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mandalhoerian · 6 months ago

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Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

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

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

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

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

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

You know, a Lemurian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do my neck too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you wanted to see—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked better, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once he began to create, however...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

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

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Receptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently they had.

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

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

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

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

Which was dry.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

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

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

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

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, this man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

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

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

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

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

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

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

It was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not until you.

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep going like this.

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

And you had no idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(So adorable. So endearing.)

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

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

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

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

“…Rafayel?”

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

He could… He could skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a weak man.

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

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

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

But he couldn't keep being like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Focus.)

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

And then. The tug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

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

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

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

His robe.

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

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

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

He felt a push at his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you bit him.

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? Now?

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

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

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

More than this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a homecoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

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

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

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

“Or, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was that easy to change his mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just returning to the original plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth wide open.

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

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

"Pffft!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafayel.”

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

“Rafayel…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke first.

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

Then you yanked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a reward for that?”

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

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Permission to talk?”

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

“Go ahead, handsome.”

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

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

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

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

"Are you really asking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Just how pent-up was he?

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

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

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

"Rafa—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was beyond insatiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, did he listen well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel just smiled.

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel smut #lads rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x you #l&ds rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel x reader #rafayel #intertidal zone #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads #lnds #l&ds

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lani-sun · 5 months ago

Text

☆ ritualistic ☆

synopsis: jake reminds himself it’s just biology. just the instincts of his newly-acquired form urging him to take, to claim, to keep. and maybe, just maybe, he could’ve controlled it. (had you not made everything so damn difficult, of course.) avatar!jake sully x fem!scientist!reader

warnings: there's no plot here friends i am SORRY, kind of dark!jealous!jake if you squint, slight enemies to lovers, graphic, descriptions of lust bc imagery goes wild here, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], dom/sub dynamics, dubcon, dirty talk, slightly sacrilegious?, dacryphilia, major major size kink, biting/marking, jake sully being himself should be an inbuilt warning, let's pretend (for the bio minor stem girly in me) that the lab is somehow perfectly clean and non-contaminated after this pls

☆

jake finds you in the lab, your eyes scrunched into crescent moons underneath scuffed safety glasses hooked loosely behind your ears. his own pin back against the underside of his head instinctively, attuned to the rhythmic, near-silent reverberation of your breath. in. out. in. out. your gloved hands (ancient latex, he notes with a disgruntled twitch of his nose) shake incrementally as you peer into the microscope you're hunched over, adjusting the brilliance of the light painting your petri-dished specimen in a silvery glow. the sound you release when you get it just right—faint, pleased, unfairly absentminded—is enough to send a spark of something foreign down his spine. something delirious, fervent in nature. something that grits his teeth on instinct, clamps down on his jaw like barbed wire, like an insatiable beast clawing at the bars of its enclosure, crying out for the feeling of your flesh (futilely human, extremely off-limits) in its hands. and god, he's not supposed to think about you like that. not supposed to want you the way he did. not when his body isn't meant for you, not when he feels the chains of his forced entrapment in a life confined to a wheelchair coming undone at the sight of freedom. at the sight of you. in this form, he could take you. hell, he could have you. bite into you. he swipes his tongue across his top row of teeth, feeling for the elongated hooks of his canines. yeah, he'd like that.

he settles on making himself known. as his low hum of greeting fractures your reverie, your gaze snaps harshly to his, ricocheting of the surface of his skin. (and he likes it, the aggravation simmering under the surface of your composure. he's always had a soft spot for brats. for an animal to tame.) he swears he can hear the startled hitch in your breath, can sense the shaky, half-jump in your heart rate. "mornin' doc," he chirps, lips quirking up at the sight of the exasperation already etching itself into your features. you rip your safety glasses off, shoving them into a pocket of your lab coat before yanking your mask down with an irritated huff.

"i cannot with you today, sully." a muscle in the delicate column of your neck bounces under his unyielding stare as you reach underneath the metal tabletop to grapple for a pipette, balancing it in the junction between your thumb and index finger. sticky, cloying heat gathers in his veins, a tangible ache hunting for purchase in between his temples. take, it begs. take her.

you continue, oblivious. "and i told grace to change the code on the damn door—"

he clears his throat. reminds himself that fantasizing about you while you're within arm's reach of him is a decision better left unmade. "aw, c'mon, don't be like that. 'm not gonna stay long. not smart enough t'be a scientist like you, pretty."

you huff. "that's an understatement. go out and do—other things, then. stop bothering me." you yelp when his hands (heavyset, gorgeously sea-blue) meet the slim neck of your microscope, slapping them away with a flick of your wrist. "jake!"

a chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat as he backs away, arms raised mockingly in surrender. "show me what you're workin' on." his tail flicks across the backs of your thighs as he stalks around the table, diminishing the space between you. inch by inch. breath by breath. prowling. you track him warily, but a sharp gasp—low, so low he swears he's imagining it—slips through your gritted teeth when his palms flatten against the counter on either side of your waist, your shoulder blades nearly pressed to the junction of his navel and thigh. you jolt when his tail curves downward to wrap around your ankle (fragile, he thinks, so breakable) and squeeze.

"hey—" you warn, the force with which you grip the lab bench beneath you burning half-circle indentations of your fingernails into your palms. "what are you—"

"show me," he coaxes, voice like honey down the curve of your spine. "teach me, if you wanna. 'm not complainin'." his face goes slightly slack when you shift your weight, the cotton of your coat brushing against his tensed lateral muscle. your proximity is stifling. suffocating. he nearly tackles you to the floor when your hand tentatively encases his wrist, the illusion of distance accompanied by an empty threat of resistance. (he just can't help himself, you see. hunting prey is in his biology; he has to do it to survive. and you understand that, don’t you, sweet girl?)

"teach you?" your voice is erogenously breathless, spine fleetingly rigid. ramrod-straight, enraptured in the suggestive slide of his skin against yours. he resists the urge to outline the arc of your back with his knuckles. with his tongue. "not a service i offer, sully. not for you."

"who's it for, then?"

you shoot him a dark look over the incline of your shoulder, a brooding lilt scripted in the slant of your brow. an unavailing warning to his wandering hands. "why does it matter?"

the scent of you floods his senses as you shift, and his focus momentarily gives way to antiseptic and dampened soil, lemon and fresh chamomile, pine and vanilla-tinged sweat. a lingering body lotion, perhaps, or a coveted perfume. (and oh, are you trouble. trouble in the form of gentle hands, soft eyes, fragile bones. trouble in the way your defiance bleeds like a salted wound, roving gaze shirking under the weight of his shadow. it is raw, the way he longs to sink his teeth right into your godforsaken throat, apologies already teasing the tip of his tongue, just waiting for him to extinguish the fire he started—).

"just wanna know who's been spendin' time w' my girl." jake's chest vibrates with amusement against the dip of your nape, but the salacious slip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth betrays him. the heat of you burns through his layers (well, layer) of clothing, akin to an open flame. taunting him. tempting him. his gaze drops to the flex of your neck, the hypnotic flutter of your pulse thrumming dangerously close to the surface; the involuntary twitch of his fingers is only customary. only natural. "you're in 'ere too much, baby. gotta get you out."

"here's where the money is, jake," you counter, and his stomach seizes when your elbow brushes the braided cords of his tewng [loincloth]. "all the samples from the valley still need to be cataloged, and norm brought me a—"

jake's voice slices through the air, crackling roughly with unbidden contempt, an edge of resentment he can't quite bring himself to swallow. "you're gettin' samples from that asshat now?"

you crook a brow. "well. he offered." (he battles the depraved urge to clasp his hand around the dainty column of your throat, to press his chest flush against the arch of your spine. to school you in the art of possession, of ownership, of instincts that slither through bone marrow, of urges that writhe beneath his skin like a sickness, ravenous and unrepentant.)

his jaw flexes lazily, tongue pressing heavy against the inside of his cheek. his restraint is a brittle thing, straining beneath the weight of something starved. something venomous. "'s that right?" his teeth flash pearly-white. "doin' a lot for you, isn't he?"

you whirl on your heels to face him, snaring his gaze in yours. your vexation rises, fiery and unmistakably overeager, but a viscous want accompanies it, swirling in the whites of your eyes. it grows bolder under his earthy stare, a mere captive to the deepening hunger stretching wordlessly between you. it lingers, needlessly persistent in its provocation—the constant standoff of shallow breaths and locked jaws, of tongues bitten raw and fists clenched around unfulfilled promises of restraint. his stare tumbles downward to the wicked curve of your mouth, and he swears he can taste the startled exhale of breath that leaves you. gotcha.

"ever heard of overstaying a welcome, sully?" your expression dissolves into schooled imperturbability.

his braids follow the movement of his head as it tilts, azure skin glimmering aquamarine in the lab's sterile lamplight. your eyes track the slow sway of each woven strand, the way the beads threaded into each end collide sharply in sync—hypnotic, deliberate. erotic, almost. "careful, doc. keep talkin' like that and i might just start thinkin' you don't like me very much."

"i don't," you respond swiftly, but a flicker of suspicion contracts his pupils. he doesn't believe you for a single damn second. (and you're so pretty when you lie, aren't you? pretty girl, so resistant to an orbit your body is meant to sustain. saliva coats his mouth. the things he thinks of doing to you are despicable. downright lewd, even. he thinks of folding you in half. he thinks of molding you to his pleasure until you can't tell his name from your own. he thinks of making you cry. and he should feel guilty. he should chain himself to contrition. but he doesn't. he never has. he never will.)

he leans in. grins in wolfish pride when your pulse skips one, two, four beats. "you're a good liar, pretty. gotta give you that."

you jerk forward instinctively when one of his hands slides to your stomach, forcing the arch of your spine to coalesce with the unforgiving edge of the table. the other dips under your coat, captivation evident in the way his palm stretches effortlessly around the fullness of your waist. it is nearly consumption, an unfurling desire hell-bent on catharsis. on bitter-blooded ecstasy. (it is only nature, he reminds himself. it is only his new body, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of want for an object he cannot have. cannot attain. he's not himself. he's not thinking straight.)

"jake." a tinge of nervousness colors the syllables of his name as your mouth parts around them. he drops onto his haunches just as you reach for him, eluding the desparity of your touch. your hand flexes in midair, barren. "what are you—"

"bet norm's thought about this." his voice is a rasp against your skin, curling warm in the crook of your neck. his nose brushes the tender slope of your pulse point as his words wash over it, savoring the frantic thrum of your heartbeat against his lips. "bet he's wonderin' what you feel like under all these—" a pause. intentional, drawn-out. with an arbitrary flick of his wrist, he slides your lab coat off your shoulders, his fingers ghosting across the expanse of bare skin he can see. "clothes."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of pious resolve hovering in the air between you.

"y'don't think so?"

"jake, stop."

he heeds the urgency in your tone, leaning back on his heels. (he knows you're fighting it. fighting him. stubborn, sweet girl, ankles deep in quicksand. so damn eager to play the ethical upper hand. so devoutly attached to your cool-blooded composure. so resolute in slipping from his grasp. flighty. he grits his teeth. then again, he's always liked butterflies. they look so pretty on their backs.)

your shudder of breath betrays you. "this isn't—we can't."

his eyes narrow—watching, knowing. he can smell it on you, the quiet betrayal of your body, the want fused to the rhythm of your pulse. it pools in your gaze, a laceration bound by silence. his fingers trace idle patterns along your thigh, evocative of ink kissed into parchment. a silent mantra hums beneath his touch—mine, mine, mine. "don't you want it?"

"jake."

"it's a yes or no question, pretty."

"that's not fair." your lower lip juts outward, crowned by the swell of your trembling inhale. "you've don't even like me. and you're a pain in the ass. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i don't like you, huh?" he presses his nose to your sternum, grinning viciously when you choke. "i like you tons, baby."

"you didn't let me finish. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i was gonna take your clothes off?"

your fingers sink into his hair, curling along the sharp cut of his jaw, thumbs hooked around the curves of his ears. controlling, captivating. taking what is already yours. he is gold wrapped in skin, inescapably sweltering beneath your touch. liquid longing fills the void of cloying stillness, his gaze dragging lazily over your lips, your throat, the shell of your ear. your echoed stare is a live wire, leaping frantically from feature to feature. "you talk too much." the words ghost from your lips like silk. like a promise of calamity, of disaster.

his ears twitch, tracking the staggered cadence of your breath. "you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he drawls, smirk broadening, "and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you wanna do somethin’ about it."

and for once, you do.

you yank him forward, crushing your mouth to his with enough force to bruise. his answering groan reverberates down the channel of your throat as his teeth catch your lower lip, eyes eclipsed by the storm-black of his pupils. he does not hesitate to lay claim. does not hesitate to anchor your body against his, swallowing your startled yelp. it is animal, the festering in his chest. lust. it makes devils of good men. makes massacres of soldiers.

"'s this what you wanted? huh?" his hands palm the outline of your chest, marveling at the artificial ribcage his fingers provide. (he resists the urge to nip at the indentation of your collarbones, at the dainty bone lining the column of your throat). your hands scramble for his biceps when he slots an arm underneath your thighs and single-handedly places you on the counter. "yeah, y'did."

"shut up," you whimper, and oh, fuck, his teeth ache. there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of resolve hovering in the air between you. "j-just shut up."

"nah." jake stands as he slots a thigh between your legs, parting them around the intrusion. his mouth moves south to taste the damp skin of your pulse point, salty musk exploding on the base of his tongue as he sinks to his knees. (and he'd pray to you, if he could. would bring you trinkets at an altar made of gold. would stroke his cock right there, at the edge of your world and his, begging for you to touch him.) "i think y'like it when i talk." his nostrils flare. "can smell it on you."

the cotton of your shirt doesn't stand a chance; it tears like aged paper beneath his hands, splitting stitches merely rendered a casualty of his need. your entire body jolts, mouth poised in a soundless gasp as his name tumbles out of your mouth, caught in a dangerous balance of shock and rapture. his grin widens. "could fit all of you in 'ere," jake breathes in wonder, fingers unfurling against the expanse of your ribcage, cyan thumbs hooking under the padded fabric of your bra. "in my hands."

"god." the word rips from your throat, breathless, a prayer to something holy. something sacred. your head drops forward in surrender, forehead pressed against the sharp curve of his collarbone. his hands are everywhere—everywhere, everything, all at once—as the clasp of your bra gives way and his tongue draws forward to trace agonizingly slow circles against the side of your breast, just an inch from the growing tightness throbbing beneath your skin. "someone—someone could see us—"

"let 'em." it is sacrilegious, your little whimper, the way it escapes from the corner of your mouth. it instigates sin. calls upon forces beyond his better judgement, beyond plain, good common sense. beyond right and wrong. his fangs graze your nipple, and a harsh breath catches halfway up your throat, the hand in his hair tightening around his kuru {braid} instinctively. he chokes roughly, slicing through the silence with a drawling inhale. (careful, pretty.) a shameful blush paints your cheeks in mahogany as your hands trail downward, tracing the corner of his mouth with the pad of your thumb. (there is but a single strand of mangled control holding him together, and the second he snaps—).

all it takes is one, broad palm flat against your sternum for your shoulder blades to kiss the cold metal of the table underneath you. pinned. (trapped). he tears into you like scripture. devouring not with mercy, not with patience—but with reverence. with ecstasy. it is simply a testament to the ruinous want stitched into the carbon-fiber of his bones, a hunger that has kept him starving, aching, waiting. your breath stutters, wrecked and disparately shallow, slipping from your lips in uneven waves. (he has never wanted anything the way he wants you. has never even known he could want something this damn much. and yet here you are, in front of him, his pretty little girl—). you lift your hips obediently when his hands slip under your leggings, earning a low hum of approval as he tugs at the panties clinging wetly to your cunt, leaving both in a haphazard tangle around your ankles. his thumb presses into your pulse, feeling for frantic jump in your heartbeat.

"look at you," he drawls, tone akin to that of a drawn-out prayer. his entire frame shakes, an embodiment of fraying restraint. "so pretty f'r me. fuckin' wet, too."

you only realize he's dipped inside you when the tip of his middle finger brushes the silken, pulsating center of your core, a stretch so deep it borders on cruel. your entire body jolts as your mouth falls open in in a soundless cry, fingernails clawing uselessly at the table’s edge. his groan bleeds through your ribs, settling into the hollows like a symphony only your bones remember. en echo of something long buried. "jake. jake, oh, fuck—"

"that's my name, baby," he mutters, thumb smearing through your slick, cautious circles gathered methodically around the tingling bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. (your arousal smells like rain, like velvet rose, like a hazy memory of a garden at dawn gnawing at his fraying conscious.) "jesus fuck, can't even get two fingers in 'ere, pretty. how're you gonna take my cock like this, huh?" the sound that rips from your throat in response is nothing human. his fangs flash crystal, scissoring hand devastatingly carving out space to fit himself in between the thighs of a body not meant to hold him. a body not meant for his hands to touch. (but it would take divine intervention to stop him now. he is a hound, an animal spoiled rotten by the scent of flesh. your flesh.)

your hips jerk at the unexpected sight of his middle and ring finger sinking into his mouth, leaving your empty cunt clenching around nothing. your pupils blow wide as he hums against the sweetness of you on his tongue, swiping the muscle downward to catch the droplets of milky white lingering across his knuckles. (he finds himself wondering if your tears will taste as good as your cunt does). his name escapes your lips in a whisper, trailing gently over the softness of your skin. your pulse is a wreckage beneath his palm as his mouth crashes over yours once more, the prickling rhythm erratic against the rounded edge of your ribs.

then—he moves. presses his weight over you, drags his mouth down the line of your jaw, your throat, the shallow depression of your clavicle. "been thinkin' about this," he rasps as your hands flutter uselessly at your sides, scrambling for purchase against the line of his torso. he ruts his hips ever-so slightly forward, harshly reminded of the painful hardness throbbing under his tewng {loincloth}. "for so long. fuckin'—jerked off t'you. had a real nice dream, once."

your voice is unbearably soft, enslaved to single-minded pleasure. "you d-dream about me?"

jake's breath hitches, heat grazing the sweat-slick line of your throat. "yeah, baby. tons." his steady stare brushes yours, sapphire flush painting his freckles in a shade of liquid ivory. "gets worse after seein' you. can't sleep for days w' you patterin' around in 'ere." he raises a hand in a slow arc, fingers wandering along the tender line of his temple as the other works the strings of his tewng {loincloth} loose. it falls, forgotten, and—oh. oh. your lips part around a soundless gasp, any sense of decorum failing you. the sight of him eclipses language itself, glowing pre-cum slathering his length in a starry sheen, flushed tip carved from material far more primal than skin. than muscle, than bone. you swallow, pulse skipping, and his cocky-eyed grin only grows.

shameless, he nocks the dripping slit against the tender mess of your folds, coating himself in your slick with an unbidden groan. "wanna take samples? 's better than norm's, i promise."

