#I might have a problem. A problem I'm not willing to solve.

[ilikekidsshows]

don't all the other heroes already have their miraculouses by the time werepapas happens? like how lazy can you be when the only thing you have to do is make a phone call and wait? especially in comparison to how it used to be when the other heroes were temps? girl was willing to put chat noir's life on the line when he was left to fight akumas on his own while she had to go out and give people their miraculouses but when adrien is just sitting in a giant trophy with no actual harm coming to him she starts losing her goddamn mind. like if the class salters keep going on with how lila brainwashed the class and turned them into idiots who don't think critically, they should be saying the same thing about adrien cause his entire existence turns marinette into an absolute dumbass. and whatever marinette does when she's not thinking due to adrien's ability to turn marinette's brain completely off is way, way worse than those fics that have the class believe lila's lies and have them bully marinette and destroy her art journal. marinette with her brain off said "i'm gonna harass other girls that are potential love rivals", "i'm gonna immediately give up my miraculous cause (this illusion of) adrien is being held hostage", "i'm gonna lie about being an akumatized cause this ranodm girl i'm jealous of doesn't get mad at me", "i'm gonna use my hero alter-ego for selfish reasons and try to make it look like my lie isn't a lie" (and end up breaking some girls' prosthetics in the process), and "i'm gonna kill my boyfriend"

also, if marinette were the smartest, bestest, most amazing ladybug and tactician in the history of superheroes, girl should have been able to figure out how to extract the butterfly without breaking the item. that would have actually meant something. but nope. girl couln't be bothered to take the time to carefully save the guy she loves oh so very much. he's not even worth the hassle of a phone call to her.

---

You hit the nail on the head with the “he's not worth the hassle” line, because that's what it amounts to. It's an incredibly consistent character trait of Marinette's that she is incapable of being patient towards people. She's willing to put together a convoluted plan and implement it, but, the instant she would have to wait for others, she's done, no way is she doing that. She's the main character, she's not waiting on anyone else.

Like, we saw this impatience in 'Werepapas', when Cat Noir called her to tell her that he was having difficulty getting to the spot, she completely wrote him off, and it's even present in 'Volpina', when Cat Noir is right next to her, telling her they're most likely seeing an illusion, which is Volpina's power, and she can't even manage to be patient enough to consider his suggestion. Marinette not only lacks patience to wait for others, she also lacks the basic respect of considering the possibility they might have a solution she hasn't considered.

It's like that post I made about her inability to accept help from anyone who might be able to give her orders. She has to be in charge, she has to be the smartest person. If she admitted to needing someone else to solve a problem then she's no longer the smartest person in every conceivable situation and the girlpower fantasy doesn't allow her to admit to such a weakness, even as the end result is her killing her boyfriend as the solution that's easier than asking for help. Marinette would rather lie hurt on the ground than admit she might need someone to carry her to the hospital. Anyone saving her will have to do so while she's yelling at them to put her down because she can save herself.

Maybe you could try to spin that as a positive, that Marinette doesn't want others to fix her problems, but even that would be her, once again, making something completely about herself when it isn't. This is about Adrien, him being in such peril that she supposedly can't think straight, and she wants no help to make sure his safety is the top priority. Of course, why would Adrien's pathetic safety be a priority, when we have Marinette's comfort to consider.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[maximumzombiecreator]

I've seen a lot of posts recently where people say they can't find players to play non-5e TTRPGs with. As someone who moves countries every few years, I've had to rebuild my roster of local TTRPG players from scratch a number of times. Here's how I do it.

Caveats first: while I've done this in small cities, I have always done it in cities. If you're in, like, a rural environment, you might just not have enough interested people around. You can always do it online in that case. I'm not really going to cover finding players online, except to say you should probably look for communities for the specific system you want to play. Most of them are enthusiastically looking for new participants. Especially game masters.

Okay, first things first, you gotta find people. I generally find I get better results if the search is location first. That is, rather than using city-wide or regional Looking For Group type internet groups, I look for physical locations that host gaming groups. Local game stores, public libraries, gaming cafes/bars, etc.

Being location first helps avoid some common bad behaviours. Online LFG groups often have a few shitty people hanging around who can't find long term groups because they're shitty. They'll jump at the opportunity to join new groups where people don't know them, because everyone else knows better than to game with them. But location-based groups are better at filtering this. Someone who harasses people at an LGS can be banned from the store, but decentralized online groups struggle to handle these situations in my personal experience.

Being location first also solves the next problem, which is giving you a location to play. Eventually, when I have a long term group, I'll host games in my home. But there needs to be a level of trust before that feels safe, and we're looking for randoms, so for now we need a public gaming venue. If, for whatever reason, there aren't dedicated gaming spaces where you can do this, I've had the most success gaming in cafes or restaurants during off peak hours. I've run a bunch of games in restaurants from, like, 2pm-5pm on a Saturday, and as long as you're buying drinks and some snacks or something, and being polite and non-disruptive, it's typically not too hard to get permission.

Now, if that local group has enough interest in a non-5e system that I'm interested in running, I'll happily do that, and it's pretty free from there. Most people who are willing to play one other system will gladly try others if they find they like playing with you. But even in big cities, I feel it's pretty often the case that postings for local games of other systems don't wind up actually finding successful groups.

So, here is the bit where, unfortunately, finding people to play non-5e games with involves playing some 5e. Community groups are always looking for more GMs to run games, so I will set out to run a number of short 5e adventures, each with different groups. These are typically oneshots that I have the option of extending for another 1 or 2 sessions.

I always run adventures that I've written myself for these, because I want my particular GMing style to really come through. Looking for players is a two way street. I'm looking for people I like GMing for, but I'm also looking to make sure they know what they're getting. Especially if I'm going to ask them to play a system they've never tried, they should know that there's going to be something they enjoy. So, these short adventures are full of the types of silly but sincere NPCs I tend to run, the open-ended scenarios I prefer, the tropes I favour, etc. If someone isn't going to enjoy playing with me, I want them to know it from this adventure.

I structure the adventures to give me a lot of flexibility in terms of how long they run. They're nearly always mysteries, but with some active component to the mystery, so that if things drag or dawdle I can have the villain show up and force a final confrontation. They're also structured to have a natural "next thing." You find and defeat the villain, but there's an implied next villain you'll be going after. That way, if the group is working well and I want to continue, it's easy to present the option to the group. But if I'm not interested in continuing with the group, the next thing can just serve as an "and the adventures continue" implied epilogue, and the game still feels complete.

I don't like players just bringing their own character sheet to the table. Someone who brings a disruptive character can ruin a session without me getting much useful information out of it, other than that I don't want to play with that person. And if it ruins the experience for the other players, I'm often out the opportunity to game with those people, through neither of our faults. I've experimented with both asking players to submit their characters in advance or making them choose between a collection of premade characters. The former is a good check for whether people will put in a basic amount of effort and follow instructions, but it can dissuade people who are just looking to dip their toes into playing for the first time. The latter can turn off players who are into crunchy games and are excited about character building. As a result, I'll usually choose the approach based on what non-5e system I'm currently most excited about running. Do I want to get together a group for a rules-light game? Premade characters it is. Looking to run some PF2e? Please submit your character sheet in advance. Some locations also do more drop-in based games, in which case it's premades all day.

As I'm running the game, I'm observing the players. There's a simple vibe check, obviously. Do I like playing with this person? But I'm also looking at how they play. What are they here for, what's exciting them? Are they struggling with finding optimal turns in combat, or do they like mastering a system? Are they curious about the world, or do they glaze over when the spotlight isn't on them? Do they light up in dialogue scenes? Do they want to try crazy things outside of their on-sheet abilities? Remember, later, I'm going to try to persuade this person to try to play a game they've never played before. I need to know what specifically is going to excite them.

I have (always with permission) recorded sessions before to go over in making these choices, but honestly even just a few small reminder notes will help me unravel things later. If a session goes well, I'll ask at the end for people to give me their contact information if they'd be interested in playing again. Non-committal, at their comfort, and it doesn't single out people that I don't want to play with. I can always just not call them. Usually I find I'm interested in playing again with a little more than half of the players I meet this way. In my experience, it's fairly rare for a player to say they're not interested in playing again, TTRPGs rule and there's a DM shortage.

What I usually do is keep running these until I have enough people in mind to run something else, even if it isn't the system I'm most excited about. Probably it would be better to spend more time in this starter phase building up more connections, but after running like 4-5 5e adventures, I'm usually more than ready to run anything else, and if I have to shelve my Lancer ideas because I've mostly found crunch-averse players, I'm usually fine with that.

