cut off by being hit in the face. He yelps as his nose breaks with an audible crunch and starts cursing up a storm.

Tim blocks out his family's shouting and the Joker's taunting to focus on Danny. The kid completely frozen when Dick yelped.

"Danny?" Tim whispers, only to have a gun pulled on him.

"Got something to say, brat?"

"N-no." Tim is panicking, Danny is no longer pressed into his back.

"Good. Now- What the fuck???" The goon clown's stupid face is drawn into a look of horror as he looks over Tim's shoulder.

Tim chances a look over his shoulder to find a terrifying and massive creature where his sweet little brother is supposed to be. And as Tim studies it's starry void figure, all long limbs, eerie glowing, low hissing, what looks like a crown of ice, and face of beautiful pulsing stars that move with it's expression, he KNOWS this IS his baby brother. He briefly wonders if this is how he looked Before, before remembering the gunmen.

"Shit! Don't shoo-!" Tim isn't fast enough and watches in horror as the clowns fire at Danny. His terror is for nothing though as Danny turns them both intangible til the gunfire stops. Then, his feral void creature of a brother attacks. Mauling every single clown in his sight. And Tim can respect that.

He does desperately need to get out of his binds though. Danny is going to have such a massive relapse in his ability to trust them not to hurt him because of this, and Tim takes his job as Danny's "security person" seriously. He NEEDS to be there when Danny is done taking care of the clowns.

"Re-replacement?" Tim has never been so happy to hear Jason's Red Hood mechanical voice.

"Get me untied NOW" Tim spins and demands. "He's terrified, Jay!"

"What?" Jason is totally bewildered, but complying. "Where's Danny?"

"Mauling clowns." Tim grimaces, really hoping no one dies. Danny would be devastated if he accidentally killed someone in his panic.

"THAT'S Danny???"

"Yes. Now shut up. Untie the others and help them check on everyone. I'm going to make sure our little brother doesn't have a complete breakdown that puts us back to square one." Tim tells him and starts booking it after Danny, following the trail of decimated goons. When he catches up, Danny is slamming Joker into the ground and freezing him there. Tim grabs an abandoned gun and shoots the remaining goons in the kneecaps while edging closer.

Danny says something in a language Tim has only heard when Danny is deliriously tired. Tim chucks the gun as far away from them as he can before stepping closer with his hands raised. He projects as much of his concern and thankfulness and love for Danny into his body as physically capable.

"Danny, we're safe now. You kept us safe, kiddo."

There's another gargle of his unknown language before his form shrinks then with great big flash Danny is back to his tiny fae-like form. Tim shoots forward when Danny begins to sway and wraps his little brother in a hug.

"T'm.." Danny slurs.

"I got you. I got you." Tim mutters. It's a little awkward since Danny is only just shorter than him, but Tim picks Danny up in a princess carry, tucking the kid's face in his shoulder and booking it back to their family.

"Tim?? Danny??" Dick shouts, and Danny flinches, sending Tim into his own feral spiral. He literally bares his teeth when the others get too close, making them all pause. They luckily recognize his tales. He's had a lot of feral episodes in front of them since Danny. "Okay. Okay. We'll stay right here, Timmy."

"I'm taking him home."

"Okay... I'll have Alfred pick us up." Bruce easily accepts.

"We'll deal with the cops, Drake." Damian is eyeing Danny with a heartwarming amount of concern. Too bad Tim is too keyed up to appreciate how cute the little demon is being.

Tim takes off again without a word, bundling Danny into the passenger seat of the car they took to get here. Once he's all buckled in, Tim jumps in the drivers seat and peals out of there. He's glad this car isn't a manual because it means Tim can gently reach over and take Danny's trembling hand. He rubs soothing circles with his thumb.

"You're okay, kiddo, I'll keep you safe." Tim mutters to him. "Even if I have to fight the world. I will keep you safe."

Danny starts crying softly somewhere along the way back to the manor. Tim REALLY wishes Cass wasn't in Hong Kong right now.