"jake—oh my god." he swallows your exclamation as his mouth claims the expanse of yours, hands branding heat along your ribs, your waist, the soft, trembling flesh of his thighs. his fingers wrap around your hips and pull, the blunt, aching weight of him nudging at your entrance. you whimper, dizzy with desire. "g-go slow," you slur, clambering for his shoulders, arching your back in an effort to appease the burn pulsating under your skin. light explodes behind your closed eyelids as he slowly—slowly—sinks the first inch inside; you seize, lower stomach contracting around the foreign intrusion. the stretch sings through you, the thick head of his cock cradled between your legs, and yet jake forces himself still, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"lemme in, c'mon, pretty," jake pants, exhaling roughly through his nose. his cock throbs restlessly inside you as instinct claws at his spine, shaking with the urge to chase the relief of being fully sheathed, of simply forcing you down the rest of the way. he grits his teeth when you mewl, glimmering tears clinging to your waterline.

"'s not gonna fit," you howl, and guilt lances through him. (that's what he does with pretty things, isn't it? he breaks them. it's in his nature, written in the code of his biological being. he can't help himself, he's so sorry, pretty girl—)

"fuck," he chokes, languish enshrining the syllables in agony. his tail wraps around your calf, soothing. easing. "fucking shit, i'm so sorry, pretty—"

"hurts more when you stay still," you whisper, eyelashes damp where they flutter against the heat of your cheeks, and jake's breath pans over your throat in a sinking shudder. your vision spotlights as his fingers pull upward, reaching between your parted lips to gather the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth. he kisses the shell of your ear as he strokes your spit lazily over his length, whining lowly at the lewdly-wet squelch. "d'you hear that?" his voice is enthralled. "that's you and me, baby."

your gaze flickers skyward, unfocused and glassy. mindless. (always thinking, aren't you, baby? he's happy to help you turn it off, if you'd let him. happy to strip you down to something soft, something malleable in his grasp—something that belongs only to him. it’s only fair. it’s what you deserve). a dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, sharp with satisfaction. (yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?).

he gives you no warning before taking hold of your hips, molding your lower body in a high arch, and sinking the rest of the way in.

"jake—!" his name leaves you in a breathless sob, a prayer, a curse, a requiem. you're nearly catatonic, twitching like you’ve been electrocuted as you spasm beneath his hands, the girth of him infiltrating the marrow of your bones, the lining of your ribs, the edges of your lungs. the dull ache in your stomach intensifies as his hips rut up, your head smacking against the ground as his ridged cock rams lecherously into the spongy entrance of your cervix. jake punches out a strangled laugh as your stomach mounds obscenely (frighteningly, if he were being honest with himself) to accommodate the sheer size of his length, a shaky hand reaching forward to feel for himself underneath your layers of quivering muscle. you jolt with a sharp cry, feet kicking helplessly in midair as tears spill in shimmering rivulets down your flushed cheeks. “so-“ he cuts himself off when your cunt, unable to squeeze around the girth of him, flutters achingly. begging for release. "tight. knew you'd be so fuckin' tight—"

he doesn't wait. can't. his hips roll forward, dragging another devastatingly thick thrust through the vice-like grip of your cunt, the sensation of him rearranging you from the inside out. his hand slips between your thighs (greedy, insistent), feeling for the slick heat pooling there, brushing over the tender, swollen knot of your clit. he drinks your shaky squeal, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he folds forward, tongue swiping across your upper row of teeth. "jake,” you sob, a wrecked little thing, hands fisting in his braids, grasping for something, anything. "'m gonna cum—oh god, i wanna c—please, can i, jake, please—"

"w'me," jake manages to hiss, tongue swirling patterns into the wounded skin of your clavicle. the blunt tip of his cock twitches as his thrusts shallow, a moan purred into the junction between your neck and shoulder. the tightness in his stomach ebbs as the wet slap of your pelvis against his reverberates in the air, a symphony of noise escaping your throat as he fills your womb in thick, unrelenting waves of searing warmth. you sob raggedly in relief, convulsing under the weight of his palms, cleaving lines of deepening crimson in his back. (pretty little thing. so good for him. you'd let him do this every night, wouldn't you? would let him bury himself to the hilt until he flooded your cunt with his seed, would let him turn your pristine skin a splotchy, bruised shade of fuchsia.)

he thinks with his teeth, lovely girl, and you've got such a pretty neck.

note: WOW WHY DID THIS TAKE ME FOREVER?! i was so smut-stumped for whatever reason, so i apologize for the rushed ending and for the fact that i forgot to include jake taking sips of CO2 while he was in an oxygenated lab LOL (the stem girl in me is screaming at them having sex IN THE LAB). this one's for @pandoraslxna!! love always from lani!!

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stuckinmymind22 · 7 months ago

Text

shower sex (portgas d ace)

happy birthday ace! i told yall i’d be back with this 🙂‍↕️

wc: 1.3k

tags: afab! reader, established relationship, shower sex, unprotected sex, piv, uhhhh its kinda cute so there's that

two things needed to happen today, you needed to convince ace to shower and you needed to get dicked down, luckily for you, your man goes crazy for shower sex

a/n: this is like my third or fourth time ever writing detailed smut like this and i still feel kinda awkward about it so lmk how i did pls

not proofread bc fuck it we ball

ace doesn’t dislike showering per se, it’s just not something he ever thinks about unless it’s right in front of him, and even then it doesn’t always hit him that he should shower.

out of respect or maybe fear, not many are willing to point that out to him either, so a small group of individuals take turns coerce him into showering on the regular.

for the sake of the crew and for the sake of you who was cursed blessed to share a room with this man a plan had been devised to coerce him into showers on the regular.

because you’re the one who has the luxury of sleeping next to him and being subjected to his smells you have been known to shove him in the bathroom and stand guard at the door. he always tries to convince you to join him but his success rate is low, but that’s not gonna stop the man from trying.

he’ll complain saying that fire and water don’t mix but he’s quick to obey if you bat your lashes or give him a stern look.

searching the ship you find ace chatting with a couple of people off to the side of the deck. you approach him and his eyes light up when he sees you. ace greats you eagerly tucking you under his arm attempting to convince you to stay and chat, but you slip out of his grip.

“come on stinky” you tease as you tug him away by his waistband before switching to his arm. the crew who he was chatting with laugh (ace even lets out a chuckle of his own), but they don’t know what you’re about to do to him, hell you’re not even sure he knows the lewd thoughts going on in your mind.

as soon as you turn the corner away from prying eyes his hands immediately grip your waist, spinning you around to face him.

“stinky, huh?” he says grinning, his hands slipping under your shirt.

“smelly felt too mean” you tease back and he laughs, stepping in closer.

“maybe you should help me take care of that”, ace leans in close and whispers in your ear as if he’s the one who thought of it

you give him a sinful look in return, a look that has him running behind you as you turn on your heal and walk to the showers.

as soon as you were behind closed doors he was on you, lips crashing into you and his hips rolling into yours.

he very gingerly sets his hat down and very eagerly helps you out of your clothes, stripping you naked in an instant.

his eyes take in your body, something he does every time he sees you nude form. when he makes a move to touch you again you stop his hand.

“hold on tiger,” you say with a light chuckle and disappear into the shower, turning it on.

you can hear him practically rip his large boots off in an effort to strip. smiling to yourself at his eagerness you step under the stream of water, wetting your hair. you can hear ace curse as he tries to remove his lil elbow pad. then finally his pants drop.

in his excitement he nearly tumbles into the shower with you. he laughs it off and you do too.

once again, ace makes a move to touch you, and once again you redirect him. he grumbles with a pout as he replaces your spot under the water.

“thank you ace, you’re being so good” you praise him, which he eagerly enjoys.

you can’t help but look over your handsome boyfriend’s body, eyes trailing from his arms that were up in his hair down his chest and abs, settling on his already hard member.

you bite your lip in anticipation and rub your thighs together all of the lewd thought plaguing your mind returning to the surface. you can’t help but reach out and run your hand down his toned torso.

“sweetheart, you’re killing me here,” ace says with a plea.

you give him a goofy grin, “you’re right, it’s time to shower.” you reach for the soap, lathering up your hands- you had decided to tease him by playing with your tits under the pretext of washing your body, which you do.

ace’s eyes grow dark as he watches you, a groan releasing from his throat, “would you like some help, doll?”

you relent and then he comes over and pinches your nipples. he is finally touching you— it’s the only thing you’ve been able to think about all day

you can’t help the quiet gasps and small moans that exit your mouth, overpowered by the sound of water hitting the tile

“you’re so pretty,” ace says, one of his hands starting to roam your body as the other continues playing with your nipple, “i am such a lucky man.”

his sincerity has your heart tightening and you grab his face crashing it into yours, quick to dive your tongue into his open mouth. seeing it as a challenge, he battles you for dominance, ultimately winning.

a hand comes and cradles the back of your head as ace roughly presses you up against the shower wall. hooking your thigh with his forearm, lifting it up as his hand settles on your hip in one fluid motion.

not wasting any more time he guides himself to your entrance, thumb on his other hand rubbing small circles into your flesh under his grip.

you let out a small whimper as he starts to sink inside of you. ace allows you time to adjust to the (welcome) intrusion, he gingerly moves some hair from your face as he waits. once you give him the go ahead, he pushes in deeper and both of you let out a shaky breath at the feeling.

he starts off lovingly, gently rocking his hips into you as he peppers your face with kisses and neck with small bites but you start begging for more, begging for him to fuck you harder, and who is he not to give his princess what she wants.

his left hand snakes back behind your head as he fucks you into the wall, each thrust deeper than the last. he’s adjusted the angle so that the head of his cock is colliding with that one special spot with every movement.

“fuck, i love you” ace groans into your neck as he basks in the feeling of your warmth and the way your pussy sqeezes him. you try to respond in kind but you’re struggling to get anything other than moans of his name out.

the slapping of skin and noises of sex amplified by the acoustics of the shower. hearing your chorus of moans on this scale starts to become too much for him, ace knows he’s getting dangerously close.

“t-touch yourself,” he commands and you happily comply, fingers start circling your clit while your other hand plays with your breast.

ace let’s out a low groan at the sight of you pleasing yourself, it always has been something he’s enjoyed watching.

“faster” he says and you listen, vigorously rubbing tight circles against your sensitive nub. your breathing picks up and your moans turn to silent exhales of air as you quickly approach the edge.

“ace, please” you beg, what for you’re not entirely sure, but ace seems to understand. he picks up the pace rutting into you even harder than before and your eyes roll back.

as you come your pussy clenched around ace causing him to curse and quickly follow behind you. with a few more rocks of his hips he stills inside you, resting his head in the crook of your neck placing delicate kisses on your shoulder.

“i really needed that,” you admit breathlessly as you come back down from your high.

“well, do you need any more?” ace grins, rising from your shoulder and before he’s even pulled out you can feel him hardening again.

thanks for reading 💕 pls lmk how i did im so serious im nervous

#one piece headcanons #one piece x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace headcanons #portgas d ace x reader #ace smut #portgas d ace smut #canon post

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romerona · 18 days ago

Text

All Y/N ever wanted to do was sing her songs and be free. Yet somehow, after offering to pay for the meal of a certain boy in a straw hat she finds herself causing havoc through the East Blue.

Masterlist

Trigger warnings: violence, death, one mention of SA, torture, trauma.

Word count: 11K

Disclaimer: The songs I will be using in this fic aren't mine bc I have 0 creativity. I'm sorry.

It began with the sea.

Y/N had always loved it—its wildness, its freedom, the way she belonged to it until it didn't anymore.

Her father.

One moment, they had been laughing beneath the mangroves, her tail brushing his in the soft sway of the tide. He had this deep laugh, the kind that made you feel like the sea itself was smiling, the one that made you feel safe. The next, she was being pulled through the water by her mother's hand, frantic, terrified, forced to hide behind a jagged coral outcropping.

The Marines had come.

She remembered the way the water stilled with their arrival, how everything seemed to hold its breath. Her father stood between them and the rest of their small pod, eyes steady, chest bare, refusing to bow. He hadn’t tried to run. He was proud of what he was.

They called him a monster.

She remembered the rope—coarse and foreign—wrapped around his tail. She remembered the way he screamed as they dragged him to the surface, like an animal in front of the humans above, his tail twisting, his gills flaring in panic.

They made an example of him, they laughed at him. He didn’t scream at first. Just glared, teeth clenched, blood dripping from his brow.

But the rope pulled tighter.

She had watched it all from the surf, a small shape half-submerged, too afraid to move, too frozen to scream.

His voice broke first, his tail followed.

She woke up for months afterward, screaming in the middle of the night, the sound of his body hitting the dock echoing in her skull like thunder. Even now, floating somewhere in unconsciousness, she could still see the way his eyes locked with hers just before the end—like he was sorry he couldn’t protect her.

Then, it had been her mother.

The scent of oil and blood in the water, the metallic tang of harpoons, the click of nets unfurling beneath the waves.

Her mother had been swimming ahead with her and her younger sister, whispering directions, pushing them harder and faster through the reef caves. They had escaped raids before, so they could with this one... but the nets came from all sides, folding in like monstrous wings.

She remembered her mother shoving them forward through a narrow crevice in the rock—one barely wide enough to squeeze through. Her sister slipped through first, small and fast. Y/N started to follow, but before her mother could go with them, the net hit and swallowed her in an instant.

Tangling her limbs, cutting into her skin, Y/N turned in time to see her mother clawing at the ropes, blood blooming into the water like smoke.

Their eyes met.

“You run!” her mother cried, voice sharp with desperation. “Take her and go. Don’t look back!”

But she had looked back and the image never left her, the way the net tightened on her, the way her mother still fought, still hiss, never showing weakness until they pulled her into the pirate ship.

Y/N had heard her scream, and she had never stopped hearing them.

And finally, it was her. Y/N a little older, a little wiser, and twice as afraid.

They’d been running for days, hiding under boats, clinging to driftwood, swimming only at night. Her sister was weak from hunger. Y/N had tried to keep her spirits up, promising they'd make it to the safe island they had heard about—just a little farther, just one more tide, just one more ocean.

But the marines came again, with boats, with lights, with nets, with weapons. They could never outrun them.

But thankfully, Y/N saw them before her sister did.

She looked at the little girl she’d promised to protect, her gills fluttering weakly and she made a decision, she swam away from her sister, toward the open water, fast and visible, making sure they saw her first.

And they did.

The net hit hard, winding around her limbs, crushing her tail. She screamed as it pulled her to the surface, torches blinding her eyes.

She looked back once before disappearing into the boat.

Miri was gone.

Gone somewhere safe at least, do once they killed her, at least she knows her sister made it, but the thing is, she was never meant to die, no, that would've been better.

They hauled her aboard like a trophy.

She never even knew the name of the marine who caught her— all she remembered now was his face, sideburns, and rectangular glasses, but it didn’t matter because he did not keep her long. Just long enough to show her off, to laugh about the “sea witch” he’d dragged in. Then he sold her. No papers, no records, just Berri and silence.

The next man—the real monster—was worse.

The Captain didn’t want money, he didn’t want to brag, he wanted to break her.

He called her his “treasure.” Kept her in a cage. Fed her scraps. Ordered her to entertain him when he was in a good mood. Beat her when she refused. Called her beautiful, precious, unnatural. Sometimes all in the same breath.

He touched her like he owned her, talked about her like she was a pet, and Y/N learned quickly that silence was safer than defiance, that closing her eyes was the only way to hold onto what little dignity she had left.

She stopped counting the months, stopped singing, stopped dreaming.

She stopped believing she was worth saving.

At first, it felt like she was floating.

Weightless.

Suspended in the dark with nothing but the steady pressure of water pressing against her ribs and the dull ache in her limbs.

Y/N stirred, groggy, her mind sluggish and fragmented. Something stung at her wrists. Her arms were above her head, pulled taut. Her tail—a dull throb of muscle and bone—hung limply behind her, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. She tried to move, to shift, to swim, but her limbs didn’t obey.

Her eyes fluttered open.

At first, it was just a blur of blue-green, shifting light. Then shapes began to form, steel, glass, movement outside the curve of her vision. Her heart kicked once, hard, and she tried to move.

Chains clinked softly as her body barely shifted.

Her wrists were bound—metal cuffs bolted to the interior wall of a water tube, suspending her arms just above her. Her tail was also restrained near the base, the thick fin looped and fastened to a bar at the bottom of the tank, keeping her suspended and stretched in a loose, languid posture that wasn’t painful. Her breathing picked up, but something tight kept it from going too far.

That’s when she realized there was something clamped over her mouth.

It wasn’t cloth, it was metal, cold and fitted, wrapping across her lower face with sharp ridges etched into it like carved warning signs. The pressure on her jaw made her teeth throb. She tried to scream, to hum—anything—but only bubbles slipped free from her nose.

Her eyes darted now, frantically taking in the curved walls around her. She was inside a massive tube—maybe ten feet tall, five feet across, filled with seawater and glowing faintly with some eerie light. The glass was thick, probably reinforced, and smeared slightly from fingerprints and sea grime.

She struggled, a small, instinctive jerk, but it sent a flash of pain up her arms. The shackles didn’t budge. She kicked once, weakly, her tail brushing the bottom curve of the tank, but it didn’t help.

She was on display and wasn’t alone. through the glass, she saw movement, shadows passing by.

Fish-men.

Their voices echoed outside the glass: laughter, movement, footsteps.

There were fish-men outside. Most paused to glance her way and smirked. Others laughed, muffled by the tank, the sound distorted and cruel. She didn’t hear words, but she didn’t have to, nor did she want to. One even knocked on the glass, amused by the way she flinched.

The light shifted again, heavier this time, deliberate.

Y/N blinked slowly, vision stinging. The murky outline of passing Fish-men gave way to a larger figure, a silhouette too broad to be anyone else. The water around her seemed to chill as he came into view.

Arlong.

He stepped right up to the tank with that lazy, leering swagger, his grin wide and sharp, rows of teeth gleaming beneath dim torchlight. For a moment, he didn’t speak—just stood there, watching her like a man admiring a painting he’d nailed to a wall.

Y/N tried not to react, but her muscles tensed instinctively. The chains groaned softly where her arms strained against them.

Then he placed a hand on the glass.

“You look better this way,” he said at last, his voice distorted through the water but clear enough. “No lies. No illusions. Just what you really are—a pretty little traitor in a tank.”

She glared at him, teeth grinding behind the gag, her gills flaring in instinctual anger.

“You can thank me later,” he continued, casually circling the tank. “Not every day someone gets to see one of your kind up close. Rarer than gold, you know... And just as sellable.”

He stopped behind her, tapping a knuckle against the glass once, twice. The sound echoed inside her skull.

“I already sent word,” he added with cruel cheer. “A couple of collectors in the North Blue have been dying for a specimen like you. Pure blood, real tail, and still got that wild spirit. They’ll pay nicely.”

Y/N thrashed suddenly, tail lashing in the water, rage bubbling up fast and fierce—but the motion only made the chains bite deeper into her wrists. Her cry was swallowed by the gag, nothing but a muffled gurgle of fury.

Arlong laughed, mockingly. She tried to ignore it all, just focus on escaping... but something shifted in the corner of her vision.

She turned her head slightly, as far as the gag’s straps would allow. Just enough to see a figure further back in the chamber. Half-shrouded in shadow, lingering near one of the stone archways, her orange hair catching the light like fire.