So, next comes the invites. Now, most players I meet this way will eventually be open to playing most games, but listen: you can put people well out of their comfort zone for their third TTRPG, but you gotta be real careful with their second. Most of the time, the game I'm inviting people to will be their first real exposure to a non-5e TTRPG. If they don't like it, they will run back to the safety of 5e and you will never get them out of it again. So I am very careful in picking the right system for the players I am inviting.

Whatever the new system I want to run is, I will set up a pilot session for it. I am very clear to players that I will teach them the system at the session, they do not need to know it in advance. Eventually, when I have a reliable group of TTRPG people to play with, I'll expect them to be able to pick up systems without a ton of help, but for players that are only used to the complexity of 5e, the idea of learning a new system is daunting. I rehearse the teaching of the game session. It's the only thing for TTRPGs I ever rehearse, but I want to know down pat how I'm going to quickly teach a new system and make it feel approachable and non-threatening. I'm also very clear that this will be a single session, with the possibility of turning into a campaign if we like it. All of this is structured to feel very safe. No initial learning required, no long term commitment, with a GM you already know you like.

But even as safe as that is, you still have to pitch the system. Why should the player be excited about playing this new game? Don't go all TTRPG nerd on them and explain all the details of the system, or use a bunch of jargon. Give them one or two things to be excited about with short, detailed anecdotes to back them up.

"We're going to be playing Blades in the Dark. It's a game where you play a gang of criminals in a haunted, steampunk dystopia. Every session you'll do heists, but instead of meticulously planning them, you start right in the action, and when you need to have planned for something, you can do a flashback scene to explain your preparation. One group I ran this for got busted by guards during an early heist, but used a flashback to create a scene where they had gotten a buddy of theirs a job as one of the guards, and he helped them out of the situation. And for some reason they fell in love with this bumbling goof I improvised to be the buddy, and then on a bunch of future jobs they kept using flashbacks to get him jobs wherever they were robbing. So this one idiot was just a de-facto crew member who worked a dozen different inside jobs despite being about as sharp as an eraser. And eventually they fucked up and got him killed, but they brought him back as a ghost, because you can do that in Blades in the Dark."

I find using a specific example of play really helps get peoples' imaginations going, which is what is going to help them say yes. And that example is tailored to what I know that player vibes with, what it is I think that makes them a good fit for this game.

The last detail about the invites is that I'm telling them, not asking them. It is not, "Hey, are you interested in playing this new game?" It's "I'm going to be running this new game. If you're interested in playing, please let me know what times work for you." If you're asking, you're going to get some "well but can it be 5e?" If you're telling, then they can choose to learn a new game in order to keep playing TTRPGs with a GM they know they like, or they can choose not to play at all.

Once you get enough yesses for a game, you run it, and then from there you're on your own. I think those are basically just friends you have at that point, and I'm not gonna tell you how to have friends.

Hopefully at least one person finds all that useful!

[0wlettie]

⏾⋆.˚─── rafayel x fem!reader

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

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

⏾⋆.˚─── ao3 if you prefer ^^

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel’s not coming, is he?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Now all you can think about is him. 

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

You blow out a sigh.

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

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

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

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

However…

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

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

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

fishie princess ♓

hey you mind helping me real quick ?

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

how very suspicious…(¬‿¬ )

raaaaaaaaf 

stop it im serious

(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)

fine fine

what’s up?

image sent

image sent

what do you think is better on me ?

if i’m say, going out for drinks ?

oooh both are pretty

going out for drinks? hmmm

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

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

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

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

fishie princess ♓

what’s the occasion though?

i dun remember you mentioning a party or anything

oh thomas didn’t tell you ?

tell me what

uhh

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

with some of our old college buddies

she invited me a few days ago

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

and you’re going out in that dress?

yea ?

hm

okay

one sec （＾ｖ＾）

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

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

fishie princess ♓

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

and what time

umm okay the address is

[link sent]

and we’re supposed to be meeting there at eight

why ???

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

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

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

fishie princess ♓

but your exhibit ???

don’t tell me you just CANCELLED

rafayel you’ve been so excited for it

so why did you just call it off ??

there will be other exhibits like that one trust

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

but i haven’t seen you in months, [✦]

you think i won’t show up for that?

i miss you

you have to know that i do

you miss me too, right?

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

fishie princess ♓

yea of course i miss you

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

im still glad i get to see you tonight

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

nuh uh

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

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

it wasn’t on purpose

no wait don’t be mean lemme seeeeeee

(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)(╥﹏╥)

nope.

gasp

not the period

noooo it’s not fair

rafaaayeeel !!!

life is never fair

now suffer

≧◠◡◠≦✌

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

Even if he is an utter brat.

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

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

Rafayel.

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace.

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

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

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

“[✦]!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Actually—”

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

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

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

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

He’s absolutely gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always.

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

You’re so fucking beautiful.

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

Those damn flashes.

“So, you gonna answer me or not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She raises a skeptical brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rafayel needs something from you, yeah?

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

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

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

Fuck, those eyes of his.

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

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

God, there’s something fucking wrong with you.

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

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

“So let’s dance, yeah, cutie?”

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

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

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

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

Somehow, he hears it anyway.

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

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

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

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

fishie princess ♓

hey so about those lunch plans…

it looks like i can’t go

sorry

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

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

The call rings three times before it connects.

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

“...[✦]?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you…crying?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel?! Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only one thing to do, then.

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

“How mean!” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it that bad?”

He sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got it, cutie.” 

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

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

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

“...Bye Rafayel.”

One click and the call disconnects.

Days pass slowly for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you shouldn’t have come.

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

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

You flush.

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t understand, [✦]—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I-I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“Rafayel, I’m yours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

“You close, pretty girl?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[annalacerda17]

Lan Wangji is a greatly misunderstood character in this fandom. I think it's partly because the fandom tends to misinterpret Wei Wuxian's influence on him, which has to do with how Lan Wangji's attitude towards rules changed after the time skip. In my opinion, some fans interpret this to mean that before the time skip Lan Wangji had prioritized the rules over doing the right thing, and that he changed because of Wei Wuxian. This is untrue.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have always had very similar moral compasses. However, they grew up in very different environments, and have always had vastly different social status. To me, this is why, when faced with the sects' bigotry pre-timeskip, they reacted very differently despite agreeing as to which side was in the right.

Lan Wangji grew up in the Lan Sect, a place where the rules are highly valued and enforced, and under the care of Lan Qiren who, despite his flaws, was a very reliable parental figure to his two nephews as they grew up. Moreover, the Lan sect is the one place where the rules seem to be enforced impartially most of the time (I'm not going to account for the Madam Lan's situation, because the novel never gives us a clear answer as to what exactly happened in the past).

Having grown up in such an environment, with such an identity, it makes perfect sense for a teenager Lan Wangji to believe that most, if not all problems, can be solved through the system. It would make no sense if, upon learning about what had happened to the Wen remnants, Lan Wangji's reaction had been to abandon everything and go live in the burial mounds with Wei Wuxian (and let's not forget that Lan Wangji did not actually learn the truth about the Wen Remnants at the same time that Wei Wuxian did, he had to sneak around to be able to see Wei Wuxian in person and find out the more accurate information this way). On top of everything else, his sect -his family- was actively restraining him.

So, Lan Wangji's reaction was to verbally defend Wei Wuxian and to use his reputation and political weight (which was not that much considering he wasn't a sect leader and his sect had still been rebuilding at that point) to try to sway the public sentiment in the right direction.

And at one point, it seemed doable. When Wei Wuxian was invited to Jin Ling's 100 day celebration, that seemed to be a sign that the sects might be willing to compromise. Even Wei Wuxian thought so, despite not trusting them completely.

Then, it turned out to be a trap

All of the events that happened from this point forward showed Lan Wangji that he couldn't trust the system. Outside of the Lan sect, the rules didn't matter, only power and status did. The system was skewed in favor of those in power, regardless of who was right. And that was a lesson Lan Wangji had to learn the hard way. Moreover, Lan Wangji was forced to face the fact that when the sect's interests were put in the balance, even the Lan Sect didn't stand on the side of good. While they didn't necessarily support corruption openly, they did deliberately avoid investigating anything properly. They chose to believe the information provided by the Jin sect -their sponsor- despite Lan Wangji's attempts to tell them the truth. It also exposed the Lan sect's hypocrisy, because they, too, judged Wei Wuxian based on his cultivation and his social status, which led Lan Wangji to understand that the rules couldn't possibly account for the complexities of real life - this why he refused to "repent" even as he was being whipped bloody by his sect.