"Movie, music, or quiet?" Tim asks, starting the breakdown protocol they set up together. It's basically just give Danny comfort options to focus on and tapping or holding up fingers to indicate his choices. Danny taps Tim's hand twice.

"Snacks or no snacks?" 2 taps

"Water, juice, or tea?" 3 taps

"Alfred's choice or do you have something in mind?" 1 tap

"Am I or you showering first? I want to get the clown cooties off me." This time there's a tiny giggle with the tap.

"Should I stay in the room talking or such I wait outside?" The hand in Tim's grips his hand so hard he's sure he heard his bones creek, but he keeps all signs of pain off his face. A single tap.

They pull into the driveway and find Alfred standing in the doorway. Tim quietly greets him as they climb out of the car.

"I hate to ask, but could you make us some tea before you leave? We'll be in Danny's room once we're both cleaned up."

"Of course, young master. Your father and siblings will be otherwise engaged for a while. I do not have to leave for another 20 minutes at the very least and I shall have it ready in 10."

"You're a lifesaver!" Tim cheers before picking Danny up in another princess carry. Danny simply clings to him and let's him. "Do you want one of my hoodies for tonight?"

There's a nod pressed to his shoulder. While Danny is nearly as tall as Tim, he's significantly thinner and lighter, so he still drowns in Tim's hoody. The kid doesn't want to be a vigilante the way the rest of them are. He rather be the guy in the chair or upgrading the bat tech. He doesn't find the appeal in punching criminals and his bouts of being nonverbal being his excuses when asked about it. Which is valid, but Tim knew there was more to it.

Bruce actually shed happy tears over one of his kids not wanting to fight crime and being safe.

Tim walks them through their routine. It makes Danny relax bit by bit. He's nearly completely calm by the time they're comfortably shut in the small space of Danny's bed, tea sitting on the small shelf that was part of the bunk bed's original frame, Tim's phone is playing soft music from than same shelf, and fairy lights casting the whole inclosed space in a soft light. Tim cuddles this poor kid close, but is careful to not get in the way of his iPad.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Tim whispers.

[I guess I have to now..]

"You don't. Sure, I'd appreciate if you told me, but I love you more than my need for answers." They fall back into silence as Danny thinks about it. Tim refuses to rush him and it rewarded for it.

[You knew there was more going on than a mutation, didn't you?]

"Yes.. You're not always as subtle as you think you are."

[My sister, Jazz, said the same.]

"Older siblings, so long as they're doing their job, are bound to realize something is up." Tim smiles. Committing the new name to memory.

[Yeah...] Danny sniffles a little. [I have memories from a life before I was a clone.]

"I know." Danny whips his head around to stare at Tim with wide eyes. "You let little things slip, and I am nothing if not diligent in knowing my precious people and keeping them safe."

[Stalker] Danny gives him a teasing smile, and Tim playfully pretends to be wounded, before Danny looks serious again and Tim matches the energy. [I lived for about 15 years before the 2 I've been here. I am actually Damian's age, despite how I behave.]

"Trauma does funny things to people. I don't see any reason we couldn't indulge you and make you happy."

[I have several theories about why I regress. One is good ol' trauma, but the other is because my core is only 3 years old.]

"Core?"

[All infinite realm beings and some liminals have a core. It's basically your entire being and all your organs in one. It's the most intimate thing to expose your core to someone. And if you crack a core, that's attempted murder/murder depending on how bad it is.] Danny pauses before adding [The core is your everything and will use ectoplasum to create a physical representation and use powers. The buzzing Jon and Kon heard was my core, it's what gave me powers, and I'm positive it's why I no longer look like Damian.]

"Huh...I thought your soul got tied to the Lazarus Pit or something."

[Not far off. Lazarus Pit is corrupted ectoplasum. But my core was implanted into this body by my mentor.]

"Who?"

[Clockwork. He keeps the time safe. He tried to help me, but he's very busy and the observers mess with him to keep him from noticing something is wrong.] Danny fiddles with his stylus. [He was devastated when he found what was left of me in that lab. They did so many experiments before cutting my human body to shreds til I was just my core. But I'm not a normal ecto entity who can heal from losing their body. Their bodies are just ectoplasum, they can regenerate what they need and reform.]