No.

Y/N stared through the warped glass, her heartbeat loud in her ears, gills flaring slightly with every panicked breath. The cold bite of metal against her mouth had long since become part of her. She didn’t bother struggling anymore, not with her standing there.

Nami.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. Her mind is playing games. But no—she knew those shoulders, that walk, that way her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed hard enough.

It was Nami.

Standing just behind the guards. Out of reach, but not out of place and worst of all—she didn’t look afraid, she looked… resigned.

Arlong’s voice continued to drone, something about buyers and collars and how pretty sirens were when they begged. Y/N barely heard him now. All she could do was watch the girl she had trusted— laughed with her, fought beside her, comforted her—stand silently with them.

But Y/N didn’t rage, she was stunned, maybe a bit betrayed, but not as much as could be, should be, because she understood, she had lived in cages before. She knew what survival tasted like. Knew what it cost.

If Arlong held something over Nami—her home, her life, someone she loved—then what choice did she really have? There were a thousand different cages in this world, and not all of them had bars.

Y/N didn’t blame her, but gods, it still hurt.

It hurt more than the chains, more than the tank, more than Arlong’s laughter. Because even if she understood, she had hoped— truly hoped Nami would be her friend, and now, she hoped, that she wouldn't be the one who wouldn’t look away.

But she did, and that was the worst part.

Time blurred, maybe two days passed, maybe three.

Y/N wasn’t entirely sure anymore. The hours bled into each other like ink in saltwater, soft and indistinct. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts slower than they used to be.

She could survive underwater. Of course, she could; her body was built for it, but survival wasn’t the same as breathing. This tank had no real current, no fresh flow of water. Just stale, stinking salt and a whisper of air that barely filtered in through the cracks around the top.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, her body occasionally jerking awake in panic as her instincts screamed breathe, breathe, breathe—even as her lungs burned and the tight mask over her mouth allowed only the smallest sips of water-filtered air to pass through.

Sometimes she could hear voices—mocking, muffled through the glass. Other times, it was just footsteps, the occasional tap on the tank’s side from a passing Fish-man, like she was nothing more than a curiosity. A rare, exotic pet.

Once, someone tapped in a rhythm, like they were playing with her, a melody she couldn’t follow.

Her body had stopped resisting; her tail floated limp beneath her, fins trailing in the water like seaweed. The chains held her upright, wrists raw and bruised. Her head lolled slightly against the restraint around her face.

She could only breathe ‘properly’ when they lifted the lid to toss in food—though calling it food was generous. It was mostly scraps. Bits of raw fish or soggy kelp that drifted down toward her like refuse. But with the muzzle strapped around her face, tightly buckled at the back of her head, she couldn’t eat even if she tried.

But it did not matter, all that mattered was the air that entered the tank when they opened the lid. She’d jerk toward the surface in desperation when she saw the shadow of the lid being unbolted, only for the guard to laugh and slam it shut again before she got there.

A game.

They liked to watch her panic.

It was a slow kind of torture—not enough to kill her outright, but enough to diminish her. She could feel herself weakening by the hour. Her muscles ached from being suspended too long, her tail dragging heavier every time it brushed the bottom of the tank.

Sometimes, she would catch her reflection in the glass and barely recognize herself.

Pale skin. Bruised wrists. Red-rimmed eyes. Hair tangled like seaweed.

And sometimes she dreamed of her mother’s arms—warm, strong, always wrapped tight around her after storms. Of soft coral beds where she and her sister used to hide from the world, giggling like the sea couldn’t touch them. She dreamed of lullabies sung in whispers, voices layered in harmony beneath moonlight. Of her father’s laugh echoing across the waves, louder than any tide, full of life, full of light.

She dreamed of her people, their songs under moonlight—of voices rising together in harmony, echoed back by the sea like magic.

And she dreamed of her sister— her sweet little sister, the one she had decided to embark on this trip for, she was older now, safe and smiling out there somewhere, happy, so happy it made this all worthwhile.

In her dreams, she was safe. Whole. Free.

But when she woke, she woke to silence, to water that pressed down like lead. To a muzzle biting into her jaw. To the slow sting of shackles digging into her wrists and tail. The dreams were soft, but the waking was cruel every time.

And now, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on.

Her body ached in ways she hadn’t known were possible. Her chest was tight, her vision often fuzzy. Her tail floated limp behind her like dead weight, the scales dulled and sore. The moments of consciousness were shorter now, harder. There was no rhythm to the days—only an endless stretch of water and pain.

She hoped for death.

Not because she wanted to die, not truly. But because it would be hers. It wouldn’t belong to Arlong. He wouldn’t get the pleasure of seeing her chained and paraded before some slobbering noble. Wouldn’t get the coin for her scales, or the bragging rights for selling off the last living siren he could catch.

If she died here—gagged and silent, but still somewhat herself—then maybe she’d steal something from him after all.

Maybe that was the only freedom she had left.

She tilted her head upward, toward the faint ripple of light above the tank. She couldn’t see the sky, but she liked to pretend it was there.

Her vision had gone soft and unfocused, her limbs numb, her mind drifting somewhere between memory and nothing at all but then, she thought, maybe, she heard something, voices, shouts, the clang of metal on metal.

Fighting?

No, it had to be her mind. Her last desperate flickers of thought clawing for comfort. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Echoes. Phantoms. The old dream of battle, of freedom, just before the dark swallowed her whole.

CRACK.

A sound she felt more than heard. A sharp jolt rocked the tank, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her eyes snapped fully open.

Another hit, then another. Something—someone—was slamming into the glass.

The vibrations rattled her teeth, and a hairline fracture bloomed in the curved panel just to her left, spiderwebbing outward.

“—again!” Someone shouted as another thumb echo.

She flinched instinctively, her body jerking in the water.

And then, without warning, the tank shattered. The wall of glass burst outward with a roaring surge, sending a wave of seawater and shattered fragments cascading into the chamber beyond.

A massive force ripped through the tank as the glass exploded outward, shards spraying like sea foam. Water rushed, bursting from the prison that had held her captive for days.

Y/N’s body was dragged with it, flung forward by the pressure, but she didn’t move far since the shackles yanked her short.

She screamed, or tried to, the sound smothered by the metal still muzzling her mouth. Pain tore through her shoulders as the full weight of the water slammed forward, her body caught like a ragdoll on a line. Her wrists screamed, metal digging deeper into already torn skin.

She was still trapped, but the world around her wasn’t quiet anymore.

There were voices now, shouting, boots slamming against tile, weapons clashing.

She couldn’t breathe.

Not from lack of oxygen now but from the shock. The cold. The pain. The— hands, warm hands.

Someone reaching for her.

Through her haze she saw movement. A blur of blue and black. Steel flashing. Sanji or Zoro, both, maybe, there was blood on the ground, shouting in the halls. A blur of bodies in motion, sweeping through the chaos like a storm.

But none of that compared to the face that suddenly appeared in front of her, breathless, wide-eyed, trembling.

Nami and a key.

Y/N blinked slowly, still disoriented, unsure if this was another hallucination. But when Nami reached down, then up and touched the shackles—gently, like she didn’t want to hurt her—it felt real.

Nami’s lips were moving, but the words she couldn’t hear through the ringing.

“I’m sorry,” she was saying. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The first shackle clanked free. Y/N’s arm dropped, limp, useless. The second followed, and she collapsed forward, caught in Nami’s arms before she could hit the ground.

Y/N dropped forward—half-collapsing, her body too weak to catch itself. Nami caught her as best she could, dragging her forward as the water drained fully away.

Sanji was there a moment later, slipping an arm around her waist to support her, his grip firm but careful, the heat of him a shock against her cold, aching skin. Zoro took point, blade still drawn, eyes sharp and watching for anyone foolish enough to get in their way.

The mask.

Nami’s hands were still trembling as she unclasped the muzzle, the sharp-edged straps slick with water and blood. It clattered to the ground with a dull clang that echoed through the wrecked room.

Y/N’s mouth fell open, and air sharply rushed in.

Y/N’s lungs seized, her body spasming violently as she coughed, breath catching and breaking in her throat. The sound was awful—wet and raw, like her chest had been scraped clean. She doubled over in Sanji’s arms, coughing so hard her vision blurred, water and bile spilling from her lips as her body tried to figure out how to breathe again.

Tears blurred her vision, unbidden and hot, stinging against her cheeks.

“Breathe,” Sanji tightened his grip, trying to hold her upright. “Mon Cherie. Just breathe—you’re alright now.”

She wasn’t, not yet, still—she was free.

They set her down gently. Sanji and Nami eased her onto a dry patch of floor, just beyond the edge of the shattered tank.

She slumped sideways, her body folding in on itself, every muscle trembling from exhaustion. Her tail—still long and heavy and aching— dragged behind her, the delicate shimmer of her scales dulled by blood and grit.

She coughed again, weakly this time, and tried to curl her arms around her middle, to feel something, to hold herself together.

Nami knelt beside her, hovering. She looked pale, her hands stained with rust and seawater and shame. Her lips moved like she wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came out. She looked like she might cry, but didn’t.

Zoro stood nearby, blade still in hand, eyes scanning every shadow, as if a single Fish-man so much as twitched, he’d cut them in half without hesitation. Had Y/N been in better condition, she would’ve been overly glad to see him standing and fighting.

Sanji was crouched at her other side, one hand hovering just over her shoulder, not quite touching but there. Present. Holding space for her.

“She’ll be okay,” Usopp said, though his voice shook as he came skidding into view, nearly slipping on the wet floor. “Right? She’s gonna be okay?”

Sanji looked up, jaw tense. “She needs rest. Air. Time.”

“Which we don’t have right now,” Nami shot back, her voice sharp with urgency. “Luffy’s still in there, fighting Arlong—and that whole building seems to be about to come down.”

It was only then that Y/N noticed the shaking earth beneath her. A low rumble vibrated through the ground like something alive. The sky above was thick with smoke and kicked-up dust, and the sound of shattering stone and splintering beams echoed from the half-destroyed remains of Arlong Park just a few yards away.

They were close enough to feel the fallout.

Chunks of debris rained down from above, crashing into the stone yard like thunderclaps. One of the front pillars cracked straight through, collapsing with a roar and sending a wave of stone dust rolling toward them.

“We need to move,” Zoro said, already stepping forward.

Before anyone could object, he dropped to one knee beside Y/N, then slid his arms beneath her. One strong sweep, and he hoisted her up against his chest like she weighed nothing at all.

“Careful!” Nami snapped, rushing forward with her hand out. “She’s barely breathing—“

“She’s not glass,” he said evenly. “But she’s not walking out of here either.”

Y/N let out a soft sound—barely a breath—as her hands curled weakly in his shirt. Her tail, still heavy with seawater, trailed behind them, glistening in the light.

Behind them, Arlong Park gave a bone-deep groan.

The top floor erupted in a violent plume of dust and splintered stone, a final, furious roar echoing through the air like a dying beast. The entire structure trembled, swayed, and then collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash. Walls buckled. Towers crumbled. A wave of dust rolled outward, swallowing the ground and sky in a choking fog of ash and smoke.

Y/N’s heart lurched, she felt the dread before she even heard Nami scream.

“Luffy!” Nami’s voice broke open, raw and panicked, cutting through the chaos as she took a step forward, staring into the cloud of ruin.

The silence that followed was deafening.

No movement.

No sound.

No Luffy.

The only thing Y/N could hear was her own breathing—shaky, wet, and rasping in her throat as she struggled to lift her head in Zoro’s arms.

Her voice came out like a cracked whisper, fragile and raw. “Luffy”

The dust settled slowly, revealing the twisted remains of what had once been Arlong Park. Nothing was standing anymore. Just broken wood, collapsed stone, and smoke curling toward the sky.

For a moment, no one moved then something shifted.

A piece of rubble slid. Then another when suddenly—just when it seemed the silence would swallow them all, something moved and from the heart of the broken rubble, through the settling dust and fractured stone, he jumped.

“Nami!” Luffy’s voice rang out like a cannon blast, loud and sure and unmistakably him. “You are our friend, and we are your crew!”

The words echoed, crashing through the silence louder than the explosion had moments before.

For a beat, no one moved.

Then Sanji barked a laugh—short and sharp, like it had been trapped in his chest for too long. Zoro let out a breath and shook his head with a crooked grin, while Usopp cackled.

Nami, stood frozen, staring at him like she’d never seen him before. Like she couldn’t believe anyone could say something like that after what she’d done, after where she’d been. Her lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by disbelief and something dangerously close to awe.

And Y/N, she felt it in her chest, that first real, full breath. It filled her lungs like it belonged there. No water, muzzle or fear just air.

Clean, cool, and free.

Luffy’s gaze shifted, past Nami, past the smoke, past the others, to her. Still half-curled in Zoros arms, still weak and trembling.

He walked toward her, slow now, the grin softening into something smaller, quieter.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

Simple but heavy words.

His eyes flicked to her wrists, the dried blood, the bruises, the raw skin. Then to the dull shimmer of her scales and back to her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quieter. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve—done something.”

“Y-You came b-back,” she rasped, just barely audible. “That’s what m-mattered, h-hotshot.”

He let out a breath, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh.

“I’m not gonna let anyone take you again,” he added, softer now. “Ever.”

There was no dramatic vow but a quiet, unshakable promise of a boy who meant every word with everything he had.

Y/N’s throat tightened, her lips trembled as she forced one more word from her torn throat. It was barely louder than the breeze—but it carried.

“…Okay.”

She didn’t know how long it took—maybe an hour, maybe longer—but eventually, her body remembered how to change.

Her tail, still slick with sea salt and bruises, shimmered and shifted, the magic unravelling slowly until skin replaced scale, legs curling into themselves like a forgotten memory. It hurt, not in the sharp way, but deep, like a cramp that lived in her bones.

Usopp brought her clothes—soft, clean, and worn in the good way and she put them on, quiet and careful, hands trembling as she buttoned the fabric over her raw, bandaged wrists.

The town’s medic—a kind older woman who didn’t ask too many questions—saw to her next. She didn’t flinch when she saw the bruises, didn’t gasp at the cracked skin or the faint imprint of the muzzle still pressed into her jaw.

She just wrapped her ankles, her wrists. Checked her throat. Gave her water first—real water, cold and clean and air-filled. It tasted like a miracle.

“Drink. Eat. Rest,” the woman said gently, smoothing the blanket over Y/N’s legs. “You’ll feel like yourself again in time.”

Eat and drink, that she could do.

She picked at the food slowly, the broth warm, the bread soft. Her hands shook with every bite, but she managed.

Rest, though… That was harder.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t tired. She was. Every inch of her hurt. Her muscles twitched with fatigue, her eyes felt lined with lead.

But rest meant letting go. It meant closing her eyes and she was scared of what she’d see if she did.

The cage, the muzzle, the net, her father’s face, her mother’s screams.

Still, eventually, her body gave her no choice. Curled beneath too many blankets, her breath warm in the quiet, exhaustion crept in like a tide.

Her eyes slid shut and sleep took her, hours later, she woke with a gasp.

Her body jolted upright, heart slamming against her ribs, sweat clinging to her skin though she felt nothing but cold. So cold.

The room was dark now, the lantern by her bedside burned low. Her throat ached again—dry and raw. Her hands shook as she pressed them into the mattress beneath her, grounding herself in the softness of the fabric, the warmth of the blanket twisted around her legs.

She was not in the tank, nor was she in a cage, nor on a ship.

She was in a small room above a shop, on the second floor of a sun-baked building in Nami’s childhood village—Cocoyasi, if she remembered correctly.

The air was warm, heavy with the scent of sea salt and citrus trees. Crickets chirped softly outside the open window, and somewhere in the distance…

Music, some laughter and cheering. Voices full of joy and disbelief and freedom.

Y/N blinked slowly, piecing it together through the fog still wrapped around her. The Fish-men were gone. Arlong was dead—or close enough. The villagers were free.

They were celebrating.

She sat in bed a moment longer, the echo of her dream still clinging to her skin like a second layer. The warmth of the room did nothing to chase the cold inside her. She rubbed her arms, fingers ghosting over bandages, then pulled the thin covers tighter around herself, despite the summer air.

Her legs still ached, her throat was dry but her feet moved anyway.

She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl and stood slowly, legs stiff but solid. A moment passed before she crossed the room, barefoot on warm floorboards, and opened the door to the night.

The music was louder now—fiddles, drums, drunken shouting. The sound of people living. Lanterns lit the square below, casting the streets in golden light. Children darted past with paper ribbons trailing behind them. Villagers laughed, danced, drank.

The whole town was alive, and she just stood there, wrapped in gauze and cotton and silence.

The celebration unfolded in front of her like a dream she hadn’t earned. People danced, laughed, shouted to one another across tables piled with food and drink. There was music in the air, light in their eyes. The kind of freedom that tasted like sugar and salt and sweat and the first deep breath after drowning.

Y/N didn’t move, she simply watched from the edge of it all, the blanket tight around her shoulders like armour.

Then her gaze caught on Nami.

Off to the side, sitting by herself, watching the celebration with a soft, satisfied smile. Not one born from joy—but from relief. From the quiet knowledge that—for once—the fight was over.

Y/N moved, slow and careful, every step a little ache, a little reminder, the soles of her feet were still tender against the earth.

She crossed the square without drawing attention, slipping between the laughter, the dancing, the light, and finally came to sit beside her.

Nami glanced over, and something in her eyes flickered—surprise, then something gentler.

“Hey, pumpkin,” Y/N said, voice low, rough but warmer than before.

Nami huffed a laugh through her nose, eyes shining just a little more than the firelight explained. “You should be resting,”

“Sleep’s been… complicated.” Y/N shrugged beneath the blanket, she sighed as she looked about, “It’s beautiful, though. All this.”

Nami looked out over her village, the people she had fought so long to protect. “Yeah, It is.”

For a while, they said nothing.

The sounds of laughter and music wrapped around them, close but distant—like a different world. One neither of them had ever really belonged to, but maybe, just maybe, could learn to live in.

Nami shifted beside her, arms loosely wrapped around her knees. Her smile faded a little, and her fingers fidgeted in the fabric of her skirt.

“I should’ve—” she started, voice soft.

Y/N didn’t let her finish, she waved a hand gently, still wrapped in gauze. “Don’t.”

“But I—”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse.” A dry laugh caught in her throat, not quite bitter. “And here I am.”

Nami looked at her then. Really looked. Saw the bandages, the shadows under her eyes, the stiffness in her posture, and still, Y/N was upright. Awake, breathing and living.

“You shouldn’t have had to go through worse,” Nami whispered.

Y/N glanced at her, then at the gauze on her upper arm, her lips twitching faintly. “Neither should you.”

The fire crackled somewhere behind them, someone in the crowd let out a cheer, it felt a world away.

They sat in silence again, not heavy this time but still.

The music played on in the distance, laughter echoing like wind through trees. The night air was warm and kind, the stars blinked above them like they had nothing better to do.

“You’re my best friend,” Nami said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N leaned her head back, eyes tracing the constellations above them—patterns she didn’t know the names of, but still felt familiar.

“I know,” she said softly, lips curling just a little. “You’re my best friend, too.”