So it wasn't Wei Wuxian's influence that taught Lan Wangji to stop relying on the rules, it was the experience of trying so hard to do what was right, having followed all the rules, only to be betrayed by the system he had trusted. That's why after the time skip he no longer relied on the rules. He respected the rules when possible, but he didn't take them as seriously as before.

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, grew up very differently. His parents had been rogue cultivators - people who lived freely without being restrained by sect rules. When they died, he became a beggar at a young age, and while this experience didn't break him, it did teach him to be self-reliant. Later, he became a disciple of the Jiang sect, where the Madam was a lunatic who was obsessed with his mother and targeted him everywhere. Wei Wuxian was also placed as a companion and retainer to Jiang Cheng, who was a piece of work even as a child and became progressively worse as the story went on. By the time Wei Wuxian rescued the Wen Remnants, Jiang Cheng had grown to be a cowardly, stupid, jealous asshole. That's to say, the authority figure in the sect he had been a part of was utterly unreliable - had been unreliable under Jiang Fengmian, but became even more unreliable under Jiang Cheng.

Having grown up in such an environment, Wei Wuxian had always known that the rules apply differently to people of different social status, regardless of right or wrong. Even so, Wei Wuxian did express his point verbally at the Jin sect's banquet, only to have it dismissed by that loser Jin Zixun and his corrupt uncle Jin Guangshan, solely based on Wei Wuxian's lower social status. Therefore, Wei Wuxian chose to take action directly, because he already knew there would be no way he could get the right thing done by following the rules. He was right about that.

This doesn't mean Wei Wuxian is morally superior to Lan Wangji. They were both teenagers dealing with a problem that was much bigger than themselves, in a situation where the odds were stacked firmly against them. They both did the best they could in the only way they knew how.

Later on both of them felt that there were things they could have done differently, but that's because they had matured and gained more experience. Their moral compass did not change.

[seadeepspaceontheside]

How do you talk about "proship" stuff without immediately getting bombarded with hate and dismissed as a terrible person?

I'm on your side, but it seems most people are not, and not willing to listen at all.

I wanna make some small things clear lol I am not the spokesperson for this topic. There are far more people who are more articulate and have done more research and I would rather just be drawing lol

I usually state that if you're not a great speaker or can't articulate yourself very well, link to the experts that understand how this stuff works. Like I've said before, a lot of the therapists and articles I have linked have done a better job than I on the topic. Because you might be actually hurting your case when you're trying to explain to someone these things and you are either hung up on the trees over the forest or can't explain something because they catch you on a minute detail.

That being said, the main advice I would give is to not to use these loaded terms themselves, just the dynamic itself. In all honesty, if you use that kind of terminology (proship/anti), it usually turns people's brains off and makes them think you're weird automatically.

I would just point out that there's a wide range of different types of stories (from tv shows to myths of yore) that have spanned centuries--even some of which featuring taboos. And the ills of society do not have these stories to blame.

I am tired, because when I think we've moved on from these rehashed arguments and stupid discourse about media , I come to find arguments that were settled ten years ago are rearing their heads again. And this time they're coming with threats!

They did this with D&D and rock music. (You would be lured into satanic rituals and be deviants) They did this was violent movies and video games (You would want to commit murders or want murderers to go free) They did with this with rap and music videos (You would be hypnotized into violence by the artist and you would want to be a harlot) They did this with anime (Foreign media that is super weird and turn people into super freaks) They did this was queer media (Gonna turn you gay) They did this with superheroes (Children will think they can fly, they think punching will solve their problems)

Now this type of persecution comes for people that are doing taboo fanworks. I am tired of seeing this shit. Hindsight is free--those who were young for these old campaigns can see this stuff clearly for what it is: veiled right-wing rhetoric that is easily adopted by useful idiots who believe they are "helping". This time, the main push has been from young people in fandom spaces.

This is how it works.

All art communicates worldviews to some extent, but that doesn't make everything propaganda. Artists aren't working to eliminate other worldviews or stifle the existence of other artists--that is actually what propaganda is. It often comes from a perspective that embraces the imperialist or patriarchal status quo.

To someone on the fence who might be reading this: art is subjective. Your need to moralize what you consume is fraught. Consuming "good" media made with "good morals" and not "taboo" doesn't make you live a good life or become a good person. You're going to hit a wall one of these days where something you enjoy will be seen as something gross/repulsive/troubling and when you have been cut off from all those who would have defended you, you will have no one around you. If you feel like you are constantly put under a magnifying glass by said friends over what you ship, what art you enjoy.... Its not healthy! When you can't unfollow or say how you truly feel in a group of people and feel "unsafe" if you were to leave…. THAT'S A CULT. I find that it's always the same people who start shit that will be repeating this behaviour wherever they go. They literally act like HOAs but instead of your halloween ornaments staying up for too long, they are saying you can't enjoy your Greek God incest fics.

One last thing to remember: if you're having this conversation, and a person takes the worst possible light from what you say…they are not trying to have a conversation with you, they are acting against you.

[mindfulstudyquest]

❥﹒♡﹒☕﹒ 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁

you have a choice. you can stay in the room where you are the best, where people rely on you, turn to you to learn, to improve. you can satisfy your ego and bask in the awareness that no one is above you.

or you can step into the room where you are not the best — where, in fact, you might be the worst at what you do. you can finally realize that there will always be someone better than you, humble yourself, cry, and wallow in self-pity.

you can remain in the room where you are praised and admired, or you can surround yourself with people who are better and more experienced than you. you can accept that there’s still a long way to go, that your talent and effort are nowhere near enough, and struggle to keep up with those who are truly better than you. then — and only then — you can unlock your true potential.

it is only by believing you’re far behind others that you’ll improve more than you ever thought possible.

why discomfort breeds growth

studies show that we grow most when we step outside of our comfort zones. according to a study published in the « journal of experimental psychology », being exposed to challenging and unfamiliar tasks increases brain plasticity, the brain's ability to adapt and develop new neural pathways. when you’re the “worst” in the room, your brain is forced to engage, learn, and adapt — activating areas responsible for problem-solving and critical thinking.

the “zone of proximal development”

lev vygotsky, a developmental psychologist, introduced the concept of the "zone of proximal development" (zpd) — the sweet spot where tasks are just beyond your current abilities. learning happens most effectively within this zone, but only if you're willing to confront challenges head-on. surrounding yourself with people who are more skilled or experienced than you puts you directly into this zone.

embracing failure as a learning tool

a 2011 study by ayelet fishbach and lauren eskreis-winkler, published in the journal of experimental social psychology, highlighted that experiencing failure can actually improve motivation and learning. the researchers found that when individuals interpret failure as an opportunity to learn rather than a threat to their ego, they develop greater resilience and determination in achieving their goals. this approach transforms the initial discomfort of not being the best into a powerful driver for personal growth.

how to start stepping into the “hard” rooms

adopt a growth mindset: psychologist carol dweck's research highlights the power of a growth mindset — believing that skills and intelligence can improve with effort. view every setback as an opportunity to learn.

reframe comparisons: instead of feeling inadequate when others outperform you, see them as resources. ask questions, learn from their methods, and let their expertise challenge you.

set stretch goals: aim for targets that feel slightly out of reach. they should scare you just enough to make you uncomfortable — but also excited to try.

stepping into the room where you’re not the best is scary. it might hurt your pride. but science is clear: true growth comes from struggle, humility, and persistence. the next time you feel like you're the worst in the room, remember — you're in the perfect place to unlock your potential.

guys i really hope this makes sense because my english is broken this days. also it's exam season, so i'm taking my exams in spanish. my brain seems settled on my third language and i can't easily switch back to english. this days i can't even speak italian properly ush.

[pascaloverx]

BABYBOY

PREVIEW: NICHOLAS CHAVEZ x READER

Author's Note: As a test to see if this fanfic might resonate with others besides myself, I’ve decided to share a preview with you all. If you enjoy it, please leave a comment! I haven’t yet decided whether I’ll continue writing it. This fanfic is for those who’d love to imagine themselves in a romance with Nicholas Chavez. I should warn you that there’s a possibility the reader might get involved with Nicholas while he’s still in a relationship with someone else, though nothing is set in stone yet.

AO3 link one

PREVIEW

You are utterly doomed—there is simply no other way to describe your situation. As most of your groceries tumble to the floor, you realize you've locked your boss's dog inside his luxurious apartment. What a splendid mess.