Tim runs a soothing hand over Danny's arm.

[But I'm an abomination even to ecto entities.]

"How so?"

[The way my core formed was unusual. I was a mostly normal human until I was 14. I was just a stupid kid showing his friends his insane parents' lab. My parents were walking OSHA violations on a good day, and I was just a kid growing in a delicate situation.]

Tim had a sick feeling, knowing this wasn't a good memory.

[One second I was just the town weirdos' completely human kid, the next I had most of the city's power grid electrocuting me to death while a portal to the infinite realm opened on top of me, flooding me with ectoplasum, that revived me. Over and over and over and over again til suddenly I was able to escape, but the damage was done. I was suddenly something called a Halfa. Not truly a human, nor truly an ecto entity. Both and neither.]

"Damn, I'm guessing neither party accepted you."

[Not at first. When "ghosts" started escaping and hurting humans, not always realizing that's what they're doing, I was the only one that could do anything. So I did. I became a vigilante. It didn't go smoothly at first, but eventually I understood them and property damage decreased drastically. Only the script flipped and suddenly there was a government agency and my ghost hating parents hunting all ghosts. Nothing and no one was safe and I had to step up again to keep people who hated me safe.]

"They caught you." It wasn't a question, but Danny nods all the same.

[I got caught. I had less rights than a lab rat. I don't want to think about all that happened there, but they eventually slowly started cutting away my human body. But I'm a halfa. I need a human body and my core was a mere infant. That's when Clockwork finally found me. He apologized over and over to my core while trying to find me a new body that was soulless. He told me he'd find somewhere I'd be safe. And next thing I know I was in this body, in an entirely new dimension, and being told to KILL my template?? I was really relating to Dani (my clone sent to kill me) on the way to that roof. I knew I couldn't kill Damian, I never want to kill anyone, but I was still curious enough to go looking. And you know the rest.]

"I'm sorry about how hard your life has been. You didn't deserve any of that. It's okay to be absolutely wrecked after everything that happened."

[Thanks]

"One last question. What was that form earlier?"

[It's new. I guess I have 3 forms now? There's this one obviously, but I also have one that looks like how I used to look. It has all my scars, but is more powerful. I don't like looking at it. Too much hurt. And now I have the one you saw. It felt like a physical manifestation of my obsession of space and my need to protect. Obsessions can influence how an ecto entity looks. A ghost's obsession is everything to them and can get depressed or violent when denied fulfilling it. Indulging in it heals, sooths, and powers them.]

"Not hard to guess yours." Tim teases before pushing the iPad away and putting Danny's cup of tea in his hands. "Thank you for telling me. I know it was hard for you."

Danny shrugs. They drink their tea is silence for a while before Danny yawns, making Tim yawn.

"Guess this means naptime." Tim puts the cups up before burying them both in Danny's fluffy space themed blankets. They're out in moments.

The next day, and with Danny's permission, Tim explains to the rest of the batfam what Danny told him. They fret over and reassure Danny they aren't scared of him, they're not sending him away, he's staying with them as long as he wants. The whole situation is a big step back in their progress in making Danny feel safe, but they all work through it. And Danny starts to willingly share more of his past and "ghost"ness.

They do have to explain to the police that, yes, Danny has a second scary form, and yes, Tim knows how to shoot a gun, but it was self-defense. There's a security video of it all, so it's all indisputable. Everyone is pissed when the video is leaked despite the Waynes best efforts, so the family gets even more protective of Danny.

Damian goes full guard dog when they return to school. Growling and snapping at anyone who so much as looks at Danny funny.

Tim is just relieved he can honestly tell Danny no one died during the mall incident. Sure, more than a few of the goons are crippled in some way, and the Joker is paralyzed from the neck down, but no one died. Danny still feels bad about it, but that's because he's a genuinely nice person who didn't have to be domesticated into not using excessive force.