And they sat like that a while longer, the quiet comfortable now, stitched between stars and sea breeze.

Then something drifted through the air and Y/N’s nose twitched.

A warm, rich smell wrapped around her like a hook—crispy, golden, a little buttery, definitely seasoned. Something fried and definitely Sanji.

Her stomach growled, loud and shameless. She blinked, looked down at herself, then gave a small, guilty smile. “Well, that’s my cue to make the queue.”

Nami snorted, already reaching for her arm. “You need help—”

“I’m fine,” Y/N cut in, lifting a hand with a little wave of fake dignity. “Mostly, and if that’s Sanji’s cooking I smell, I’m not letting a near-death experience keep me from getting a plate.”

Nami gave her a look and Y/N gave her a look back.

With wobbly legs and a blanket still half-wrapped around her shoulders, Y/N made her way toward the long makeshift table, trailing the scent of Sanji’s cooking like a lifeline. The closer she got, the louder her stomach growled—loud enough to earn a few curious glances, not that she cared.

She slipped into the line, right next to the green-haired swordman and grinned, a slow, tired little thing, perhaps a bit hesitant and tilted her head just enough for her voice to carry. “Nice to know you’re not with one foot on the other side.”

Zoro turned slightly, one brow raised, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re one to talk.”

She chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, at least I was dramatic about it.”

“Can’t argue that,” he said, and there was something in his tone—something quiet and almost warm, like he was glad to see her on her feet, even if he’d never say it outright.

Y/N shifted her weight and swayed a little. Immediately, Zoro’s hand shot out, steadying her elbow without a word, she blinked at him and he didn’t let go.

“Easy,” he muttered, almost annoyed but not really. “You still look like a strong breeze could knock you over.”

“You offering to catch me?” she teased, breathless but grinning.

Zoro shrugged. “If I have to.”

Y/N smiled—not her old one, not yet—but something close.

"But how are you, really?" Y/N asked, voice low as she glanced toward the side of his chest, where the fabric of his shirt hung just a little loose, hinting at the bandages hidden underneath.

Zoro met her eyes again, unreadable for a beat. “I’m alive.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s not an answer.”

He smirked, but it faded quickly when he saw the way she was still watching him.

“It hurts,” he admitted after a beat, quiet and plain. “Breathing’s annoying. Moving’s worse but it’s healing.”

She nodded, satisfied, but only slightly.

“Don’t push it more than you already have,” she said, trying to sound casual, though her voice trembled just enough to betray her. “You almost didn’t come back.”

"I could tell you the same,"

“You’re prettier, though,” Y/N smirked faintly, reaching up to gently bop his cheek with two fingers. “Would’ve been a real shame to lose that face.”

He scoffed, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his jaw eased a little under her touch, reluctantly flattered but then his voice dropped, quiet enough that it cut through the buzz of celebration like a blade.

“You’re still hurting.”

The words weren’t an accusation but a statement. A truth he’d read in the way her hands curled under the blanket, in the stiffness of her shoulders, in the way she hadn’t once looked at herself in a reflection since they arrived.

She didn’t meet his eyes and just looked ahead at the line of people gathered near the food table, their faces lit by the soft golden glow of lanterns.

“Nothing I can’t handle, hotshot,” she said, the smirk still there, but thinner. Worn.

He watched her in silence, and for once, didn’t push.

But his hand shifted slightly at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and do something, anything, and not sure what wouldn’t make it worse. “Doesn’t mean it isn't bad.”

There it was again, that unexpected softness from him. That steadiness she was used to seeing in battle, but rarely in his voice. Y/N took a step back, distancing herself from his gaze, sharper than most people give him credit for.

Before Y/N could say anything else, the scent of garlic, herbs, and butter cut through the air like an invitation, and then came his voice.

“Ooh. Back for seconds?” Sanji drawled from behind a steaming wok, one hand expertly flipping a ladle of creamy risotto into a dish without missing a beat. His eyes sparkled with teasing heat as he glanced up. “Must’ve liked it.”

Zoro didn’t flinch, he just stepped forward and handed over his empty plate with a shrug. “Yeah. It was okay.”

"That plate says different." Sanji grins teasingly and takes the plate.

"Gotta keep my strength up, even with your cooking," Zoro said as Sanji dished risotto onto his plate. “It’s the least you can do, considering I saved your ass from those fishmen.”

Sanji’s scoff was immediate. “What? I saved your arse.”

Zoro shrugged like it was barely worth debating. “You didn’t even get your hands dirty.”

“At least I don’t need three swords to prove I’m a man,” Sanji said, handing the plate back with flair.

Right then, Y/N stepped up beside them, blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, cheeks still a bit pale, but her eyes glinting with tired mischief. Her smirk was crooked—almost full strength.

“You two flirting,” she rasped, her voice low and hoarse, “or should I come back later?”

Sanji turned to her instantly, his face changing.

“Y/N, Mon Cherie, Mon étoile, my darling,” he gushed, suddenly starry-eyed, already fetching a fresh plate like it was the most urgent task in the world. “You shouldn’t be on your feet—what can I get you? Risotto? Bread? Something sweet? I made a citrus glaze for the pudding just for balance.”

Y/N rested a hand on the edge of the serving table, steadying herself. Her smirk stayed, but it softened around the edges. “Surprise me, chef.”

“Gladly,” he said, presenting the dish like it was a crown jewel, eyes softening just a bit beneath the usual flair. “You deserve nothing but the finest this humble cook can offer.”

Y/N took the plate with both hands, letting the heat from the porcelain seep into her fingers like a quiet promise of comfort and for a moment, she just stood there, breathing it in.

“Smells heavenly,” she murmured, voice still a little hoarse but gentler now. “No doubt it’ll taste the same.”

Sanji practically beamed, hands clasped over his chest like she’d just recited poetry in his honour. “You wound me, Mon Cherie. You should doubt it—it’ll taste better.”

Y/N gave him a faint, amused look. “Careful, chef. Flattery’s a dangerous spice.”

“Only when it’s not deserved,” he said, wink and all.

Behind them, Zoro made a dramatic show of clearing his throat, still chewing his second helping. “Are you two done? Some of us are trying to eat without choking on sugar.”

Sanji shot him a glare. “You know what doesn’t go with risotto? Your attitude.”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly and nudged Zoro with her elbow, the gesture soft but insistent.

“All right, come on,” she said, nodding toward the fire.

They made their way over together, slow but steady, coming to a stop beside Luffy, who was already grinning widely. Usopp stood tall—well, tall for Usopp—with a crowd of villagers gathered around him, utterly enraptured.

"There I was," Usopp declared, chest puffed out, "completely alone, surrounded by fishmen—dozens of them! The Great Captain Usopp, staring death in the face!"

A few villagers gasped on cue. Usopp soaked it up.

"But I knew I couldn’t give up the fight—not with the fate of Cocoyasi Village hanging in the balance!" He took a dramatic step forward. "So I pulled my trusty slingshot—" He mimicked the motion with flair, holding an invisible weapon aloft. "—and I fired on ’em till my fingers bled!"

He made a loud pew! noise, followed by a full-body BOOM! explosion sound and flailed backwards like he’d been hit by the memory.

Sanji sauntered up behind them with his own plate in hand, and Nami, ever the picture of cool amusement, followed a moment later, folding her arms as she took her place at Y/N’s other side.

"I didn’t stop until I had single-handedly defeated Arlong and his deadly crew!"

He paused, letting the gasps and wide eyes wash over him, then his gaze landed on the small group of his crewmates near the fire.

“…With a little help, of course,” he added quickly. “I mean, I guess I wasn’t completely alone.”

Y/N chuckled, taking a bite of risotto and shaking her head. “Modest as ever.”

Sanji snorted beside her, and Luffy suddenly jumped to his feet, arms stretched high.

“Three cheers for Captain Usopp!” he whooped. “We couldn’t have done it without him!”

The villagers cheered, Usopp beamed like he’d been crowned king, and Y/N laughed again, softer this time, but fuller.

Her shoulders began to relax, she felt at peace for once, with food in her hands, fire that danced between and her crew. It was nice... util--

“Marines! Form lines!”

The voice cut sharp across the square, the music faltered, the laughter stuttered to a halt.

Y/N froze, her eyes narrowing as the cheers gave way to the clatter of boots and the metallic rasp of rifles being shouldered.

She turned her head slowly, rising just enough to see the unmistakable wave of white uniforms approaching from the far edge of the village—shiny coats, stiff hats, smug faces. Like they’d waited specifically for the moment things felt safe again.

Y/N sighed and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the night sky as if asking the stars for patience.

“Can’t we get a fucking break?”

She opened her eyes, and froze, because there, at the center of the formation, tall and solid as a warship carved from stone, stood an older man.

His coat was long, his presence impossible to ignore, and even from a distance, there was no mistaking the weight he carried, it was sn admiral.

But not any admiral, Luffy’s grandfather.

“So these are the Straw Hat Pirates,” the man said, arms folded, eyes scanning over them like they were an interesting stain. He gave a small huff of amusement. “Huh.”

Then, with a flick of his wrist: “Marines, arrest them.”

Before anyone could so much as reach for a weapon, a voice broke the air.

“Sir!”

Koby.

The soft-spoken boy Y/N had met weeks ago back in Shells Town stepped forward from the ranks, practically swallowed by the line of taller soldiers.

“The Straw Hats didn’t destroy Cocoyasi Village,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “It was Arlong.”

Luffy’s grandfather didn’t even look at him at first.

“You have your orders, cadet,” he said flatly.

Koby hesitated, visibly trembling, but then, to Y/N’s shock, he stepped forward again. “No, sir.”

Heads turned and the tension cracked.

The admiral’s head tilted slowly. “What did you say?”

“I said no, sir,” Koby repeated, awkwardly tall, like his courage barely fit inside his body.

“You do realize,” the admiral said, voice edged with warning, “there are severe punishments for disobeying direct orders.”

Koby looked unsure but still said, “I disagree with those orders, sir.”

Y/N blinked, honestly stunned. Well, he grew a backbone, it seems.

“Me too.”

A second voice, he stepped forward, stiff and awkward as ever—but unmistakable, Helmeppo.

Y/N almost laughed but not out of mockery, out of pure disbelief. Of all people, he had come a long way.

The admiral turned slowly, surveying the pair of them—two young cadets standing against a sea of uniforms and a man who could destroy them both without blinking.

He scoffed, the sound halfway between irritation and amusement, then, to the rest of the Marines.

“Anyone else like to follow their lead?” He glares at Koby. “Or do you all want to follow orders instead?”

A group of Marines stepped forward.

Boots pounded the stone as they formed a sharp line between the crowd and the Straw Hats. Rifles raised in unison, black barrels gleaming beneath the firelight. Fingers hovered over triggers, the villagers fell silent, backing away.

And above it all, Garp’s voice rang out like a cannon blast. “Any of them moves—make sure it’s their last.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Her hand curled around the edge of her plate, knuckles whitening. The warmth from the food had long since faded, and suddenly the air didn’t feel so kind anymore.

Garp moved slowly, but deliberately, every step echoing louder than the last as he approached Luffy. His gaze locked on him—sharp, stern, unflinching.

“Come here, boy,” he said, voice quieter now, but heavy. “I gave you every opportunity to follow my path. To become a respected Marine. To serve justice. But instead, you chose to become a pirate.”

Luffy didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. He just grinned—that same wild, unshakable grin that had carried him through sea creatures and warlords and the weight of an entire world.

“No, Grandpa,” he said simply. “I’ve always been a pirate.”

The words landed like a spark on dry grass. Garp’s jaw tightened.

“No more running,” he said. “Last chance. Give it up. Walk away from this.”

Luffy’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it widened. “That’s not really my thing.”

Y/N’s heart kicked in her chest, the air shifted as Garp reached up and unclasped the heavy cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall behind him like a curtain dropping before a fight.

“Then show me what you’ve got.”

Luffy lunged first, fists clenched, body twisting with raw momentum, but Garp barely moved.

With the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, the old Marine side-stepped, then drove his fist hard into Luffy’s gut.

CRACK.

The impact echoed like a cannon blast, and Luffy flew backward, slamming into the dirt, the air driven clean from his lungs.

"This is what you wanted, right?" Garp asked as he stepped forward, each footfall a rumble. “To be a pirate. Well, I’ll show you what Marines do to pirates.”

Luffy groaned, pushing up on his elbows, eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to fight you, Grandpa.”

“You’ve been fighting me your entire life.”

Garp struck down again, but Luffy rolled to the side just in time, dirt spraying beneath him. He scrambled up, shaking it off, and launched another punch, then another—fast, furious.

But Garp dodged each one like he was swatting away the wind. “When are you gonna learn you can’t win?”

BAM.

A single blow to the chest.

Luffy flew backward, straight through the wall of a small house, wood splintering and stone cracking on impact.

“Luffy!” Y/N choked, the sound tearing out of her as she stepped forward before she could stop herself.

Usopp watches with concern. Sanji moved slightly, tense beside her. Zoro’s hand hovered over his swords. Nami didn’t blink.

From the dust and debris, Luffy rose slowly and placed the straw hat gently back on his head. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, but his eyes burned with something fierce and clear.

Garp shook his head, a mocking scoff in his voice. “I thought I trained you better than this.”

“You did,” he rasped.

Without hesitation, Luffy stretches and grabbed two pieces of wood for impulse. “Gum-Gum..."

"Rocket!” His arms stretched far, snapped back tight, and he launched himself through the air toward Garp.

But Garp was waiting; his fist met Luffy mid-flight, sending him spiraling backward with bone-rattling force.

Y/N flinched hard, a sharp breath catching in her throat but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“You don’t know how dangerous the world is,” Garp said as he moved toward Luffy, the dust from the last blow still settling in the air. Luffy struggled, limbs shaking beneath him as he tried to rise again.

“The Grand Line isn’t some child’s game.”

With a sharp, practised movement, Garp reached down and hauled him up by the front of his vest—like he weighed nothing, like he wasn’t bloodied and bruised, barely able to stand.

“I told you,” Garp said, low and deadly. “You aren’t ready.”

Luffy coughed, face twisted in pain, but his voice came out steady--thin, but steady.

“You can hit me all day long…” he said through grit teeth, “…but I’m never giving up on my dream.”

Garp’s grip didn’t loosen. “Is that so?”

Luffy looked him dead in the eye, no fear, just fire. “I’m going to the Grand Line. I’ll find the One Piece. And I will be…” he paused only long enough to take a shaking breath, “King of the Pirates.”

Luffy, then, began to laugh. A short, ragged sound that caught in his throat at first, then spilt into the open air.

Garp then let go of Luffy.

The boy dropped to the dirt with a grunt, and Garp stepped back, arms loose at his sides, still shaking his head and to everyone’s shock… he laughed too.

A deep, rolling laugh that cracked through the tension like lightning.

Y/N blinked, frowning, eyes darting from Luffy to the man towering over him. Her heart still pounded in her chest, unsure if this was a reprieve or the start of something worse.

“Have it your way,” Garp finally said, the fight gone from his voice.

To Y/N’s immense relief, he added, loud and clear, “Lower your weapons!”

The Marines—startled but obedient—reluctantly lowered their rifles.

Garp turned on his heel, addressing the small armada now waiting behind him. “What are you all standing around for? Arlong’s pirates are still on the loose. Hunt them down. Arrest them. Now.”

Without hesitation, the Marines snapped to action. Orders barked. Feet pounded. They scattered like a tide breaking on rocks, surging toward the jungle and the sea.

But of course, not all of them were so quick to move on.

“What about these Straw Hats?” came a sharp voice.

A tall Marine—whiskered and sharp-eared, with far too much smugness for someone that resembled a house cat—stepped forward, blocking Garp’s path.

"What about them?"

“Arrest them too!” he snapped. “They’re the real crimin—"

THWACK!

Nami’s staff came down hard and fast on the back of his head. The Marine hit the ground like a sack of flour, unconscious before he landed.

“Ooh,” Usopp hummed, half impressed, half terrified.

Nami simply shrugged and tucked her staff away.

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Gods. Maybe they really were going to survive this.

Garp didn’t even flinch. He turned back to Luffy, gaze steady, unreadable.

“I knew I’d never be able to change your mind,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’re stubborn. Just like me. But I had to make sure you knew who you are, boy.”

Luffy blinked, bruised and battered.

“You were testing me?” he asked, half-whining. “Couldn’t you have gone a little easier?”

Garp scoffed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Then, with surprising gentleness, he stepped forward and placed both hands on Luffy’s shoulders. “You’re on your own now.”

The words settled heavily in the air but as Garp turned to leave, Luffy’s voice rose again, loud and clear, “No. I’m not.”

Garp paused mid-step, turning to face him. Luffy grinned wider, standing tall despite the bruises and dirt, his eyes sweeping over the crew—Zoro, Nami, Usopp, Sanji and Y/N. “I have my friends.”

Y/N’s lips curved softly, and for the first time that day, her smile reached her eyes.

Garp didn’t speak as he turned to leave, but she caught it—the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Barely there but still there.

She tilted her head, watching him go, then called out casually, loud enough for the whole square to hear. “Well. That was the most violent grandfather-grandson bonding session I’ve ever witnessed.”

About a few days later, after final preparations for their next voyage had been made, which had a couple of surprises for Nami and Luffy, Y/N leaned casually against the kitchen island, her guitar resting comfortably in her hands. The afternoon light poured in golden across the floor, catching the gleam of clean wood and salt-polished boots.

Nami, Zoro, Usopp, and Sanji were gathered nearby—sharing the moment, waiting for Luffy, enjoying one of the last stretches of stillness before the sea called again.

“So… you’re a siren?” Usopp asked, cautious but unable to help himself. “Didn’t think there were any left—y'know, after that World Government started that whole hunt-them-into-extinction campaign.”

Everyone except Y/N immediately turned to glare at him. The collective look said Really, Usopp?—a nonverbal slap upside the head. But true to form, he just blinked and held up his hands.

“Hey, I’m just saying what’s already out there!” Usopp defended himself. “Everyone’s heard the stories. The bounties. The purges. I figured sirens were long gone.”

Y/N laughed softly, plucking a lazy chord as she adjusted a tuning peg.

“It’s alright,” she said, voice calm, musical in its own right. “For all anyone knows, we are extinct, just a few of us left, and most don’t come out to the light of day. So let’s keep that under wraps, yeah?”

Usopp nodded quickly. “Yeah—yeah, of course. Totally top secret. Like, buried treasure level.”

" Good," Y/N grinned and plucked a few easy strings, then let her voice carry through the room with a rhythm that matched the roll of the waves outside.

I carry a dream, soft and small,

It helps me rise when I might fall.

If I believe in stories bright,

I’ll chase the dawn beyond the night.

I trust in hope, in stars that gleam,

And when it’s time—

I’ll chase that dream—

"Guys," Luffy came bounding into the galley, holding something clutched tight in one hand, grinning like he’d just found treasure.

“Check it out!” he said, practically bouncing as he slammed a rolled-up paper down onto the table in front of Y/N.

She blinked, then leaned over as he unrolled it with a flourish.