"Baby! Baby, don't get upset. I'll rescue you as soon as..." You shove your hands into your pants pockets but fail to find the cursed key. You now remember leaving the keys on the counter right after ushering Baby inside the apartment to fetch the groceries you'd left in the hallway.

"Damn it! I'm screwed, absolutely screwed," you exclaim loudly. Normally, in a posh building full of important people like this, you would temper your voice. But your boss is the sole tenant on this floor—or so you thought until you see a half-dressed man emerge from the apartment across the hall, visibly alarmed.

"My goodness, is everything all right?" he asks, stepping closer with genuine concern etched across his face.

"Not exactly. My boss's dog is locked inside the apartment," you reply, doing your best not to focus on the fact that he is nearly naked, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, and instead on the sound of the puppy barking. "Baby, I'll rescue you soon. No need to stress. Just listen to my voice and stay calm," you say to the dog, who seems to settle down.

"Excuse me, but did you leave a dog or an actual baby inside the apartment?" The man—who, you must admit, is very attractive—asks in a deep voice.

"There’s no time to clarify that. Baby has anxiety. He’ll get overly stressed, start chewing on himself, and lose his fur. When that happens, my job will be out the window. And poor thing, he’s so cute. Could you please help me?" you plead, trying to keep your nerves under control. Your boss devastatingly handsome neighbor flashes you a roguish smile, as if considering his options.

"Wouldn't it be better to call a locksmith?" he suggests, stepping closer to the door, testing how securely it’s locked.

"That would be ideal, but by the time a locksmith gets here, Baby will either be in a stress-induced coma or have eaten the few groceries left on the floor within reach. So, I’m begging you, emotional support hot guy, help me out here," you implore, your voice edging toward desperation. Your hand clings to his arm in a bid to either earn his sympathy—or steal a moment to enjoy the feel of him.

"That leaves us with only one option. Breaking down the door would certainly solve one problem, but it would undoubtedly create another, wouldn't it?" he asks, as though he already knows the answer—which, of course, he does. Yes, it would create a problem, but you're confident you can have the door fixed quickly, thanks to the connections you've gained as your boss's employee. However, your boss would never forgive you if anything happened to the dog.

"No offense, but I'm willing to take the risk. Please, break down the door and save my day," you reply, gazing into his bright, beautiful brown eyes. He hesitates, but as Baby's barking grows more insistent, he relents. Adjusting his stance to attempt the feat, you suddenly realize the absurdity of him doing this while nearly naked.

"Perhaps you might want to put on some clothes—" you begin, but before you can finish, he’s already forced the door open with the strength of Hercules. Baby bolts out of the apartment, tail wagging joyfully, heading straight into the arms of your boss's attractive neighbor.

"I think he’s grateful for the rescue," the neighbor says, remarkably still holding onto the towel around his waist.

"He's probably upset that I left him alone and is punishing me," you reply, pouting slightly to appeal to the dog’s sympathy. For a moment, Baby whimpers as you pet him, but he soon relents and accepts your affection. When the neighbor, now standing upright, lifts the dog to hand him back to you, his towel slips to the floor. Your eyes catch the sight of his completely bare physique before you instinctively cover them with your hands.

"I believe it’s best if you take the dog while I go put on some clothes," he says, his tone tinged with embarrassment. You stifle a laugh, the memory of the divine sight you just witnessed lingering in your mind.

"I mean, I’d love to, but I’d have to open my eyes, and that would mean seeing your body—practically carved by Greek sculptors—and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable," you reply, keeping your eyes tightly shut. He chuckles softly, the sound deep and surprisingly pleasant. "Is that your way of saying I look like a Greek god?" he asks, clearly entertained.

You flush with embarrassment, realizing how disastrous your attempt at flirting must have sounded. "Horrible pickup line, right? I get flustered in situations like this," you confess, desperately trying to figure out how to grab the dog without accidentally disrespecting his modesty—or making things even more awkward.

"Here’s the plan," you suggest, "you pass Baby to me while I raise my arms, and I promise to keep my eyes closed the entire time." Determined to maintain your composure, you steel yourself, mentally repeating your goal: focus on the dog, nothing else.

He carefully places Baby into your hands, and you hold the little dog close. When you finally open your eyes, the neighbor is no longer there. With a sigh of relief, you decide to gather the scattered groceries and put everything in order. Once done, you prepare Baby’s special food and, to make up for the ordeal, give him a soothing massage.

When Baby finally drifts off to sleep, you remember the chocolate cake you had baked earlier. Grabbing a slice, you head to the handsome neighbor’s apartment.

"I know you might be feeling embarrassed, but I brought you a piece of chocolate cake as a thank-you," you say, holding out the dish between the two of you.

The man looks at you with a warm smile, taking the dish from your hands. His hands are surprisingly soft.

"I wasn’t embarrassed, just busy," he replies with an intriguing charm. "But I’ll enjoy your cake and let you know—you owe me a coffee."

"Am I interrupting you?" you ask, curious about what—or who—has been keeping him occupied. "Wait, how exactly do I owe you a coffee?"

Your curiosity seems to amuse the man before you, who leans casually against his open door, holding the dish with the chocolate cake in hand.

"The cake covers the rescue," he says with a teasing smirk. "But the coffee? That’s for the striptease I unintentionally performed for you earlier. Seems fair to me." His mischievous gaze lingers on you, playful yet bold.

You stifle a chuckle, tilting your head as you meet his eyes. "I suppose we’ll save the coffee for another time since you’re clearly occupied. But I’ll consider your case, emotional support hot guy," you quip, your tone light as you attempt to sneak a peek inside his apartment.

His home is as stylish as you might have imagined, the kind of space that exudes effortless charm. The soft strains of music playing in the background suggest he’s not alone, perhaps entertaining someone he hopes to impress. His lips curl into a knowing smile, as if catching your subtle glance inside. "You’ve got a sharp eye, don’t you? Careful, or I might think you’re more interested in my life than the coffee."

"Who wouldn’t be curious?" you reply, flashing a playful grin before stepping back toward your own door. "Enjoy the cake."

"Hey, I feel like we’ve skipped a few steps. If we’re going to keep running into each other, it’s probably important that we know more than the fact that you’re terrible with locks and I ended up naked in front of you," he says, stepping closer with a hint of interest in his eyes.

"My name is Nicholas," he continues, extending his hand toward you. You reach out to shake it, but instead, he lifts your hand to his lips and places a soft kiss on its back.

"Y/N," you reply, feeling a little flustered by the gesture. "But I doubt we’ll see each other that much. I’ll probably be fired soon after all of this."

"I hope you keep your job—and your spot across from my apartment. I think I’ve grown attached to Baby," Nicholas says with a grin, his voice laced with an undeniable charm. "And don’t forget, you still owe me that coffee."

You can’t ignore the spark of chemistry between you, though you tell yourself it’s probably just your imagination. "Wish me luck, nudist neighbor," you reply with a small smirk. "And if you ever need career advice, you might have a future as a professional striptease artist." The words escape your lips before you can fully process them, leaving you both embarrassed and bold. Without waiting to see his reaction, you step back into your boss’s apartment, closing the door behind you. As you wait for the locksmith to fix the damaged door, you can’t help but replay the encounter in your mind, a smile tugging at your lips.

[brujamala-aka-gigi]

your ideal partner is like...

On this pick a pile reading, im focusing on positive traits to take into consideration when wondering if someone is worth putting your time and energy into a committed relationship. This is not meant to be strict guideline of arbitrarily imposed "must have's" to look for, but more of an opportunity to reflect on what could be beneficial to your ideas of a healthy relationship.

dividers by @chilumitos

pile one pile two pile three

‧͙˚ *༓ scroll down for the readings ⋆ִ ‧͙⁺˚

masterpost ✶ pac readings ✶ tarot menu

✶ ko-fi page (support and tarot services) ✶

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ✧ pile number one ˚.⋆

I get the feeling that you value certain aspects of relationships that could be considered “traditional” or “old school”, but not necessarily the ones that are limiting to your sense of identity or your will. I think you find value in things that bring peace of mind and comfort due to being structured in a way that feels natural and balanced, or at least aim to provide those qualities into your life. In your case, I feel like commitment in any sort of union is something you value a lot, specially because you have a deep understanding of your own individuality which involves wanting to connect with someone who is just as conscious as you are, and just as willing to bring out the best in you as you are willing to do so for them. 