It was a wanted poster, a freshly printed one.

Luffy’s face beamed from the center of it, captured mid-wave with that silly, toothy grin and wide, unbothered eyes.

“Thirty million berri!?” Y/N gaped in horror, her mouth falling open as she stared at the number printed beneath the smiling face of Monkey D. Luffy. “Is that real?”

"Of course it is," Luffy grins proudly.

Before anyone could answer, Usopp let out a triumphant sound. “Hey, look! I’m famous!”

Sanji frowned, leaning over his shoulder. “What are you on about? That’s Luffy’s wanted poster.”

“Not just Luffy,” Usopp said, jabbing a finger at the bottom corner of the paper where—sure enough—the back of his head was just barely visible.

He mock-laughed and puffed his chest out proudly. “Sorry, guys. Maybe if you work a little harder, you’ll get a bounty too.”

“That doesn’t count,” Sanji muttered flatly.

Usopp shrugged, full of smug satisfaction. “It’s okay to be jealous. Feel what you need to feel.”

Y/N would’ve laughed—honestly, she wanted to—but her eyes were still locked on the number. Thirty million. Not just a bounty—a statement. The government had noticed them now, and they didn’t send posters unless they wanted people to start hunting.

“I… mmm…” Sanji sighed, waving a hand and shaking his head. “This is stupid.”

Zoro, ever the realist, crossed his arms. “This is gonna make things harder. With that price on your head, every bounty hunter in the East Blue will be gunning for you."

“Not just Luffy,” Nami added grimly. “They’re gonna be gunning for all of us.”

“Ah, shit.” Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

She turned toward the window, staring out at the sea. It shimmered, calm and bright, but now, it didn’t look peaceful to her. Her fingers twitched as if searching for her guitar, something steady.

Because this? This changed everything.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not staying in the East Blue,” came Luffy’s voice behind her, all sunshine and certainty.

Before she could turn, his arm wrapped casually over her shoulders, tugging her back toward the table like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she wasn’t unraveling, just a little.

He grinned—that grin, wide and weightless. “We’re going to the Grand Line.”

Like it was the easiest thing in the world, like there was nothing to be afraid of.

Right. Right. The Grand Line.

That’s why she came with him in the first place. Not just for music or mischief but for Miri.

Later, once they were sailing steady across open sea, the island behind them and the horizon stretching wide and wild ahead, Y/N made her way to the helm.

Nami stood there, arms loosely crossed, wind in her hair, eyes fixed on the compass and the charts, always calculating, always guiding.

Y/N came up beside her and gave her a light nudge with her elbow.

“Hey,” she said, that familiar spark in her voice. “Come on. We’ve got a surprise for you, Pumpkin.”

Nami raised an eyebrow, suspicious but curious. “A surprise?”

Y/N nodded, stepping closer. She reached out, her hand warm on Nami’s shoulder as she gently started steering her toward the far edge of the ship. “Yup. Come on, it’s worth it.”

Nami let herself be guided, casting a sideways look. “If this is a prank, I’m throwing you overboard.”

“Pfft,” Y/N grinned. “Please, if it was a prank I’d have made Usopp do the setup.”

She paused, smirk softening into something thoughtful. “Also... I really think I should change that nickname.”

“Well,” Y/N said, steering her gently toward the other side of the deck, “seeing as you come from a citrus island, I think Pumpkin is the wrong fruit to call you.”

Nami snorted. “Wow. The thought you put into this is astounding.”

“I take my nicknames very seriously,” Y/N replied with a straight face. “Which is why I’m proposing… Tangerine Queen.”

Nami gave her a side-eye. “Pass.”

“Okay, okay. What about… Zesty Babe? Or—wait—Orange Lightning!”

“Absolutely not.”

Y/N grinned wider. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m just sane,” Nami muttered.

“Fine, fine,” Y/N said, pretending to ponder as she tapped her chin. “Citrus babe? Sunkiss Sass? Marmalade Monarch? I can go all day.”

“You better not,” Nami warned, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

“Alright, alright,” Y/N relented, holding up her hands. “Pumpkin stays for now, but for the record, you’ll always be my favourite fruit."

Nami rolled her eyes. “Just get to the surprise before I--"

She stopped for below them, nestled in carefully rigged wooden planters near the stern, were tangerine trees.

Small, sturdy, sun-kissed—hers.

The very same trees she’d grown back on Cocoyasi, now swaying gently with the rhythm of the ship, their leaves bright against the deep blue sea.

Sanji leaning agasint the wall.

Zoro stood leaning against the railing, arms crossed, pretending like he wasn’t watching her reaction.

Luffy stood proudly between them all, hands on his hips, grinning like he’d grown the trees himself.

“So what do you think?” he asked, beaming. “It’s a little piece of home to take with you on our journey.”

“And I can whip up tangerine tarts anytime you want,” Sanji added smoothly.

Nami didn’t answer right away.

She stepped forward slowly, her boots soft against the deck. The breeze played with her hair as she crouched beside one of the crates. Her fingers reached out, gentle, brushing over a cluster of leaves like she couldn’t quite believe they were real.

“It’s perfect,” she said at last, voice low but steady.

No tears, but that soft, stunned kind of joy that comes when someone remembers the part of you you didn’t ask them to.

Luffy gave a little bounce in place, like he wanted to say more but was holding it in, for now. Y/N leaned against the railing beside her, arms crossed but eyes soft.

“Well,” she said, “I did consider tying a bow around them, but you know... subtlety.”

Nami snorted and shook her head, the smile lingering as she turned away from the trees.

Then her eyes flicked to Luffy, and after a quiet look shared with Sanji, Zoro and Y/N, her smile grew just a bit wider.

“Actually…” she said, stepping toward him, “we’ve got something for you, too.”

Luffy blinked. “Huh?”

“Come on, stud” Y/N grinned, already moving up toward the main deck. “Trust us.”

He followed without question, of course, because Luffy never needed much reason when it came to following his crew.

As they reached the centre of the ship, Y/N cupped her hands around her mouth. “Champ, set the main!”

“Setting the main!” Usopp called back, dashing over to the rigging.

With a few practiced tugs and a whistle of rope through pulleys, the sail unfurled. The canvas above began to unfurl with a soft fluttering thump, snapping to life as the breeze caught it and there it was.

The new Jolly Roger.

Painted bold and proud across the sail—Luffy’s straw hat perched atop the crossbones, grinning wide like it could face down the whole world and win.

Luffy's jaw dropped comically wide, a huge, unmistakable grin stretched across his face as he stared at the fresh white canvas—clean, bold, and newly painted.

He stood there, stunned, like he couldn’t quite process it. Then, true to form, he bolted across the deck and then he let out a yell of pure joy, arms flailing in the air.

Y/N looked up at the flag as it flapped in the breeze, sunlight catching the edges of the paint, and let herself smile too.

The day had stretched long and easy after that—sun-drenched and salt-sweet, the kind of day that felt like a breath after the storm.

The crew had scattered across the ship, each falling into their own rhythm. The tangerine trees swayed softly in the breeze. Nami charted their course with half a smile. Usopp was back to tinkering with something he swore wasn’t going to explode this time. Sanji was probably humming while cooking. Zoro napping, swords within reach, of course.

Y/N was perched on the back stairs, guitar balanced on her knee, thumb drifting lazily along the strings in a steady, easy rhythm, the kind of sound the ocean liked to listen to.

“Straw Hats!” came Luffy’s voice, high and bright and full of that something that always pulled them in. “All hands on deck for a cast-off ceremony!”

Y/N blinked and paused mid-strum, eyebrows lifting. She let the chords hum out beneath her fingers, one last soft echo as she stood.

A cast-off ceremony?

Y/N blinked, curiosity piqued. She gently set her guitar down beside the stairs, giving it one last affectionate tap before pushing herself to her feet.

By the time she made it to the main deck, the others had already gathered. They stood in a loose semicircle around something in the center—a barrel.

Y/N furrowed her brow, confused for a second, until Sanji stepped forward, one hand in his pocket.

“I’m gonna find the All Blue,” he said simply, and with that, he placed his foot on the barrel.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the others.

Ah… I see.

Luffy was next—of course he was. Practically bouncing in place, he slammed his foot onto the wood with all the excitement in the world.

“I’m gonna be King of the Pirates!”

Zoro followed, calm and certain. “I’m gonna be the world’s greatest swordsman.”

Nami, with a grin that could split storms, put her foot up “I’m gonna draw a map of the world.”

They all turned toward Y/N, expectant and warm. She stared for a beat too long. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

Because of her dream, the real one? It wasn’t one she was ready to say aloud. Not yet, not when it meant saying her sister’s name, not when it meant remembering what she’d left behind.

So instead, she smiled, soft, bright, with just a hint of mischief.

“I’m gonna sing in every corner of the Great Blue,” she said, planting her foot firmly on the barrel with a satisfying thud.

That left only Usopp. He hesitated, eyes flicking between them all, nerves tugging at his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he belonged. "I..."

But then—after a breath—he stepped forward and placed his foot on the barrel too.

“I’m gonna become a brave warrior of the sea!” he declared, voice wobbling at first but steady by the end.

A beat of silence followed—then they all broke into laughter, grins spreading like wildfire. It wasn’t mocking. It was something else, somethinf warm and solid.

A moment filled with pride, maybe or the kind of giddy courage that only comes when you’re standing right at the edge of everything.

Then, like a match to kindling, someone snorted and just like that, they all started laughing, chuckling, grinning, elbowing each other like kids daring fate to try them.

“This is it, crew," Luffy said, his voice steady with that unwavering spark only he seemed to have. He looked at each of them—Nami, Zoro, Usopp, Sanji and Y/N “The Grand Line.”

He grinned wide and lifted his arm high, fist clenched toward the sky. “Nothing’s gonna stand in our way! Yeahhhh!”

Usopp, Y/N, and Sanji whooped into the air alongside Luffy, their voices loud and unfiltered, carried off by the wind. Zoro just smirked, while Nami gave a small, crooked grin, cooler than the rest, but no less proud.

They were really doing it. The Grand Line. The start of something big, wild, and probably insane.

Y/N glanced around at the circle, her fingers brushing the edge of her guitar, the warmth of laughter still clinging to the air. This—this loud, ridiculous, mismatched crew— was starting to feel like home, like something worth holding on to.

And deep down, beneath the excitement and bravado, she found herself hoping—really hoping—that whatever came next, she wouldn’t lose this.

Y/N:

OMGGG WE ARE DONE WITH SEASON 1!!!! Thank you all SO SO SO SO much for reading. I'm sorry it took me so damn long to post this, I just started working and I have little time for literally anything, but at least I enjoy what I do, so I'm happy with it.

I'm debating to write a filler chapter?? Maybe some romance between Y/N and a crew member? Maybe a few headcannons of Y/N idk what do y'all think?

Once again, thank you all so so much for reading, like seriously, thank you for the support. <3<3<3<3<3<3

Divider by @cafekitsune

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2b4st4r · 25 days ago

Note

hiii gosh ur writing is even delicious then sanji’s cooking!!! if your not busy, can i req reader being annoyed with zoro’s smell? lol its just gonna seem funny and him trying to impress you, trying his best to smell good hahah the crew also shocked bcs zoro usually nonchalant but actually hes hiding smtg from you and the crew, something he denies but not sure but strong as ever, his feelings to the other swordsman in the ship which is reader <3

p/s : alsoo include sometimes when zoro is incredibly jealous of sanji always hanging out with reader bcs he smells better than him♥️

♥︎A Scent of Affection♡︎

₊˚⊹♡ Zoro x reader

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⏦ﾟ♡︎ Words: 7,074

⏦ﾟ♡︎ warnings: descriptive smell of oder, a tinny sexual joke(barely if you can call it that), minor conflict, gagging, teasing, angst if you squint. hinted f!reader!

₊˚⊹♡ A/N: Hello! Thank you so much for reading my work. I strive to make my writing engaging and heartfelt, so I hope I can achieve that with this piece as well! I know you didn't specifically request some of the elements I included, and I apologize for that, but I hope I was able to meet your requirements in at least some way. OH MY GOD I MESSED UP SM BECAUSE I READ THIS AT LIKE 1 AM AND I WROTE IT AROUND THEN TOO, i WAS SO TIRED I AM SO SORRY AND I HOPE YOU STILL LIKE IT😭 ITS STILL A GOOD STORY I THINK I JUST DIDNT REALIZE YOU WANTED READER TO BE A SWORDSMAN AND THAT YOU WANTED HIM TO HIDE IT. OH MU GOD IM GENUINELY SO SORRY (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The Grand Line, a fickle beast of an ocean, had nothing on the meticulous order you brought to the Straw Hat Pirates. As their quartermaster, you were the quiet anchor in a sea of charming chaos, a role Nami gratefully handed over the moment you stepped aboard. She swore she could finally breathe, no longer burdened by inventory lists and supply logs. You, on the other hand, thrived in it. Everything had its place, every coin was accounted for, and the Thousand Sunny ran like a well-oiled machine.

But while the ship hummed with efficiency, your heart beat in sync with a different rhythm – the steady, strong pulse of Roronoa Zoro. He was your constant, your anchor in the true sense of the word. You were rarely apart, a familiar shadow trailing his formidable presence. Training sessions were a symphony of steel and sweat, a dance you both knew intimately. Today, the clang of your cutlass meeting his Wado Ichimonji echoed across the deck, the sun glinting off your focused expressions. You parried, then spun, a swift kick landing against his side, earning a low chuckle from him. "Getting soft, swordsman?" you teased, a playful glint in your eye as he easily recovered.

Evenings were often spent sharing a bottle of sake under the vast, star-dusted sky. His arm would settle around your waist, pulling you close, and you'd rest your head against his shoulder, the rough fabric of his yukata a comforting presence. There was a quiet understanding between you, a silent language spoken in shared glances and the gentle brush of his fingers against yours. Navigation, a task that often befuddled the swordsman, became another excuse for your proximity. "No, you brute, the north is that way," you'd correct him with a laugh, guiding his hand on the map, your fingers tracing the swirling lines of the currents together.

Arguments? They were as rare as a calm day in the New World. You just... fit. Your personalities, so different on the surface, intertwined seamlessly. There was a mutual respect, an unspoken affection that made disagreements almost impossible. Almost.

Because there was one, singular, utterly perplexing flaw in the man you adored, a chink in his otherwise perfect armor: his hygiene, or rather, his alarming lack thereof. You knew pirates weren't exactly known for their fastidiousness. Most of the crew, frankly, smelled like an unholy concoction of sea salt, sweat, and various fermented goods. But Zoro… Zoro took it to an entirely new level. Sometimes, a pungent cloud seemed to precede him, a distinct aroma of stale sweat, damp clothes, and something vaguely metallic. You'd wince subtly when he leaned in close, the scent clinging to his skin, a stark contrast to the clean ocean breeze. It was a battle you waged almost daily, a silent plea for soap and water against the stubborn indifference of a man perfectly content to smell like he’d just wrestled a sea king and then rolled in a barrel of old fish.

You'd tried every subtle tactic in your arsenal. The nose scrunch became almost second nature whenever he invaded your personal space, a tiny, involuntary crinkle of disgust that you hoped he'd notice. You'd casually leave bars of fragranced soap on his makeshift bedside table, strategically placed so he couldn't possibly miss them. You even bought him a fancy new towel, plush and impossibly soft, hoping it might inspire a sudden desire for cleanliness.

"Hey, Zoro," you'd once said, your voice dripping with what you hoped was casual suggestion, "the water's nice and warm in the shower. You wanna... you know... save water?" You’d wiggled your eyebrows playfully, trying to make it sound like a seductive offer, not a desperate plea for him to wash off whatever unspeakable funk clung to him. He’d merely grunted, engrossed in polishing his swords, completely oblivious.

Another time, after a particularly sweaty training session, you’d practically draped yourself over him, feigning exhaustion. "Ugh, I'm so sticky," you'd groaned, making sure your nose was pressed firmly against his chest. You inhaled, deeply, and nearly gagged. "You know what sounds amazing right now? A long, hot shower." You'd looked up at him expectantly, your eyes wide and innocent. He’d just patted your head, oblivious to the deeper meaning. "Yeah, probably," he'd mumbled, before promptly flopping onto the deck for a nap, leaving you alone with the faint, lingering aroma of him.

You even resorted to the indirect approach. "Nami, don't you think it's a bit...ripe in here?" you'd asked loudly, knowing Zoro was within earshot, hoping a little social pressure might work. Nami, bless her heart, had just shrugged. "That's just Zoro, Y/N. You get used to it."

But you hadn't. You never did. And with every failed attempt, the tiny, almost insignificant flaw in your otherwise perfect swordsman grew into a colossal, aromatic wall between you.

Then came the day. It was after a particularly brutal island expedition, one where Zoro had reportedly wrestled a giant, mud-caked boar. He returned to the Sunny looking triumphant, but the air around him thickened with an odor so profoundly offensive it made your eyes water. It wasn’t just sweat or sea salt anymore; this was something primeval, a concoction of damp earth, stale blood, and the unmistakable, cloying sweetness of decay, as if death itself had taken up residence in his clothes. It clung to him like a second skin, a noxious aura that preceded him by several feet.

He approached you, a victorious grin on his face, clearly expecting his usual welcome. "We got enough meat to last a week!" he declared, leaning in for a kiss. You stiffened, your entire body recoiling almost imperceptibly. You managed a weak smile, turning your head just enough so his lips brushed your cheek instead of your mouth. "That's... great, Zoro," you mumbled, already inching away. He tried again later, reaching for your hand, but you suddenly found an urgent need to adjust the rigging. When he wrapped an arm around your waist while you were sorting supplies, you subtly tensed, feigning preoccupation. You just couldn't bring yourself to return his affection, not with that stench assaulting your senses.

The Quartermaster's office, usually your sanctuary, felt too small, too filled with the lingering echo of his presence. You needed an escape, a haven for your suffering nostrils. And that haven, ironically, was the one place Zoro actively avoided: the kitchen.

You found yourself gravitating towards the galley with increasing frequency, drawn by a scent so utterly, divinely opposite to Zoro’s current state. Stepping into Sanji’s domain was like entering a different dimension. It was a symphony of warm spices—cinnamon and nutmeg—mingling with the savory aroma of roasting meats, the sweet, comforting hint of baking bread, and the clean, bright scent of citrus and fresh herbs. Sanji, ever the gentleman, always smelled impeccably of a light, expensive cologne, mixed with faint undertones of his latest culinary masterpiece.

You’d linger by the counter, feigning interest in his cooking, inhaling deeply. "Sanji, what are you making? It smells incredible!" you'd exclaim, your voice perhaps a little too enthusiastic. He’d preen, of course, but you didn't care. Your nose was finally getting the reprieve it so desperately craved. You’d even found yourself engaging in longer conversations with the cook, something you rarely did before, just for the sheer relief of being in a fragrant, non-Zoro-scented environment. It was a strange sort of betrayal, spending so much time with the one person Zoro actively despised, but your nasal passages demanded it.