Your ideal partner is someone who wants a certain level of structure in their lives, but also wants to find opportunities to experience child-like wonder. This is a person who is patient, and knows that building strong foundations in the relationship is the best way possible to ensure that both of you get to be joyful together. A key aspect here is that you look for someone who shares your values, not because they aspire to them, but because they live by them even if their lives are completely different to yours. Maybe your life experiences of the past might not be similar, but what’s important is that your ideals and aspirations are the middleground where you are both capable of nurturing a genuine connection. Both of these cards show me that you are determined to achieve harmony in a way that you consider both practical and fulfilling, and yet you are not willing to sacrifice your individual aspirations. Therefore, whoever is meant for you, needs to embrace the way in which you decide to nurture a relationship.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ✧ pile number two ˚.⋆

This combination of cards is telling me that you are someone who has coherent reasons to be slightly afraid of vulnerability. You have been in places where your honesty and your vulnerability have been misunderstood as weaknesses and treated as such. Nobody deserves to be hurt because of such noble traits. What's relevant here is that you are cautious with who gets access to your truest self, which is not that bad, but from time to time your anxiety in regards to vulnerability might be something that makes it more difficult to find true connections with others. It is hard to know who will value your genuine ways of living and expressing your feelings if you never try to do so, if you never give people the opportunity to show if they are worthy of you being in tune with your sensitive essence.

Your ideal partner is someone who is not only empathetic, but also someone who is willing to put effort into building a sense of trust within the relationship. Whoever wants to love you, needs to understand your healing process and willfully put in the work so you feel secure with them. I'm talking about a person who values having the difficult conversations instead of running away from the issues or hiding anything that could turn into a problem. This is someone who shows their loyalty by either being helpful or being a good company. You can be very introspective and mindful of your issues, you are too used to solve problems on your own. These are amazing qualities that can be nourished when you engage with a person who is willing to learn when you need help,when you need company and when you need your own space. Finding out who has this characteristics is only possible if you find the peace of mind and the confidence to approach vulnerability in a way that gets you out of your comfort zone without getting hurt.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ✧ pile number three ˚.⋆

Well, I can’t lie here, these cards are giving me a subtle “opposites attract” type of scenario. Which doesn’t mean that you should go and look for someone who is nothing like you, but it does mean that maybe you should consider your own virtues and defects and how they can be complemented by a partner, while also thinking on how you compliment them. This is not only about superficial compatibility, but more so about both of you being able to rely on each other and able to ask for help. From what I see, it’s most likely your ideal partner is someone who shares a similar life path to yours, but they have an entirely different set of skills. Having shared objectives and aspirations is something quite valuable, especially if both of you are equally as committed to them.  

What I see from an ideal partner in your case, it's this passionate approach to almost everything. It is not a kind of passion that comes from a need to fill a void in their lives, it is the kind of passion that comes from a deep sense of responsibility and consciousness in regards to their own lives. This is a person who sees the value of their journeys and is able to be truthful and fair with their approach to new experiences because they want to remain aligned to their honest desires. They are fully aware of what they can and can’t do, but what’s interesting about them is that they also see value in creating dynamic ways to work around that. You need to find someone who respects you enough to allow themselves to ask you for help, but are also willing to help you too. A key thing to consider when thinking of an ideal partner is the sort of enhancements made possible by a connection where both genuinely respect and admire each other, without idealizations that could harm the relationship.

hey there! i hope this reading was useful or at least entertaining for someone <3 if you did enjoy it, don't hesitate to check out my other P.A.C readings i think they're also kinda fun??

anyways, big updates (maybe not too big)

i set up a ko-fi (finally, ik, im sorry, many people told me to do so but apparently i had to drop out uni to find the time to do it lmao actually not funny btw i dropped out to focus on my work because economic crisis, fuck you javier milei, i work on a tarot reading app btw but i cant disclose it or share my profile from the app idk why)

I FINALLY CAN TAKE PICTURES OF MY CARDS !!!!! (they are still samsung phone quality but they are expensive samsung phone quality ok) so yeah things are going to look prettier i guess??? maybe i'll do videos someday??

im also working on a posting schedule and taking this blog more seriously because i missed tumblr so much tbh and i need a way of sharing the beauty of tarot thats not literally too close to working a 9 to 5 call center job (i love my job tho, but working in tarot apps is... interesting) . i love this site so much, i was literally raised by it at this point (i feel like an elder user because i've been here since 13 and im 23, i saw gen z underage people calling 25 year olds "uncle" online and honestly i cant even be mad about it because if any gen z calls me an auntie i wont go against it, i've been on my single auntie patty and selma vibes since forever tbh and im technically gen z too?? )

last big update: i got a kinda fun and silly oracle deck which i will be using for an ask game eventually.

masterpost ✶ pac readings ✶ ko-fi page ✶

⋆bookings for personal readings are open ཐིཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[anim-ttrpgs]

A big part of Eureka is splitting the party. Normally games are loathe to do this because of the potential to bore players while they passively watch others play the game. I'm curious how you deal with this when you run Eureka. Sending players away seems like it could make it either better or worse. Like if it's at a home, people can go hang out by the snack table and drink and chat, but that doesn't work as well at, say, a game store. I'm curious how people felt about having to leave the game several times.

While the risk of boring the players or putting too much stress on the GM is a real concern, the addage of "don't split the party" actually originated in the TSR D&D era, where splitting the party made them weak and vulnerable to all sorts of situations that would be less of a problem for a full strength party, However, for a game like Eureka that produces more conventional narratives (everyone take note that I did not say that Eureka produces more narrative or is "more focused on narrative", just more conventional narratives) and has more of a focus on intrigue and horror, the party splitting up to cover more ground and collect more clues in the limited time they have to solve the mystery, but also making each one of them more vulnerable if something happens, is an actual trade-off that can improve the gameplay and story.

First of all, besides it just being really entertaining, I really recommend you listen to the Tiny Table Actual Play of Eureka. It has some really good examples of splitting the party and sending players away that are executed really well, and also some good discussion of it in the post-mortem episode and the interview.

I’m going to answer the ask directly from my own gameplay experience, but I really really urge anyone who has played Eureka to comment with their own experiences with splitting the party and sending players away.

Alright, so, obviously how long players are willing to wait their turn is group-dependent, but with our own group, we’ve actually kinda had the opposite problem from players getting bored. Instead, Narrator and the players whose characters are currently in the spotlight start to worry that they’re selfishly hogging too much session time, and try to rush the scene along (to its great detriment), when in reality the players who were sitting out were happy to keep waiting. Realizing this led to us altering the advice regarding splitting the party in the rulebook, and actually recommending the Narrator go a little longer before switching to the other characters.

I personally am happy to wait up to like 90 minutes if my character is out of the scene, because I have faith in my group and also in Eureka that the payoff for waiting will be that much greater, seeing the characters relay what they have learned while they were apart in dialogue rather than the player just saying “My investigator tells them everything that happened.” It really heightens the tension, lets the characters shine, and can even really help with solving the mystery, because having the events and evidence recounted out loud can help with making connections that might have gone over people’s heads the first time.

Of course like the rulebook says, it also comes to the judgement of the play group as a whole, and should definitely be discussed beforehand basically as part of session zero, and even mid-session if it needs to be. (Communicate your preferences to your play group!!!!!) There’s plenty of scenes and situations where having the other players leave the room instead of sitting and watching would add nothing at all to the experience.

Now I want to hear other people’s opinions. If you have played Eureka and had a party split where some players left the room or otherwise excused themselves, how did it go?

[aventurineswife]

omg wait u know how aventurine is part of the strategic investment department so like supposedly he's good at maths? ahhhh imagine a high school au where reader is struggling with maths and aven helps them out bc he's already a tutor so why would he not help his partner...but only for a fee 🙂‍↕️ (aka unlimited hugs and kisses for the day). they can just be in the library trying to be quiet as he helps but obviously reader is TIRED of this and wants to leave. aven playfully warns them there will be no affection until they understand the concept (ofc it's a lie but anywayyy 😜). so reader just has to suck it up and then when they finally understand it they lowkey cry in joy, forgetting that they're in the library...disappointing looks from the librarians are embarrassing and reader wants to get out ASAP aventurine chuckles yada yada happy end YAY!

idk if maths is a strong suit for you though so sorry if it isn't 😭 i'm willing to wait for a long time though...heh...((cries over circular motion

Kisses and Calculations

Summary: Struggling with math, you reluctantly accept Aventurine’s tutoring in the library. However, he demands an unusual payment—unlimited hugs and kisses for the day. As you suffer through equations, Aventurine playfully holds affection hostage until you finally understand the concept. Overjoyed, you accidentally yell in the quiet library, earning disapproving stares while Aventurine laughs at your embarrassment. Despite the ordeal, you might not mind his tutoring so much after all.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, High School AU, Fluff, Light Humor, Tutor!Aventurine, Playful Banter, Established Relationship, Slight Embarrassment, Happy Ending.