Your sensitive little nose just couldn't handle Zoro right now, so the entire day had been dedicated to a strategic avoidance maneuver, primarily involving Sanji and his aromatic kitchen. You'd helped him peel potatoes, chop vegetables, and even stirred a simmering stew, all while basking in the fragrant glory of the galley. Sanji, of course, was in his element, delighted by your prolonged presence. He'd even whipped up a special lemon tart just for you, which you ate slowly, savoring the citrusy tang that cut through the lingering phantom stench of Zoro.

As dusk began to settle, casting long shadows across the deck, you finally ventured out. The air felt cooler, and you hoped the sea breeze had worked its magic on Zoro. You spotted him immediately, perched on his usual spot on the railing, fast asleep. A soft smile touched your lips. He looked so peaceful when he wasn't radiating an invisible, odoriferous cloud. You crept closer, intending to gently wake him, maybe even steal a quick, cautious kiss.

But as you leaned in, the full force of it hit you. The smell hadn't dissipated; if anything, it had intensified, becoming more concentrated in the still evening air. It was a potent mix of stale sweat, the damp earth from the expedition, and a new, unsettling note of… something vaguely like unwashed dog and fermented algae. Your nose, already on high alert, simply couldn't take it. You let out a small, involuntary whimper of disgust, quickly clamping a hand over your mouth.

Zoro's eyes snapped open, green depths fixing on you. "Y/N? What's wrong?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He reached out, his hand gently touching your arm, and the proximity was too much. You recoiled as if burned, stumbling back a step.

His sleepy expression morphed into one of confusion, then hurt. He sat up, pushing himself off the railing. "Y/N?" he repeated, his voice sharper now, eyes narrowed. "Are you avoiding me?"

You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how long you'd spent in Sanji's company, how many times you'd dodged Zoro's attempts at affection. The warmth of the kitchen, the pleasant scent of spices, and Sanji's smooth cologne had been a blissful reprieve, but now, facing Zoro's bewildered and wounded gaze, you realized the extent of your subconscious betrayal.

"No, I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. How could you tell him, the man you loved more than anything, that he smelled like a forgotten swamp monster? The truth, as much as it choked you, was suddenly undeniable. And it was going to hurt.

You plastered on a wobbly smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Just thinking about... how good Sanji's dinner is going to be! Gotta go, he probably needs help." You practically sprinted away, the scent of him fading with every hurried step, your stomach churning in protest. You didn't dare look back, afraid of what you'd see in his expression.

Zoro watched you go, a knot tightening in his chest. Your smile had been forced, your words rushed, and the way you’d recoiled… it stung. He hadn’t missed your increasing closeness to the curly-browed cook lately either, or the way you’d been subtly (or not so subtly) avoiding him. He grunted, a low, frustrated sound, and punched the railing beside him. He wasn't stupid. Something was clearly bothering you, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. You two never argued, never had a reason to. This sudden distance, the way you flinched from his touch, was a far worse blow than any enemy's sword. He spent the rest of the evening staring out at the ocean, his mind replaying your odd behavior, a growing sense of unease settling over him.

You practically dove for the nearest trash can the moment you were out of Zoro's sight, bracing your hands against the rim. A dry heave wracked your body, the phantom stench still clinging to your nasal passages, making your stomach lurch. You stayed there for a good thirty seconds, just breathing, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"Y/N-chan! Are you alright?!" Sanji's voice, laced with genuine concern, cut through your misery. He was by your side in an instant, his hand gently resting on your back. "What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost... or eaten Usopp's cooking."

You slowly straightened up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Your eyes were glistening, and you knew your face was probably blotchy. The sheer frustration, the guilt of avoiding Zoro, and the persistent, overwhelming smell finally converged into a single, overwhelming wave.

"It's... it's Zoro," you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. "He just... he smells so bad, Sanji! Like death! Like a swamp monster that's been marinating in old fish guts and forgotten socks!" The words tumbled out, a dam breaking. "I can't... I can't even stand to be near him right now! My nose feels like it's going to shrivel up and fall off!"

You squeezed your eyes shut, a fresh wave of despair washing over you. "And I feel awful! I love him, Sanji, I really do! But every time he comes near me, I just... I want to gag! I can't kiss him, I can't even hug him! I've tried everything, leaving soap, hinting, asking him to shower with me – nothing works! He's completely oblivious, and I don't know how to tell him without hurting his feelings!" Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt a tear finally escape, tracing a path down your cheek. "I don't want to hurt him, but I can't keep pretending I don't notice!"

Sanji listened, his expression unusually serious. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and gently offered it to you. "Here, Y/N-chan. Blow your delicate nose."

You took it, dabbing at your eyes. "I just don't know what to do."

He sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. "Listen, Y/N-chan. That moss-headed brute... he's a swordsman, not a sensitive flower. You think a few blunt words are going to shatter his fragile ego?" He scoffed, a tiny puff of smoke escaping his lips. "Please. That Marimo has the emotional range of a particularly stubborn rock. Feelings? He probably thinks they're a type of fish."

He paused, then softened his tone slightly, his gaze unwavering. "Look, Y/N-chan. You're too kind, too gentle for your own good sometimes. You don't want to hurt him, and that's admirable. But sometimes, even for love, you have to be honest. If you don't tell him, he'll never know, and this... this little 'odor problem' of his," he waved a dismissive hand, "will just keep getting worse. And you, my dear, will suffer in silence. Is that what you want?"

He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Besides," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "he's a simpleton. He won't connect the dots between your 'gagging' and his... eau de boar. He'll just think you're being dramatic. You have to tell him, clearly, directly. And if he gets his panties in a twist, well, that's just a clear indication he needs a good scrubbing anyway." He winked. "Trust me, Y/N-chan. A man who loves you will appreciate your honesty, even if it's about his personal aroma. Especially when it means he gets to be closer to you without you running for the hills."

He paused again, a more tender look on his face. "You're clearly distressed, Y/N-chan. And frankly, this kitchen is smelling better than ever with you in it. But the point is, you don't deserve to be uncomfortable around the person you love. And if that brute loves you even half as much as he pretends to, he'll listen."

You nodded slowly, Sanji's words sinking in. He was right. You couldn't keep doing this. Your happiness, and frankly, your sinuses, depended on it. "You're right, Sanji," you said, a newfound resolve firming your voice. "I'll do it. After dinner." You stood a little taller, a determined glint in your eye that made Sanji raise a curious eyebrow. He couldn't tell if this sudden burst of confidence was genuine, a temporary surge, or a desperate act, but he merely gave a slow nod. "That's the spirit, Y/N-chan. Go get 'em."

The aroma of Sanji's cooking filled the galley, a comforting blend of savory and sweet that usually made your mouth water. Tonight, however, anticipation was laced with dread. You sat at the table, forcing polite conversation with Robin and Usopp, your gaze drifting to the galley door every few seconds.

Then, he walked in.

It hit you like a physical blow – a wave of dense, fetid air that seemed to absorb all the pleasant culinary scents. It was the same reeking cocktail of damp earth, stale sweat, and something vaguely rotten, amplified by the confined space of the galley. Your sensitive nose, already on high alert, felt assaulted. Your eyes immediately began to water, and you fought the urge to gag, pressing your lips together in a firm line.

Around the table, the others seemed largely unaffected. Luffy was already shoveling food into his mouth, utterly oblivious. Franky was telling a loud story, his booming voice untroubled. Brook chuckled lightly, playing a soft tune.

But you weren't alone in your discomfort. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nami subtly pinch her nostrils for a fleeting second before composing herself. Chopper, with his acute sense of smell, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his nose twitching, a faint green tinge to his fur. Sanji, who was serving dishes, exhaled slowly through his mouth, his usual perfect posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. They noticed, yes, but their reactions were muted compared to the violent revolt of your own senses. They were simply more accustomed to the "Zoro-smell."

Zoro, completely unaware of the olfactory assault he was unleashing, moved to his usual seat beside you. He pulled out his chair, and the slight gust of air that accompanied his movement brought a fresh, concentrated waft of his personal miasma. He then, as was his habit, settled his hand on your thigh under the table, a familiar, comforting gesture that usually brought a warmth to your chest. Tonight, it just made your skin prickle. You forced a tight smile, your gaze fixed on your plate, trying desperately to focus on the delicious food in front of you and not the suffocating cloud that had enveloped you. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, but you knew this was it. After dinner. You just had to get through dinner first.

The meal, a delicious, hearty stew Sanji had painstakingly prepared, sat before you, steaming invitingly. Usually, your plate would be clean within minutes, but tonight, it remained largely untouched. Each spoonful you attempted to lift to your mouth felt like a monumental effort. The cloying, heavy scent emanating from Zoro was a physical barrier, turning the savory aroma of the stew into something vaguely nauseating. Your stomach churned, and your throat felt tight.

You tried to distract yourself, focusing intently on the condensation forming on your water glass, counting the subtle reflections of the galley lights. Luffy, ever the oblivious eating machine, reached across Zoro to snatch a piece of meat from his plate, a move that brought another pungent waft directly into your breathing space. You swallowed hard, a tiny, silent gasp escaping you, and quickly took a long, desperate sip of water.

Zoro, between bites, squeezed your thigh gently, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. "Not hungry, Y/N?" he rumbled, his voice a low thrum against your side. You felt his eyes on you, a flicker of concern in their depths.

You forced another of your flimsy smiles, shaking your head just slightly. "Just... not feeling it tonight," you mumbled, pushing a chunk of potato around your bowl with your spoon. You couldn't meet his gaze. The thought of bringing anything to your mouth felt impossible. The food, so beautifully prepared, might as well have been a plate of raw, unidentifiable swamp creatures. Every fiber of your being was focused on simply not gagging, on not drawing attention to the sheer, unadulterated revulsion you were fighting. The conversation around you flowed, but you heard it as if through a thick, cottony fog, your senses entirely overwhelmed by the invisible, oppressive cloud that was your beloved swordsman.

As soon as Zoro pushed back his chair, a silent signal that he was finished, you saw your chance. Without a moment's hesitation, you scraped the entirety of your untouched stew onto Luffy's already overflowing plate. "Not hungry!" you mumbled, a little too quickly, before practically leaping from your seat. "Zoro! We… we need to talk!"

You darted after him, catching up just as he was about to step out onto the deck. "Just a minute!" you whispered urgently, pulling on the sleeve of his yukata. You steered him away from the bustling galley, past the main deck where Franky was tinkering, and towards the quiet, secluded stern of the ship, near the rudder. It was a spot where you often shared quiet moments, a place of privacy.

The night air was cool against your flushed face, but it did little to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You turned to face him, the words you'd rehearsed with Sanji suddenly lodged firmly in your throat. He stood before you, a towering, silent presence, and despite the fresh air, that inescapable scent still clung to him. You opened your mouth, then closed it, your jaw working uselessly. Your mind raced, trying to find the right words, the gentlest way to phrase it, but all that came out was a strangled sound. You were frozen, suddenly terrified of the hurt you knew your words would cause.

Zoro watched you, his green eyes narrowed slightly in the dim light, a rare furrow in his brow. He was used to your decisive nature, your clear communication. This stammering, this visible distress, was completely out of character. He crossed his arms, his posture relaxed, but his gaze was sharp, probing.

"Y/N?" he said, his voice low, a hint of concern beneath its usual gruffness. "What's wrong? You've been acting weird all day. And at dinner... you looked like you were about to be sick." He took a step closer, and instinctively, you took a tiny step back. His eyes sharpened further, catching your subtle recoil. "Did someone do something?" he pressed, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, ready for a fight. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head vehemently, finally managing to force a sound past your tight throat. "No! No, it's not that! It's just... it's just..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at him, your hands fluttering helplessly in the space between you. The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, but they felt too cruel, too blunt. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, wishing you were anywhere but here, wishing for a sudden storm, a giant sea monster, anything to interrupt this agonizing moment.

"It's just what, Y/N?" Zoro asked, his voice losing some of its concern, replaced by a growing impatience. He was clearly getting frustrated by your inability to articulate. "Spit it out."

You hesitated, biting your lip, then finally, the words burst out in a rush, sounding harsher than you intended. "You stink, Zoro!"

The moment the words left your mouth, you winced, instantly regretting the bluntness. You plunged into a frantic explanation, hoping to soften the blow. "No, no, I don't mean like, just a little bit! I mean you really stink! Like, you smell like a giant, rotting sea monster that’s been rolling in muddy swamps and then baked in the sun for a week! My nose, Zoro, it's so sensitive, and I just can't… I literally can't breathe sometimes when you're close! And tonight, at dinner, I couldn't even eat! It was like trying to swallow death itself!"

You gestured wildly, feeling your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and genuine distress. "I've tried everything! Leaving soap, hinting, asking you to shower with me – you just don't get it! It's so bad, Zoro, and I love you, I really do, but I can't even kiss you right now without wanting to gag! And I feel terrible saying this, but it's true! I've been avoiding you all day just because of it, spending time with Sanji just so my nose could have a break, and it's awful, I know, but I can't help it!" The more you talked, the more you realized how awful it sounded, each desperate word digging you deeper into a hole. You trailed off, breathless, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Zoro stood utterly still, his arms still crossed, his expression a mask of unreadable shock. His eyes, usually so sharp and direct, seemed to lose their focus for a moment, as if he were trying to process a language he'd never heard before. Your words, sharp and raw with genuine frustration, hung in the air between you. He didn't yell, he didn't even get angry in the way you'd expected. Instead, a slow, dawning realization crept onto his face, followed by something akin to deep, profound bewilderment.

He blinked once, slowly, then twice. "I... I stink?" he mumbled, his voice surprisingly quiet, devoid of its usual gruffness. He actually lifted his arm and, very subtly, took a sniff of his own armpit, his brow furrowing in confusion. He couldn't smell it. Not like you described. To him, he just smelled like... him.

Then, the pieces clicked into place: your sudden distance, your odd behavior at dinner, the way you’d flinched from his touch earlier. The realization, delivered with such painful honesty, hit him not as an insult, but as an undeniable truth he had been completely blind to. His gaze met yours, and for the first time, you saw not anger, but a flicker of genuine hurt, quickly followed by a rare blush that crept up his neck and stained his cheeks.

"You... you avoided me?" he asked, the hurt in his voice more pronounced now. "Because... because I smell?" His usual bravado seemed to deflate slightly, leaving him looking... almost vulnerable. The idea that his presence, something he assumed brought you comfort, was actually causing you such distress was clearly a shock. He looked utterly bewildered, like a child who'd just been told his favorite toy was actually a monster.

He dropped his arms, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. He finally seemed to grasp the full extent of your unspoken agony. "And you didn't... you couldn't tell me?" he finished, the question laced with a strange mixture of confusion and a very un-Zoro-like hint of disappointment.

You saw the hurt in his eyes, and a fresh wave of guilt washed over you. "I'm so sorry, Zoro! I really am! I didn't want to hurt your feelings! I tried to hint, I swear! I just... I couldn't find the right way to say it without sounding mean, and it just kept getting worse, and my nose... it just can't take it anymore! I feel horrible, truly, but I also just want to be able to stand next to you without feeling like I'm going to pass out!" Your voice was a jumbled mess of apologies and desperate explanations, your hands wringing together.

Despite the lingering, potent scent of him, Zoro took a step closer. He reached out, his large, calloused hand settling gently on your shoulder. The warmth of his touch was a familiar comfort, even through the unwelcome odor. "Hey," he rumbled, his voice low and steady, cutting through your frantic apologies. "Take a breath, Y/N."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. He could see the genuine anguish on your face, the true depth of your guilt. It wasn't an accusation; it was a desperate plea.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that was surprisingly patient. "So that's why you've been glued to the cook all day," he muttered, a flicker of irritation crossing his features at the thought of Sanji, but it quickly faded, replaced by a more dominant understanding. "And why you were practically gagging at dinner." He ran a hand through his green hair, looking slightly sheepish. "Guess I didn't notice." His voice was devoid of anger, replaced by a gruff acceptance. The thought that he, Zoro, had been unknowingly causing you distress was clearly a new and perplexing concept for him.

"Alright," he said, his grip on your shoulder firm but gentle. "You don't have to apologize anymore. I get it. You wouldn't say something like this if it wasn't a real problem." He paused, a faint, uncharacteristic blush rising on his cheeks again. "So... I smell like a 'rotting sea monster'?" He repeated your words, a hint of dry humor in his tone, though his eyes remained serious. "That bad, huh?"

You nodded miserably, unable to lie. "Yes," you whispered, your voice small. "That bad."

He grunted. "Fine then. Lead the way, Y/N." He took his hand off your shoulder and instead reached for your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Show me where the soap is. If it's bothering you that much, then it's a problem we fix. No point in you avoiding me because of something as stupid as this." He looked at you then, a faint, rare smile touching his lips. "Wouldn't want my Quartermaster gagging every time I'm around. That'd just be a waste of good training time, wouldn't it?"

You stared at him, relief washing over you in a powerful wave. He wasn't mad. He understood. A watery laugh bubbled up from your chest, and without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. The smell was still there, strong and undeniable, but now, mixed with his unexpected understanding and genuine concern, it seemed a little less unbearable.

"Thank you, Zoro," you murmured into his yukata, squeezing him tight. "Thank you." You pulled back, a genuine, joyful smile finally gracing your lips. "The showers are this way! And don't worry, I've got plenty of good-smelling soap!" You turned, tugging him gently by the hand, eager to finally bridge the aromatic chasm between you.

You practically dragged Zoro towards the shower room, a spring in your step you hadn't felt all day. The door hissed open, revealing the steamy, surprisingly spacious room. Zoro, true to form, just stood there, looking mildly bewildered.

"Alright, swordsman," you chirped, reaching for a bottle of brightly scented body wash. "Let's get this done." You squeezed a generous dollop into your palm, the sweet scent of citrus and pine already filling the air.

Zoro raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, this is how you 'save water,' huh?" he grunted, a smirk playing on his lips. "Didn't realize you were so eager, Quartermaster."

You rolled your eyes, a genuine laugh escaping you. "Oh, hush, you," you playfully swatted his arm. "Just hold still." You began to lather the soap onto his broad shoulders, feeling the rough texture of his skin under your hands. The warm water sluiced over him, carrying away the offensive smell, slowly replaced by the fresh, clean scent of the soap. He stood patiently, a rare quietness about him, enjoying your touch.

As you worked, scrubbing away the grime of the boar hunt, the earlier tension began to dissipate, replaced by a comfortable intimacy. You rinsed his hair, the water turning slightly muddy before clearing.

"Hey, Y/N," Zoro said, his voice softer than usual as you ran your hands over his chest, ensuring every inch was clean. "About earlier."

You looked up at him, your hands pausing.

"You shouldn't feel bad about telling me," he continued, his gaze direct and serious. "About... how I smell. You should never feel like you can't tell me anything, Y/N. Especially not something that's bothering you that much." He reached out, his now-clean hand gently cupping your cheek. "I'm a brute, yeah, and maybe I don't always pick up on hints." A faint smirk touched his lips. "But you're my Quartermaster. My partner. Your feelings matter. You just... need to be open with me."

You leaned into his touch, a wave of affection washing over you. "I know," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "I just... I'm so used to being the one who has everything under control, who doesn't show weakness. And I didn't want to hurt you."