A/N: Yeah... Math isn’t, and probably never will be, my strong suit. Funny, considering it was in my major.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the muffled scratching of pens against paper. You, however, were ready to commit a crime.

“Why is this so difficult?” you groaned under your breath, glaring at the mess of numbers on your worksheet. Math was your mortal enemy, and right now, it was winning.

Across from you, Aventurine smirked, resting his chin on his palm. “Because you’re not focusing, darling. And because math doesn’t respond well to death glares.”

You pouted, dropping your pencil in defeat. “I hate this. I don’t get it.”

He leaned forward, tapping your forehead lightly with the eraser of his own pencil. “And you won’t get it if you keep giving up so easily. Now, what did I say about exponents?”

You huffed but begrudgingly repeated his explanation from earlier. “That you have to multiply the base by itself however many times the exponent says.”

“There you go,” he said, giving you a teasing smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Can I go home now?”

Aventurine clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Tsk, tsk, not so fast. I believe we had an agreement.”

You groaned. “Aven—”

“No hugs, no kisses, until you actually solve this problem correctly,” he interrupted smoothly, pointing at the next question with a smirk that was entirely too smug for your liking.

You squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re lying.”

He gasped, a hand over his chest in mock offense. “How could you say that about your ever-so-generous and kind tutor?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Because I know you.”

Aventurine chuckled but didn’t deny it. Instead, he gestured to the worksheet. “Come on, sweetheart. Solve it, and then we’ll see about your reward.”

With a dramatic sigh, you picked up your pencil (or pen) and started working through the equation again, muttering numbers under your breath. Aventurine watched with an amused gleam in his eyes, occasionally correcting your approach with an arched brow or a gentle nudge in the right direction.

And then—it clicked.

Your eyes widened. “Wait.” You scribbled the final answer, double-checking the steps. “Wait.”

Aventurine leaned closer, peeking at your work. “Hmm, let’s see…” He tapped the answer with his pencil, lips curling in approval. “Correct.”

The rush of victory was too much. “OH MY GOD, I DID IT—”

The sharp shushing from the nearby librarian cut through your triumph, and you froze.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you turned your head, meeting the unimpressed stares of multiple library patrons. Aventurine, unhelpfully, was laughing under his breath, his shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, sinking into your chair. “We need to leave. Right now.”

Aventurine wiped away a fake tear. “Ah, what a moment. The sheer joy of academic enlightenment.”

You glared at him, grabbing your stuff as fast as humanly possible. “Never again.”

“But you learned something,” he pointed out smugly, following you toward the exit.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Aventurine, ever the opportunist, slipped an arm around your waist as soon as you were safely out of sight of the librarian. “Now, about my payment…”

You sighed, pretending to consider. Then, with a smirk of your own, you reached up and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Fine. But next time, you’re not holding me hostage for math.”

Aventurine chuckled, pulling you closer. “Oh, sweetheart, I make no promises.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. Maybe math tutoring wasn’t so bad after all.

[gatitties]

HEYYYY I hope ur doing fine!! And that ur having a happy thanksgiving/ Christmas! I got a request for u!! I saw ur rules and saw that you can write for demon slayer too! And i wanted to ask.

Can I request a Strawhats x Teen!Tanjiro! Reader? Where the reader is a sweet, compassionate and kind kid. They have a heart of gold and they’re very responsible and respectful!! Though they can get annoyed when someone is rude or being cowardly. But they’re so sweet and encourage others so much!!! They always go around doing chores, cleaning, helping out without needing to be asked. They’re so lovable and cuddly!!! And the crew loves their youngest member!! They’re not afraid to ask for help and they know when to let others handle it without a complaint, always smiling and being gentle and sweet with others!!

Take your time with the request!!! I love your writing sm and I hope u never stop! Please and thanks!!!❤️

─Strawhats x teen!Tanjiro!reader (Platonic)

─Summary: You are the most admirable and educated person on the ship despite being the youngest person, your senses make you stand out in addition to your kindness.

─Warnings: none

I'm sorry it took me so long to answer this, but a lot of things accumulated, I hope you like it and that you had a nice Christmas 😭🫶🏻

─ You are probably the most trustworthy person on the entire ship even if you are the youngest.

─ You are so reliable and kind, you always sit and listen to Nami's problems when she gets irritated, you solve the fights between Sanji and Zoro, you have long talks with Robin about books that she recommends to you…

─ Everyone appreciates your presence because you are reassuring, no matter what problem they are in, you will always make sure that before acting, everyone thinks with their heads, at least almost everyone since it is impossible to stop Luffy's impulses.

─ You practice your sword movements with Zoro, although you have no one who can teach you or guide you better in your breathing methods.

─ Chopper is stressed when you decides to risk your health for the sake of others, which is, most of the time.

─ You are young and you still don't know many things about the world, which is why you are always hanging around the ship, asking random questions in order to learn more, Jinbe is always your trusted source when you don't know about something, Brook and Robin also help because of who are from the elders.

─ You love playing with Luffy, Chopper and Usopp with anything they propose, however you are out of pranks if you know they might bother someone, it's fine if they are innocent pranks.

─ You are willing to help with anything, Franky loves that you are his little helper even though you have no idea about the materials he asks you to give him.

─ When Sanji discovers your good sense of smell, he decides to train you in the kitchen so that you can not only smell danger, but also good food.

─ The first time they saw you hit your head on something they thought you would have a concussion later, however you got up shaking your head to remove the remains of the thing you had broken.

─ Luffy wants to launch you like a missile after seeing that, just to see how many things your hard head can break.

─ Don't worry, Nami will hit him kindly just for thinking about using you as a weapon of destruction.

─ This crew loves you, but seriously, you can't take pity on all your enemies, some will take advantage of your kindness.

─ The least they want is for you to be affected by your gentle personality, they will fight to maintain that warm smile that makes them melt as if you were the sun itself.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Forever wishing we had an episode about why Tuvok chose to go into security instead of science (especially since he started out as a science officer like Spock and T'Pol)

I don't think it has to do with violence...Like, an outlet. He isn't a violent person. I think it has to do with him liking puzzles so much...the strategy of it - the endless combinations...and perhaps just a bit the thrill of it being life and death. That pressure to make the best possible choice every time. And him growing orchids specifically to be displayed - competition and beauty... In 'Learning Curve' he says "The strongest tactical move is always the one in which you will reap the highest gain at the lowest cost." You can tell that he's really a tactician and I think because of that he'd solve problems a lot differently than Worf, or Tasha Yar. Also, there's his decision to mind meld with Suder in 'Meld' - the fact he can't leave it alone is so character-building to me. He has to know why Suder did this, it isn't enough to catch and capture him if he doesn't understand the motivation behind such a brutal action. It fits into his portrayal as a detective in 'Ex Post Facto'. Someone who'll pursue the truth diligently no matter who it implicates. There's also the fact that despite Tuvok coming off as a very cold and uncaring person in episodes like 'Learning Curve' where it's implied he might be willing to allow others to die if it'd be the best move tactically - he's shown to be very willing to protect others like in 'Innocence' where he sides with the children against the adults, going so far as giving one of them a phaser to protect herself and 'Muse' where he stays up for 10 days straight trying to find B'Elanna and Harry or even how in 'Random Thoughts' when Nimira (someone he's only met just recently) says she needs his help and he replies "Then you shall have it." Noss falls in love with him partially because of how he immediately saves her without even knowing her name AND he's with Janeway when she makes her decision to help protect the Ocampa, ultimately agreeing with her logic that it's the right thing to do. It's interesting for a Vulcan to be in Security. Sarek in TOS is against Starfleet partially because he views it as being a forceful, militaristic organization which doesn't achieve real peace. In TOS we don't see any other Vulcans in Starfleet - I'm not saying there aren't any (I think we'd hear about Spock being the first if that were the case) but Sarek's attitude might be a cultural one which I'm sure shifted over time, especially with Spock's rise in fame, but I can't help but wonder how it affected Tuvok's decision to change from Science to Security, if at all. Especially since he's shown to be a very traditional person. Does it seem a brutal occupation to a Vulcan? Vulcans have a reputation for pacifism, does it lead to him being underestimated? He had already established a family by the time he re-entered Starfleet, how did they react to him going from a professor to that? Speaking of brutality, In general there's a violence to the other security officers' pasts. Tasha lived amongst ceaseless violence at every turn for 15 years, Worf is very proudly Klingon and lives by their warrior's code, Odo was raised/working during Cardassian's violent occupation of Bajor...but Tuvok doesn't have anything remotely like that in his past, which is also interesting. You might be tempted to think a Vulcan who'd take a job like that would be accustomed or connected to violence but again, that doesn't seem to be the case with Tuvok. If anything, he's very much representative of the opposite - staunchly, unabashedly Vulcan. He nearly underwent the Kolinahr, only stopping to raise a family instead. He uses the word "Postpone" when he speaks of this, implying he hasn't ruled the Kolinahr out as a possibility in the future. It's very interesting to me!! I wish it was explored more...