He shook his head slightly. "You won't. Not by being honest."

You rose on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his now-clean forehead. The familiar scent of him, finally clean, was a welcome relief. "Okay," you murmured, pulling back slightly. "Then we make a deal. I'll work on being more open with my feelings, and you... you work on your hygiene, okay?" You poked his chest playfully.

Zoro grunted, a rare, genuine smile gracing his features. "Deal." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a kiss finally unmarred by any lingering odor. "And if I forget," he added, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "you just tell me. Bluntly."

The tension broken, the air between you was clear, both figuratively and literally. You spent a few more minutes in comfortable silence, the sound of the running water filling the small room, a new understanding settling between you. Communication and hygiene. Two things you both promised to work on, for the sake of your relationship and, perhaps more importantly for you, your sensitive nose.

The weeks that followed were a testament to Zoro's stubborn dedication, a trait usually reserved for training or navigating (with your help, of course). The change was gradual, subtle at first, then undeniably prominent. The lingering, offensive cloud that once surrounded him had thinned, replaced by something… unexpectedly pleasant.

You first noticed it after a particularly rigorous sparring session. As he leaned in to catch his breath, a faint, clean scent wafting from him made you pause. It wasn't just the lingering scent of soap from his morning shower; there was something else, something familiar. You narrowed your eyes, a curious smile playing on your lips.

The crew, however, was in a state of quiet, collective shock.

"Did anyone else notice... Zoro smells like flowers?" Usopp whispered to Chopper one afternoon, sniffing the air cautiously as the swordsman passed by.

Chopper's nose twitched, his eyes wide. "He smells like... Y/N!" he squeaked, his little hooves flying to cover his mouth, as if he'd just revealed a great secret.

Nami, who’d previously accepted Zoro’s aroma as an unchangeable fact of pirate life, would occasionally stop mid-sentence, take a discreet sniff, and then offer him a genuinely bewildered look. "Zoro," she'd once ventured, "are you... wearing cologne?"

He'd merely grunted, feigning disinterest, and walked away, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. He was trying his best, spurred on by the image of your proud smile. He'd even started sneaking into your cabin, carefully pilfering your deodorant, the kind with a light, citrusy scent, and a discreet spritz of your favorite perfume. He liked how it smelled on you, and now, it was starting to smell like him too. He thought he was being subtle, but the soft, feminine fragrance, mixed with the faintest hint of his own natural musk, was undeniably distinct.

You, of course, noticed immediately. A quiet thrill went through you every time he came near. That faint, sweet, and distinctly your scent mingling with his own was a constant, delightful reminder of his efforts. You'd sometimes catch him sniffing his own arm casually, a subtle frown of concentration on his face, as if ensuring he was still up to par. He'd look up, catch your eye, and then quickly look away, a rare, almost shy glint in his gaze. He wasn't just doing it for you; he was doing it to make you proud, and that simple fact warmed your heart more than any fresh scent ever could.

The "rotting sea monster" had been replaced by a surprisingly fragrant swordsman, and the transformation was nothing short of miraculous. The entire crew, though bewildered, secretly appreciated it. And you? You couldn't be prouder.

The crew's subtle reactions soon escalated into outright teasing. It started with playful jabs, usually when Zoro was just out of earshot.

"Hey, did anyone else notice the moss-head smells less like a swamp and more like... a fancy courtesan now?" Sanji would sneer, meticulously flicking ash from his cigarette.

Usopp, ever the instigator, took it a step further one morning during breakfast. "Zoro, you been hanging out in Nami's closet? You're smelling mighty floral today!" he chortled, nearly choking on his orange juice.

Even Luffy, usually oblivious, joined in. "Shishishi! Zoro smells good now! Like Y/N!" he exclaimed, pointing a jam-covered finger at him.

Zoro's eye would twitch, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He’d usually just glare, his hand hovering over his swords, silencing them with sheer menace. But even he couldn't hide the faint flush that would creep up his neck. He'd pretend indifference, but a flicker of self-consciousness, entirely new for him, would cross his face.

You, however, couldn't have been prouder. Every time you caught a whiff of that clean, subtly sweet scent, your heart swelled. It wasn't just about the smell; it was about the effort, the clear sign that he had listened, that your feelings mattered enough for him to change something so fundamental about himself.

One evening, as the two of you stood at the bow, watching the waves crash against the Sunny, you leaned your head against his arm, inhaling deeply. "You know," you began softly, your voice filled with genuine warmth, "you smell really good, Zoro. Like, really, really good."

He grunted, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but you felt the subtle shift of his weight, a slight stiffening. "Hmph. It's just... soap."

You chuckled, nudging him gently with your head. "No, it's more than that. I can tell you're actually trying. And I really appreciate it. It makes me so happy." You lifted your head, looking up at him, your eyes sparkling with affection. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze. His usual stoic expression softened, a rare, tender look in his green eyes. He reached out, his calloused hand gently cupping your cheek. "Course it does," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your skin. "You're my Quartermaster, aren't you? Wouldn't want you gagging every time I'm around. That'd just be... unproductive." He attempted to sound gruff, but the corner of his lips quirked into a faint, almost shy smile. "And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "I prefer it when you're not avoiding me. Especially for something as stupid as this."

He pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist, and this time, there was no hesitation, no inward recoil from you. You nestled into his side, inhaling the comforting, clean scent of him, a scent that now symbolized not just his presence, but his quiet, unwavering love for you.

The "new and improved" Zoro became a running gag among the Straw Hats, but one always delivered with an undercurrent of genuine, if bewildered, affection. Luffy would still randomly sniff the air around Zoro and declare, "You smell like Y/N now, Zoro! Shishishi!" Usopp would tell exaggerated tales of Zoro's "secret stash of floral waters," much to the swordsman's visible irritation. Even Sanji, despite his inherent rivalry, would occasionally offer a backhanded compliment like, "Looks like the moss-head finally learned the meaning of personal hygiene. Took him long enough, didn't it, Y/N-chan?"

It was this last jab, however, that usually prompted your defense.

"Leave him alone, you two!" you'd retort, stepping between Zoro and his tormentors, a playful but firm glint in your eye. You'd link your arm through Zoro's, pulling him closer, your fingers lacing with his. "He's trying, and that's all that matters." You'd lean your head against his shoulder, openly inhaling his now pleasant scent. "Besides," you'd add with a smug smile, "I happen to like how he smells now."

Zoro, for his part, would just grunt, a barely perceptible curve to his lips, allowing you to pull him along. The open affection, the casual touches, the hand-holding, the spontaneous kisses – these had all returned with a vengeance. You'd found yourself leaning into him more often during quiet moments on deck, your hand instinctively finding his whenever you walked past each other. The physical barrier that the scent had created was gone, replaced by an even deeper level of intimacy.

One sunny afternoon, as you sat on the deck, meticulously charting a course, Zoro lay beside you, his head resting on your lap. Your fingers idly traced the scar over his eye, reveling in the clean scent of his hair. Luffy and Usopp were a few feet away, engaged in a dramatic retelling of a past adventure, complete with sound effects.

"And then," Usopp boomed, "Zoro charged, smelling like a week-old fish market!"

Luffy snorted with laughter. "Yeah! But now he smells like Y/N!" He leaned over, sniffing dramatically in Zoro's direction, then exaggeratedly gagged. "Whoa! Too much Y/N! It's gross!"

You rolled your eyes, but then you felt Zoro stir against your lap. He slowly sat up, his green eyes fixed on Luffy and Usopp, a dangerous glint in them. For a moment, you thought he was finally going to unleash his wrath.

Instead, he turned to you, a rare, uncharacteristic softness in his gaze. He leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your lips. It was a kiss full of quiet promise, of comfort, and of newfound understanding. When he pulled back, a faint smirk played on his lips. "Guess it is a good thing I smell like you then, Quartermaster," he rumbled, loud enough for Luffy and Usopp to hear. "Means you'll always find me."

The two pranksters gasped, then dissolved into horrified squawks of "Gross!" and "Get a room!" but you barely heard them. You just smiled, a deep, contented warmth spreading through your chest. The small, often-overlooked detail of hygiene had, ironically, led to a profound shift, cementing the bond between you and your swordsman in a way neither of you could have anticipated. He was still the fierce, directionally challenged brute you loved, but now, he was also the surprisingly sweet-smelling partner who listened, who changed, and who loved you enough to face his own shortcomings. And for that, your heart, and your sensitive nose, were eternally grateful.

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i am genuinely so sorry for messing up this request dawg, if you want me to rewrite it i get it😭

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golbrocklovely · 4 months ago

Text

only a dream // sam and colby

A/N: i haven't written a fic since october of 2024..... so i might be just a twinge rusty lol but hopefully you enjoy this one. at least i'm coming back to you with some smut. also fun fact, this actually came to me in a dream, and i just had to write it bc it was too good. lmk what you think and hope you enjoy ;)

prompt: you, sam, and colby decide to investigate an old haunted hotel, famous for its fourth floor incubus. you were nervous to sleep over, but knowing sam and colby would be with you made you feel safe. or at least, that's what you thought. || sam and colby x fem!reader

trigger warning: SMUT (but no actual sex), thigh riding, cursing, no solby, talks of demons/incubus so be weary of that if that isn't your thing, haunted location, mentions of: baby, good girl, sexual language, little bit of angst, not a happy ending (but not a bad ending either??)

word count: 3785

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I cannot believe you guys persuaded me to sleep here tonight." I grumbled, throwing my bag down on the bed.

Sam laughed, "Well, at least you don't have the room Colby's staying in. The Haunted Prostitute's room."

"Hey now," Colby interjected, scrunching his face. "Her name is Lady Mandy and she was really cool when we did the Este's Method in her room."

I smirked, side-eyeing Sam, "He's just upset she asked for $20 from him but only $10 from you to stay the night."

Sam deadpanned. "That's because she knows he's easy."

"Or that you're not a good lay." Colby quipped.

Sam looked at him smugly. "I've never had any complaints."

"Can you two stop bickering and tell me what's up with this room..." I glanced around it quickly, "Other than it being old and a bit dusty?"

"This whole floor is known for having a sexual demon on it, an incubus possibly, that likes touching female guests. This room has had multiple female guests say they’ve been touched or scratched." Sam stated.

I sighed, "Awesome. Love that for me."

"Well, we have been on this floor all night, and nothing has happened to you physically. The only thing was those words said to you during the Este’s Method." Sam mentioned.

I shrugged, "Yeah, other than feeling like I had eyes on me. And nothing was said to me in the last EVP session we did either. But still... I don't like being on this floor by myself."

Colby gathered his bag, chiming in. "We are both gonna be upstairs. Just one to two flights away. If you get scared, I'm in room 505 and he's in room 610. You have our spare keys, right?"

I confirmed, "Yep. And you have mine?"

They both nodded. Sam continued, "Okay, let's head up. And remember to set up the time lapse camera once you're in for the night."

I gave a thumbs up lazily. "Gotcha."

Sam and Colby waved goodbye, Colby being the last to leave. "Hey, are you sure you don't mind being here by yourself? If you can't do it, we'll understand."

"No. I'll be okay. But if not, you'll be seeing me." I remarked, only semi-jokingly.

He inhaled. "Okay. I will probably be up for a while, so let me know if you need anything."

"I will. Thanks, Colby." I half-heartedly smiled.

He grinned, his dimples appearing, "Don't mention it."

He closed the door softly. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my beating heart.

I wasn't sure if it was beating because of the anxiety of sleeping in a possibly haunted room or the fact that Colby smiled at me like that.

It was a weird feeling, having a crush on both your friends. I had known them for years, seen them go through deep relationships and random hook ups. And now was the first time we were all single together.

There was never a time that my feelings for them weren’t here; always just under the surface. I pushed them to the side often because I would rather keep our friendship, that I held so close to my heart, alive and well than fuck it up with a relationship. My past dating history showed I wasn't ready for a new one, so pining for them from afar was my only choice. The safest choice.

But this also meant that because I liked them so much, I would do almost anything for them. Including going to haunted locations that I should not be in whatsoever.

I exhaled dramatically, flopping down onto the bed.

All things considered, this room wasn't the worst. Neither was this hotel for that matter.

I had seen the places Sam and Colby had gone to over the years. And there were much scarier places than this. The lore for this hotel was intriguing; especially this apparent incubus that the owner raved about, but nothing ever showed it besides a few choice words during the Estes Method. The lack of activity in this place is why the boys thought about doing time lapse cameras in our rooms to see if anything is captured while we slept. A cool idea, but not one I was looking forward to.

If anything shows up on that camera in the morning, I'm going to drop dead. Or at least shit my pants.

I pulled out my pjs from my suitcase, along with my carrying case of bathroom essentials. I trudged into the bathroom, flipped on the dull fluorescent light, and began to get ready for bed.

It was nerve wracking knowing that we were the only ones in the hotel, minus a stray two or three other guests all the way down on the first floor. The owners of this small hotel gave us an all-access pass during their off season to come in and investigate, which led to us having the whole place basically to ourselves. That was great in a way because it meant no one was going to interrupt our investigation.

But being in a hotel and not seeing anyone around felt like a liminal space. It also didn't help that the rooms we were staying in clearly hadn't had guests in them for months. The owners saved them just for us.

I finished brushing my teeth and washing my face, quickly changing into my clothes for bed; a big shirt and comfy sleep shorts. The room wasn't too cold or hot, thank God, so sleeping in these would be just fine.

I laid in bed for a while, scrolling through every app on my phone. I was nervous to sleep, unsure of what was to happen during the night. I prayed that nothing would, even if that meant Sam and Colby's video would be boring for fans.

Once I could feel sleep creeping up on me, I got out of bed begrudgingly and set up the time lapse camera. I crawled into bed, turned out the light, and stared at the ceiling. In the corner of the room, I could see the tiny red light of the camera, letting me know it was filming me. I turned over onto my side, closed my eyes, and somehow dozed off.

Because of how silent my room was, the littlest bit of noise was going to wake me. However, I didn't imagine I would hear my door opening and closing.

I popped my eyes open, my heart thrumming nervously. My body was cold with fear as I laid frozen.

"Y/N... you awake?" I heard a voice whisper.

I peaked out of the corner of my eye. Two figures stood at the end of my bed. I reached for the light next to me, flicking it on.

It was Sam and Colby, staring at me with semi-worried and tired expressions. I exhaled deeply, shaking my head.

"Holy shit guys. You almost gave me a heart attack!" I whisper-yelled.

"Sorry. We didn't mean to scare you. But... we gotta sleep in here tonight." Sam blurted out, coming around to one side of my bed.

"What why?" I mumbled, putting my head back down on the pillow, annoyed.

"There was some freaky stuff happening in both our rooms. Neither one of us can sleep, so we figured that we would just sleep in here with you." He explained, getting into bed behind me.

"Are the both of you sharing this bed with me?" I questioned sleepily.

"Yeah, if you don't mind." Colby replied, getting in on the other side of me; the boys sandwiching me in.

I yawned, "Whatever. You're lucky it's a king size bed."

Colby turned out the light, placing his head down on the pillow. "Night." He whispered. Sam followed suit, mumbling a 'goodnight'.

I hummed, falling asleep immediately.

I wasn't sure how long I slept, but I felt comfortable and safe squished between Sam and Colby. No dreams came, but when I stirred awake, I didn't feel all that rested. My body was warm, heat radiating from my cheeks and face.

I felt a light fan of air hit my face, a body very close to mine. A leg was tangled in between my own, a knee brushing my lower thigh. Behind me, another body was pressed against me, our backs touching.

"Y/N..." A voice murmured lowly.

I squinted one eye open, my vision adjusting to the darkness of the room; the only light coming from the moon peeking through the curtains. My eyes fluttered, and once they opened fully, I was face-to-face with Colby.

"Colby?" I said groggily.

"Were you having a nightmare? You were making some... weird noises in your sleep." He asked.

I muttered, "No. Wasn't really dreaming."

He shook his head, moving on, "Even though we didn't get that much evidence, this place does feel odd."

I agreed, "Yeah."

His eyes softened. "How does this room make you feel?"

"Um..." I cleared my throat, waking up a bit more. "Not as bad as the other rooms, I guess."

"That's good. You know, you had me worried there. After the Estes Method." He admitted, moving an inch closer.

I furrowed my brow, "Really? Why?"

"When you and Sam were talking about the words that were coming through, that lined up with sex demon... you looked really scared." Colby informed, his eyes meeting mine.

I was surprised, "I did? Hmm... I mean, it was creepy to hear my own name come through."

"What were the words that concerned you again?" He queried.

As I went to say them, Sam turned over in his sleep, his arm draping over my hip lazily. He exhaled deeply, a light snore leaving his lips. "It was my name, 'desire', 'tonight', and 'pleasure'."

"That's right. That is creepy." Colby frowned.

I snickered, "Right? No thanks."

He smirked, "Well you don't have to worry. Me and Sam are here to protect you."

I bit my lip, my eyes fluttering at his words. "That's sweet of you to say."

"We always want to make you happy, just like you make us." He responded, his tone sincere.

"You do. You both mean so much to me. Our friendship is everything to me." I answered candidly.

Colby grew quiet for a moment, the air suddenly feeling thick. I was growing dreary again, the silence lulling me back to sleep.

"Is that why you pretend to not have feelings for us?"

My breath hitched in my throat, my heart skipping a beat. I popped my eyes open, gazing directly into Colby's.

"W-What?" I stammered.

"You like me, and Sam... Don't you?" He raised an eyebrow, leaning towards me.

I shifted under his stare, my body growing hot instantly. My throat felt dry, mouth unable to form words.

Colby continued, "It's okay. You don't have to say anything. We already both know."

My face dropped as I studied his own. He was so calm about this, meanwhile my heart was about ready to burst through my chest. I swallowed hard, exhaling and ignoring Colby’s gaze. “How long have you known… that I-I’ve liked… you?”

"A while. Sam pointed it out to me once and then it just became noticeable. You’re not as slick as you think." He laughed quietly.

My mind was reeling, unable to process everything at once. I became acutely aware of everything around me. Sam was almost draped over me, Colby’s leg was pressed in between my own. I could feel their breaths hitting me simultaneously. My heart banged against my ribs, pulsing in my ears.

"Don’t be so nervous, Y/N," Sam murmured suddenly, his voice low and husky from sleep. "It’s okay if you like us."

I shuttered, "B-but our friendship-"

"Can still exist. Even if you like us." He commented, cutting me off.

"Especially if... we like you too." Colby added.

My eyes flickered to Colby’s face, widening. His expression was almost unreadable. But his words sounded simple, like what he said was fact.

"W-what?" I stuttered, my breath shallow.

"Is it weird if I say I thought you looked beautiful during the investigation? When we were reading the history of this place to the camera, and you were just watching us, it was so hard to keep my eyes off of you." Colby changed the subject, confessing and scooting closer to me in bed, our noses almost touching.

Sam hummed, his voice raising the hairs on my neck. "I liked the way you felt in my arms when you jumped into them when the R.E.M pod went off. I always wanted to protect you."

Colby agreed, "Sometimes we argue with each other when the other gets to touch you too much."

My eyes fluttered, my chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Are you guys joking right now?”