[wolfiesmoon]

hey, i wanted to say first that i love ur writing style. Also I wanted to ask (if is not a problem) jade, floyd and leona the prompt “cheek kisses that leave red lipstick stains”

awwww i'm so glad u think so!! i'm not sure if you mean the more silly one or the more serious one but either way i'm very happy 🩷

the reader is gender neutral in essence but they do wear lipstick because it's needed for this fic

jade's is suggestive i suppose????? so watch out for that????

⋆୨୧˚ Jade Leech

"Interesting choice of lipstick. Not in a bad way, of course." Jade commented upon seeing you.

"I bought it yesterday, but I still have something I have to test out." You tried your best to look innocent and nonchalant.

You've had this lipstick for a while actually, but you still haven't tested if it's transfer proof yet. Jade is the perfect candidate to test that out. Atleast in your humble opinion.

"Oh? And what might that be?" he smiled at you.

"You'll see. Like, literally right now." you mirrored his decievingly innocent smile. After you kiss him, his eyes will probably go wide like they always do when he isn't expecting something. Which just so happens to be one of your favourite expressions of his.

You reached your hands out to him and pulled his face close to yours, then pressed a nice, long kiss on his right cheek. You mirrored it on the left one too, of course. Symmetry always looks nice.

Just like you predicted, he made the exact face you envisioned, with slightly pink cheeks as a bonus.

"Oh. I was... certainly not expecting that." he sounded genuinely surprised, smiling happily at you and showcasing his sharp teeth in the process. Knowing Jade, you honestly don't want to know what he thought you were going to do with that lipstick.

"Aw man, it's not transfer proof." you acted slightly dissapointed, but in reality, you couldn't be more glad that it isn't. Hmmm, it kinda feels nice to catch Jade off guard like that. Maybe you should do it more often.

"You don't realise what you've just done, do you?" his smile quickly turns sinister in a way you can't quite put your finger on. It makes you feel all weird, like you're pray getting cornered.

"Done what?" you laughed nervously.

"I do hope that you are good at hiding bite marks." as he said that, he was already grabbing your wrist and dragging you to god knows where.

"Wait... Jade, where are you taking me? Jade?!"

You have a feeling the lipstick might get smudged by the time you're done.

⋆୨୧˚ Floyd Leech

"I don't wanna talk to you..." Floyd sulked, not looking at you.

"He's been like this for the whole day." Normally, Jade would deal with Floyd's bad mood, but he's been causing even more trouble for the Lounge than usual today and was not very willing to be put in a better mood by his brother, so Jade was forced to employ higher forces to help him out. The higher forces being you, of course.

"Right... Actually, I think I might have an idea on how to solve this." You thought of a certain thing you wanted to for a while now but never had the chance to.

"Is that so?" Jade noticed the mischevious smile on your face, amused at whatever you'll come up with.

.

"Floyd, come with me." You pulled on his collar, sounding confident and serious.

"I told you, I'm not going to talk to you..." he glared at you, trying to push your hand away.

"There's no talking involved." You pulled harder and he finally let up, silently letting you drag him to a quiet corner of the school.

Because he's still in a bad mood, he hasn't looked your way at all. This also means he hasn't noticed the lipstick.

Suddenly, you grab a hold of his face and press a kiss to his lips before he can protest.

"Oh... oooooooh!" His face brightened up and it seems his mood has instantly improved. Floyd's a surprsingly simple guy sometimes, isn't he?

But, you're not done yet.

You pepper kisses on each of his cheeks without letting him say anything at all. He lets out strange but not entirely unwelcome noises while you're busy decorating his cheeks with kiss marks.

"There. Are you in a better mood now? Because the Mostro Lounge needs you." you looked satisfied with your work and so did Floyd when he got a glance of himself in the mirror.

"Ehhhh, do I really have to? I feel like squeezing you, not going to work. Especially not now that I'm all decorated with your kisses." he looked annoyed at the mention of work, wanting nothing more than to smother you with love and bonecrushing hugs right now.

Seems your plan kinda backfired since he became a little too happy and doesn't seem fond of letting you go anytime soon.

⋆୨୧˚ Leona Kingscholar

It is a bit unusual for you to wear such a bright lipstick color. He brushes it off, thinking you were just in the mood for a bright color or something.

Why should he care what color your lips are, anyways? Does not matter at all.

"Leonaaaa.... come here, kitty kitty~" you called him over jokingly and he glared at you in annoyance which only made you snort harder. But he still came over anyways, so you call it a win.

He looked at you, waiting for you to clarify on what you called him over for. Better be worth his time.

You grabbed a hold of the two braids at the front of his hair and pulled him into a kiss. Though it was a short(er) one since your main targets are his cheeks.

You made sure to thoroughly decorate them with kisses, turning his head left and right to inspect your work and make sure the number was about equal.

"You done?" he tries to sound unbothered, but you immediately see through it. He's definitely really happy about it.

"Yeah. You can go back to napping now." you let him go, and he lingered for a moment, no doubt dissapointed that you actually said yes. But since he didn't want to show it, he returned to his napping spot under the tree and you went back to studying in the library.

.

"Leeeeeoooonaaaa! Are you here again? Professor Crewel is mad at y- What is that on your face?" Ruggie's scolding session was cut short when he noticed the lipstick marks on Leona's face.

"What are you.... Ugh..." turns out Leona kinda forgot about the fact that lipstick usually leaves marks and that his cheeks were full of 'em this whole time. He groans at the realisation.

Though... they might not be that bad if they were made by you.

"Oh my god, stay still. I gotta take a photo of this. I'm sure your family would be happy to know you're doing well in your love life." Ruggie was about to pull out his phone but was stopped by Leona who swiftly grabbed his wrist. Wait, since when was he standing, anyways?

"Jesus, you scare me sometimes..." Ruggie pushes his phone back in his pocket. "Well, do I go get something to clean your face or what?"

Leona hesitates.

"Yeah, yeah."

[brittle-doughie]

My brain worms urged me... To continue the Circe! Ancient! Y/N thing. AGH.

After C! A! Y/N STILL couldn't defeat the Cookie that intruded her peaceful abode. She was... Heavily, weakened. After all, she could only do so much after fighting monsters and other "intruders" non-stop. So they resort to one last plan. Seduction.

Warning: Slightly suggestive themes at the start!

C! A! Y/N : There are other ways of Persuasion~ there are modes of Control... There are other means of Deceit...~ There are other roads, to the soul!

They draw the other Cookie's sword away from their throat.

C! A! Y/N : There are other options of Passion... You have so much left to learn~ want to save your men from the fire? Show me that you're willing to BURN! Oh, whoa~!

They walk away to circle the Cookie, like a lioness. Whispering sweet nothings into their ears, hopefully give in. Give them a chance to strike them down.

Other Cookie : Oh, well, who's to say with the mistakes I made? (Don't be afraid!)

Other Cookie : That they will be the last... (Think of your past...)

Other Cookie : Mistakes I made? (Don't break when-)

Y/N cookie pushes them down on a plush, flat surface. Grabbing a tiny blade hidden beside a plate before putting it on their back.

Both: There is so much POWER, so much POWER... But there's no puppet, here...~

Y/N Cookie only gets closer, their grip on the blade tighter as they keep up the persona.

C! A! Y/N : This is the price, we pay for love! (I'm just a Cookie...)

C! A! Y/N : There is a line... Never enough! (I'm just a Cookie...!)

C! A! Y/N : So much POWER, so much POWER... (Forgive, me...)

C! A! Y/N : But there's no puppet, here...

They are only two inches apart, close to kissing. Y/N pulls the blade behind the "Intruder's" back throat. Preparing to strike.

Other Cookie : I CAN'T!

The other Cookie pushes them away. Getting up. Facing away from them. Y/N Cookie quickly hides the blade away. Disappointed in themselves for it not working... Damn. But they didn't expect the next few words.

Other Cookie : Back at home, my spouse awaits for me. They're my everything... My dearest Spouse. And they're all MY power. All MY power... But it's been twelve long years!

The other Cookie casually rants, they seem... Loyal. To this other Cookie. Despite the long distance, the time they spent away together... Reminds them of a lost love they had as well. Oh... If only they were here too.

Other Cookie : Oh! Twelve long years since I last seen my Spouse! And now the Sovereign of the Duskgloom Sea... Is out to crumble my life.

They sat near Y/N Cookie, causing them to move away a bit.

Other Cookie : So I beg you, Y/N... Grant us MERCY. And let us Puppets... Leave...

The other Cookie quickly got up and went in front of Y/N Cookie. Kneeling, head down. Not with mockery, not with reverence... But genuine desperation.

C! A! Y/N : (Sigh.) Sovereign of the Duskgloom Sea... Eh? There might be a way to evade Her. There might be a way to get home.

They may have assumed too much. But can you blame them? All this hospitality was met with nothing but pain and devastation. Scars were made, scars that their own citizens could never recover from. They look away, in reluctance, agreed to help.

C! A! Y/N : Though this other ways very dangerous, it might be your one final HOPE...

Y/N gets up, goes to a nearby cauldron where they usually make concuctions to solve whatever problem rises in their kingdom. They're now making both a potion to reverse the curse they put on the other Cookie's crew.

C! A! Y/N : I know of a BRILLIANT PROPHET, problem is that PROPHET is dead.

Y/N drops a few more ingredients to get a vision from the Candystick Archepelago. Where a lone Cookie lives. They did this after doing the potion.

C! A! Y/N : I can't get you home, but I'll get you to the Candystick Archepelago instead... I'll release your crew, and I'll get you to the Candystick Archepelago instead.

Y/N waves away the vision. Walking to a door leading to the inner garden.

Other Cookie : Wait... You're helping us...?

Y/N smiles at them as they open the door. They lead the other Cookie out into the gardens. Where some of their citizens stand, enjoying their day normally. Some look at them both, unease circulates.

C! A! Y/N : There are many ways of Persuasion. There are many modes of Control. Maybe showing one act of Kindness...

But one soft smile at their citizens is enough for them to trust Y/N's judgement on this... Intruder. Perhaps not all outsider Cookies were out for destruction.

C! A! Y/N : Leads to kinder souls, down the road! I remember actions of Passion... I have been in love once before...

Y/N leads the other Cookie to where they held their crew captive. Turned into beasts, they were kept in a maze-like cage of magic. Looking at Y/N with fear. They simply sigh and get a potion to make them into Cookies once more.

C! A! Y/N : Maybe one day, the world won't need a puppeteer no more... Or maybe one day the world will need a puppeteer...!

Slowly the crew began to materialize back into dough. The cage opened to let them out. They all begin to run out into the wilderness that awaits them outside the temple. The other Cookie that Y/N had fought faced them and bowed in gratitude. But Y/N simply raised their head and shook their own head slowly.

Crew: So much power! So much power! But there's no puppet, here! No they're not a player, they're a puppeteer! No they're not a player, they're a puppeteer, YEAH!

The other Cookie shortly leaves and promises to visit to talk sometime. Maybe with their spouse. Oh... Y/N could only nod. And wistfully remember their lost lover. They were just like that Cookie. Hard-headed, but had pure intention. Stubborn, but never harmful. Gentle. Loving... Oh. How they miss them so much.

(also, how do you think Eternal Sugar reacts to a Y/N cookie who's like Circe? After all, they both have similar intentions with their citizens. Just... Different in handling it.)

(And do you think the beasts know of this Y/N's existence? Who'll obsess fall in love first?)

Eternal Sugar, while sharing the same end goal, would likely find your methods a little too intense to your Cookies compared to her approach!

[sugaringinnie]

Tyler x Fem!Reader

comfort/getting together

word count: 917

I'm currently in love with archie renaux/tyler so ^^

────୨ৎ────

Everyone knows she likes him. Calculated words, a completely withdrawn and shy personality. And the eyes. Oh, the eyes never lie.

Yn can never hide when she likes someone. It's not that often. Her heart is too closed off to have so many people in it, but when someone catches her attention she can't help herself. She loves completely and fearlessly, she doesn't have to be reciprocated, she just needs to feel.

That's why she's happy with what she's felt for Tyler for several months now. They're not very close, and even when opportunities come along, she always misses them. Just thinking about being alone with him makes her nervous.

God, Yn, when will you learn?

So yeah. Everyone knows. Him included. But he's never said anything other than laugh at a few comments others have made. He never denies it, and he never defends himself. Tyler is nice, he would never embarrass Yn by exposing her very real feelings for him.

But Bjorn would.

Yn only half liked him, he was a tease, and rude.

But he was there in her social circle so what else could she do other than tolerate his jokes and laugh awkwardly when they were directed at her.

All of that led to the situation that was happening. It was late, the others drinking and Yn nodding off from sleep when Bjorn started with his comments.

'Yn is probably dreaming about Tyler' a normal joke, funny, but the boy had drunk whiskey that Navarro had changed with much effort, and his words became a little crueler. 'You do know that he likes Rain, right?' Everyone interrupted then, Kay, Navarro, Tyler, but Bjorn was not done with his stupid opinions.

'No matter how much you want to fuck him, he won't do you the favor.'

The poor girl was too sensitive to hear that, and she didn't like being seen crying.

Standing up and walking inside is pretty much everything she could do. She didn't live with them, but Kay was always willing to lend her her bed. Or anything really.

She's about to sit in it when a figure comes to view. It's Tyler, of course it is.

"Are you okay?" He asks, soft features, softer eyes.

Yn only looks at him. She is fine, just a little sad because Bjorn is right, even if he's drunk and saying nonsense. Tyler has never rejected her, mainly because she's never worded out her feelings out loud. But they're implied. In everything she does, in every little interaction she has with him.

"I'm sorry he said that. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Tyler, what do you want?" It's a loaded question to her. Why are you here, because you feel bad for me? Do you want to repeat what he said but in a pretty voice and layers of cotton?

Tyler glances at her, and he takes a few steps, allowing himself to sit at her side.

And he's so close, and so so handsome. So much so Yn aches for him.

He looks down at his shoes, plays with his fingers, seems undecided about what to say. He doesn't have to, really, Yn doesn't need an explanation from him. But Tyler isn't like that, he always wants to please, he always wants everything to flow correctly, without problems, without stumbling blocks. There's nothing Tyler can't solve successfully and without affecting others. How will he fix this? Reject a person close to the group without them walking away. Yn wouldn't do that, she knows a tantrum isn't worth it, she would never be in this situation on her own. Thanks Bjorn.

"I... I don't like Rain, anymore." He starts.

It's fine. It was the public humiliation that made me cry.

"I don't want you to think I like someone else, or that what Bjorn said is true." He sounds nervous, unsure. "I know you don't want to fuck me right away. I know you're sincere."

This might be worse than before. Who the fuck says those kind of things, seriously. But Yn doesn't say anything, voice shut down while listening to whatever Tyler wants to communicate. Yn won't interrupt, if he wants it to be a quiet let down she'll let it be.

"I am okay with you liking me, Yn. " Mellow, warm skin touching hers. "I don't mind, that's why I never say anything."

She looks at him. He's flushed and avoiding eye contact. Pretty.

"I'm happy that you like me." A confession. "You're everything good and nice there is in the colony.

"What does it mean?

"You're so unassuming, Yn. That's why I started to feel that way, but I couldn't just tell you." He's smiling a little, hands finding their way to hold Yn's. "You make me nervous. I'm sorry it took this long."

It's all implied. In the same way she does it. A series of incoherent words, out of context that wouldn't make sense if it weren't for this moment in which they're spoken, awkward and heavy, a volatile feeling in the air. They both like each other. Maybe more than that, but admitting it is something that Yn's heart can't process. Something that makes Tyler vulnerable.

Yet Yn wants to hear it, and wants to know for sure too.

"What does that mean?"

Tyler doesn't say anything for a few seconds, a grimace as he thinks about how to answer.

"I like you, Yn." For how you are with me. For how long you waited.