"We would never joke about this. You mean so much to us, Y/N." Sam spoke, quietly but firm.

"Can I kiss you?" Colby asked, pulling my attention back to him.

"Yes." I replied, shocked by my own voice. The desperation, the breathy word sounding foreign to my own ears.

Colby smiled, leaning in and kissing me tenderly. It was gentle, but I could feel his passion being held back by him. I breathed in the kiss, a whimper falling from my lips.

Sam’s hand snaked around me, up my chest and cupped my throat. He held me, pulling me away from Colby. “My turn, please.”

My head turned with Sam’s help, our lips locking instantly. He pressed his body closer to mine, his hips pushing against my ass as his tongue teased my mouth.

Colby’s leg moved up, separating my legs apart more, pressing into my core. My wet panties rubbed against my aching center, suddenly making me aware how turned on I had become by their words.

I gasped, ripping my mouth away from Sam. "W-what are you doing?"

"Just trying to make you feel good. Do you want me to stop? Whatever you want, I’ll do." Colby’s eyes narrowed, darkening with lust.

Sam’s mouth connected with my earlobe, nibbling softly. "Tell him what you want."

"Should we do this?" I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to reset my brain. It was hard to think with both of them so close to me. "If we cross this boundary, we can’t go back."

"If it’s what you want, then let’s do it. We just want to make you feel good, baby. Please let us." Colby pleaded lowly, his lips brushing against mine.

"Please, Y/N. We want it just as much as you do. Can you feel that?" Sam whispered, his crotch grinding against my ass lazily. I felt his growing hardness press into me, my mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Colby cupped my wrist, dragging my hand down his abs, stopping just above his bulge. I could feel it, clothed and erect, brushing up against my fingers.

Colby began to pull his leg away, his hold on my hand loosening. I gripped his forearm, shuddering a breath. "Don’t stop."

Colby smirked, a seductive laugh came from Sam. "Good girl."

He nudged his leg back up, his lower thigh pushing against my aching middle. I whined, feeling my body grind down against his thigh.

Sam's voice came out in a husky purr, "That's it baby, ride his thigh. Get yourself nice and wet for us."

"She's already wet. I can feel her through her shorts. She soaked through." Colby chuckled darkly.

"Really, Y/N? We barely did anything to you, and you're already this wet." Sam's lips tickled my ear as he whispered, "You're so desperate, huh?"

I nodded mindlessly, bucking my hips slowly on Colby's thigh. I couldn't believe this was happening. And I couldn't stop myself from enjoying the sensations.

Colby leaned forward, kissing me again. As he did, Sam's mouth found my neck, sucking and biting the sensitive areas. Hands found my breasts, making me moan into the kiss. Colby's tongue snaked in, my body growing hotter by the second.

"Fuck! Keep grinding against me, baby. That feels so good." Sam grunted, his clothed cock pressed firmly against my ass as I moved back and forth on Colby's thigh.

"Touch me, Y/N. Give me some relief, please sweetheart." Colby huffed, grabbing my hand and lowering it to his erection. I cupped him softly, rubbing my hand in circular motions. He sighed, his lips finding mine again.

I melted into the kiss, letting my body go on autopilot. I could feel myself getting closer to an orgasm, each thrust against Colby's thigh causing the pleasure to grow and grow.

Colby let out a guttural breath, pushing his dick harder into my hand. "We should have done this sooner. I can't believe we waited until now."

"I wanted you both for so long." I confessed, whimpering mindlessly.

"And now you can have us. Whenever you want." Sam hissed, his voice dripping with need.

I gasped, my hips bucking faster. I could feel a light layer of sweat form on my skin, my clothes sticking to me.

"You close, Y/N? Are you gonna come for us?" Colby's eyes locked with mine intensely.

I nodded, unable to form words, not trusting my voice.

"We barely touched you and you're gonna come. Imagine how good it will feel when we're inside you..." Sam smirked against my skin, breathing heavy.

I swallowed hard, "F-Fuck, I'm so close."

"Grind harder, baby. Ride my thigh like it's my dick." Colby demanded, his tone depraved.

I whined, panting as I sped up my hips. I gripped onto Sam's arm and Colby's shirt with my hands, needing to steady myself. I locked eyes with Colby, struggling to keep from rolling mine in pleasure.

"That's it, Y/N. Be a good girl for us." Sam leaned in, his lips pressed against my ear, "Come."

Colby narrowed his eyes lustfully, "Do it, baby. Come now."

Ecstasy exploded throughout my body, my orgasm hitting me deeply. I writhed in pleasure, bucking my hips with abandonment. I squeezed my eyes shut, silent cries falling from my mouth. My grip on the boys loosened as the pleasure slowed down. I mewled in a low tone, my body becoming heavy with sleep. My breathing steadied, the afterglow of my orgasm coursing through my body and lulling me unconscious.

When I woke, it was bright outside, the light cascading through the blinds and shining in my room. I was alone, my bed looking almost undisturbed.

I took in my surroundings, confused. A wave of sadness hit me for a moment. Did both of them really leave me in the middle of night? After everything we did last night, I hoped they would have stayed so we could talk.

My eyes widened as the camera came into view. Fuck! I forgot that was on last night. I stumbled out of bed, walking over to it awkwardly. I turned it off, saving the footage to the camera's storage. I waited for it to load back up so I could watch. I wasn't sure how much it would have caught last night, silently hoping the footage was suspiciously gone.

I began watching the footage, speeding through it as quickly as I could. I waited for Sam and Colby to appear, wondering what time they left too. I slowed the film down, my eyes taking in the events that unfolded. The door to my bedroom never opened, but I sat up in bed, turning the light on. I could see myself talking to something, flopping back down asleep. The light turned off on its own, no one getting into bed beside me. In horror I watched as my body twisted in pleasure, mimicking the movements I was making against Sam and Colby last night.

Or... what I thought was Sam and Colby.

That was all a dream. They never came into my room. They never confessed to knowing about my feelings or having feelings for me. They were never here!

The incubus...

I chucked the camera on the bed, a chill running up my spine. I raced over to my phone, texting Sam and Colby to come to my room ASAP.

They arrived a couple minutes later, confused as to my panic. I showed them the footage, watching them stare at the small screen in bewilderment.

"What were you dreaming about? Your body is moving... an awful lot in the video." Colby asked, looking up at me from the camera.

I blush, not sure what to say. Thank God there is no audio on the time lapse cameras. "Um... let's just say it was a NSFW type of dream."

"Oh...." He paused, then cocked his head, "Wait. Do you think it was...?"

"The incubus?" I suggested. Their eyes shifted away from me as I nodded, "...Yeah. At least, it’s possibility."

Sam gaped down at the camera, "Wow, that's crazy! This footage is unbelievable."

Colby snickered, trying to lighten the mood. "Who did you have sex with in your dream?"

My eyes ignored their gaze, "Uh... no one in particular. Or I-uh, couldn't place the face."

"Even weirder. I'm gonna take this back to my room and save it onto my laptop. I do not want this footage to get corrupted or accidentally deleted." Sam responded, leaving my room quickly with the camera in hand.

Colby stood in my room, studying me as I sat awkwardly on the bed. I bit my lip, doing my best to not meet his stare.

He stepped towards me, "Are you okay? I can't imagine what's going through your head."

I exhaled tiredly, "I've been better. I just can't believe that dream last night wasn't real. It just felt so..."

"Real?" He replied, biting back a cheeky smile.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." I jokingly glared, rolling my eyes at him. But then I sighed, my shoulders slumping. "I should have known better though."

"About what?" He questioned.

"That something like that wouldn't happen." I whispered, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.

He furrowed his brow, "Something like what? A man having sex with you?"

"The person... people, in question. They wouldn't have sex with me." I commented, standing up.

"Oh? There were multiple? Kinky." He remarked sarcastically.

I continued, "I confessed something to them, and they confessed back. I should have known that would never happen."

"Hey, you never know." Colby cupped my arm gently, "You are an amazing person, and anyone would be lucky to be with you, Y/N. Don't sell yourself short."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." I hugged him tightly, pulling him as close as I could.

"That's what friends are for." He stated, rubbing my back sweetly.

I tried not to wince at his words, nodding my head. "Yep... friends."

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hyunebunx · 10 months ago

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💓 with felix omg can you imagine how adorable

˖˙ ᰋ ── 💓- 'a trail of kisses along the partner's jawline or collarbone'

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff!!

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. pairing: felix x gn!reader

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: teriii this took me forever i'm sorry 😔 i just realised the reason i'm so slow with requests is bc i'm unable to write anything if i don't make the characters head over heels in love with each other. anywayss, i hope you like it 🩷🫶🏻

“Love.” He calls out lowly, nuzzling your neck affectionately while your fingers comb through blond locks, massaging his scalp. Felix has pretty much melted into your arms, eyes barely open and not focused on the movie he insisted on watching together for the past week, missing the whole plot. “Look at me.”

“Lix, baby, my darling sunshine.” You giggle, eyes still trained on the tv screen, which has him groaning in protest. “I’m watching the movie. The one you’ve been babbling about for weeks. Why aren’t you?”

He mumbles something against your skin, too quiet for you to hear. “What was that?”

“I said, I’m bored.” He lets out a dramatic sigh, raising his head to look you in the eyes, everything in you softening once those plump lips jut out in a slight pout.

Movie all forgotten, you reach to push the hair out of his face, tenderly tucking the loose strands behind his ears to which Felix leans into your touch like a man starved of affection for weeks on end. Your thumb then moves to wipe off a small food stain near his lips, some chocolate that didn’t reach its destination and decide to hang onto your boyfriend’s gorgeous face for a while longer, also mesmerised by his beauty.

“Should we watch something else, then?” You inquire, spreading your arms to welcome him back into your embrace. Felix doesn’t even bother to answer before diving in, taking his rightful place into the crock of your neck with a soft, relieved sigh.

A moment later, he shakes his head, strong hands kneading your waist and pushing you further into the couch, all of his body needing to be touching yours in some capacity. “It’s almost over anyway.”

His lips then find their way to your jawline, peppering feather like kisses along the surface in a true, cuddlebug fashion. Your smile widens, the hand that’s not in his hair coming to lay on his back and caress the covered skin in a comforting manner as Felix lets most of his weight rest on you.

“What do you want to want to do after?” His kisses barely let you finish, pillowy lips trailing down to your neck which causes you to giggle, their gentleness tickling. Asking might prove redundant because Felix only gets this affectionate when he’s tired, your shared bed calling his name in the sweetest voice only he can hear.

You reach for the remote to turn the tv down, losing all interest in the movie as Felix ponders the question, placing a sweet kiss behind your ear that has a shiver running down your spine. Sitting up, he releases your waist to hold both of your hands, interlacing your fingers to bring them up to his lips more easily.

His answer is surprising. “Talk.”

“About?” You raise an eyebrow, not bothering to sit up as exhaustion seems to rest right on your bones.

As expected, it doesn’t take Felix long to return to your side, hovering over you and delicately pinning one of your hands right next to your head on a comfy cushion. “You.” He nods, smiling widely when you move just a tad bit to rub your nose against his, chuckling.

“What else do you want to know?” Your free hand moves to his nape, caressing the skin there which always gives Felix goosebumps. “My life isn’t as exciting as yours, I don’t have that many interesting stories to tell.”

Felix disagrees, dropping down to leave another trail of delicate kisses along your collarbones, cheekily hooking a finger under your shirt’s collar to expose even more skin. “Everything. I want to know everything about you.”

Your heart skips several beats, all possible responses dying on your tongue as they witness how much this man loves and cares about you. To be known is to be loved, and Felix wanted to make sure he knew everything before attempting to love you properly, exactly how you deserved to be loved for the rest of your life. A life he hoped and prayed you’d share with him.

His voice is low, barely above a whisper as he confesses his profound feelings. “I want every single detail about you to be engraved on my mind, and heart for as long as I live, to make sure I never forget a minute out of all the time we’ve spent together.”

“I want to recognize you from people’s stories, to work out exactly why you chose one thing over the other. I already recognize your footsteps as you walk down the hall to visit me at work – and the sound has me grinning like a fucking idiot.” He exhales, resting his forehead just above your frantically beating heart. “Can you imagine how happy knowing everything else about you would make me feel? I think I might burst.”

No, you couldn’t, because you could never wrap your head around being loved so genuinely and openly. Being loved for the real you, with the good, the bad and the ugly parts you have never shown anyone.

But Felix, as persistent as he was, will only stop once he can prove you wrong and make it a reality.

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decadent-hag · 2 months ago

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We Can Work It Out has to be one of the most Paul songs of all time. Like, its one of the very few songs of his where the lyrics blatantly and straightforwardly present his mindset. It makes me laugh every time.

Try to see it my way. Do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on?

As evidenced in Get Back, Paul is very much a "I'll just keep explaining until you understand" type of person.

Think of what you're saying. You can get it wrong and still you think that it's alright

Think of what I'm saying. We can work it out and get it straight, or say good night

In the same vein, Pauls idea of talking and working it out is him convincing you to take his way of thinking. Getting it straight is you agreeing with him. After all, we dont want you thinking you're right when youre actually wrong! What a disaster that could lead to!

Won't you try to see it my way? Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong.

While you see it your way. There's a chance that we may fall apart before too long.

I could be right or wrong, it doesnt matter, you should still see it my way because it won't be that bad. If YOU'RE wrong (and you probably are) it could be a disaster! Surface level this is obviously arrogant but it also reeks of anxiety. If he's wrong he's still at least in control of himself. Following another person who might end up being wrong opens him up to total (percieved) loss of control and vulnerability. This attitude of Pauls can also be seen in "Fixing A Hole" but hides a little more behind wordplay.

And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong I'm right

Where I belong I'm right

Where I belong

Idk i think about this EVERY time I listen to these songs and I had to get it out. There's always so much decoding of Paul's other lyrics bc they're buried under stories about "other people" and wordplay but We Can Work It Out is just There. Paul telling everyone who he is in his relationships

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bombiikki · 2 months ago

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𝖎sn't 𝖎t 𝖑ove? ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — non idol!hanni x fem!reader

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : you’re torn between loving hanni and protecting her from the danger that follows you as spidergirl. you keep breaking up with her, but she always waits. maybe it’s time to stop running—and just love.

𝖈ontains : ANSGT. resolving some issues, emotional whiplash, they break up so many times, then make out up, lots of yearning, and hesitation, reader questions everything, but never her love for hanni, hanni is lwk the strongest soldier ever, it ends with fluff, so its still technically the happy ending

𝖜ord 𝖈ount :13.6k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : the happy ending cuz its what the ppl crave for. i lwk rushed the ending bc idk i think it js got a lil repetitive but dont let my opinions stop u from enjoyign the fic !!

. ♬ ݁˖ 𝖓ow 𝖕laying — isn't it love? from steven universe

a part 2 to "a blessing in disguise" < to the spidergirl series masterlist

the wind was a scream in your ears, wild and relentless as it whipped past your mask. the city blurred beneath you in streaks of brick and concrete, yellow cabs and blinking lights, all of it too fast to matter. your body moved on instinct—knees bending, arms snapping forward, webline catching the ledge of a glass tower and flinging you forward into open air.

you didn’t even feel the drop anymore. just the cold. just the way it cut through your suit like a knife, or maybe it was the way your thoughts wouldn’t shut up.

it had been a week. a week since the funeral. a week since the rain soaked your suit and your hands trembled behind the mask. a week since hanni’s eyes had searched for answers, and you gave her none.

now there were sirens below. two police cruisers, lights bleeding red and blue into the smog, racing after a black sedan that had just slammed through a bank’s glass doors. the windshield of the getaway car was cracked, the front bumper barely hanging on, and one of the guys inside had been dumb enough to start shooting before they even turned the corner.

you didn’t hesitate.

your webline snapped taut as you flipped over a rooftop, the gritty surface racing beneath you. with every swing, you gained on them. one breath. two. then you dropped low, just above traffic, your body twisting through the maze of cars and honking taxis.

you could see inside the car now. four guys. ski masks. bags stuffed with cash. one was screaming into a walkie. the driver jerked the wheel violently, swerving into the opposite lane. horns blared. a truck nearly clipped them.

you gritted your teeth, picked up speed.

your shoulder clipped a traffic light—pain bloomed, sharp and bright—but you didn’t stop. you dove lower, flipping under a scaffold and landing hard on the sedan’s roof. the whole car buckled. the guy in the back screamed.

“what the hell was that?!”

you grinned beneath your mask and pounded your fist against the roof. “guess who!”

the guy on the passenger side rolled down his window, raising a pistol with shaky hands. you shot a line of web straight into the barrel before he could aim. the gun clicked uselessly. he tried to pull it free, but you yanked him out the window instead.

he hit the pavement with a grunt, rolling to a stop.

the driver screamed and lost control. the car swerved, smashed into a fire hydrant, and skidded onto the sidewalk. water exploded into the air behind it. you leapt off the roof just before impact and landed crouched on the hood.

before the others could recover, you launched a web at the nearest one’s chest and yanked him into a mailbox. he groaned and didn’t get back up.

two left.

the driver scrambled out, limping. you chased him on foot this time, your breath coming hard, every muscle alive with adrenaline. he darted through an alley, tried to climb a chain-link fence. you reached him before he could get over the top and pinned him there with two quick webs.

the last guy didn’t run. he just raised his hands, knees shaking.

you looked at the wreck behind you—sirens still closing in, lights reflecting in the puddles—and exhaled slow.

you were tired. of all of it.

and then, like always, you remembered her. hanni, somewhere in a classroom. maybe doodling in the margins of her notebook. maybe looking out the window and thinking about the girl who left her in the rain.

you swallowed the thought. it burned.

fifteen minutes later, you were back on the rooftops, peeling off your gloves as you ran. you had five more blocks before school. your hair stuck to your forehead beneath your hood. your ribs ached.

you climbed into the school building through a back stairwell and slipped into class thirty-five minutes late.

your teacher sighed so deeply you thought it might echo.

“miss y/n,” she said. “again?”

you nodded sheepishly, clutching your bag.

“sorry,” you muttered, still catching your breath. “traffic. i promise i won’t be late again.”

a few of the students laughed, and your teacher only sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “i’d give you detention, but i think at this point you’d consider it part of your schedule. just… try to be on time. and don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

you nodded, slipping into the desk behind hanni. her posture didn’t change, her eyes fixed on her notes. she hadn’t looked at you since the funeral.

you leaned forward, voice barely a breath.

“but those are the best promises to make.”

and maybe she didn’t believe it. maybe you didn’t either.

but for just a second, you thought you saw her pencil stop moving. and that small, impossible flicker of hope warmed your chest.

even if only for a moment. even if you didn’t deserve it.

some part of her still listened and some part of you still loved her—even now. especially now.

it started slow. a glance. a breath. a flicker of something almost lost. not with a grand gesture or a dramatic apology. just with a glance. and then another.

she didn’t smile when she looked at you. but she didn’t look away, either.

sometimes, that’s all a flame needs—just a little air.

you sat behind her again in chemistry. same seat, same scuffed floor tile beneath your foot that squeaked if you shifted your weight wrong. the desk still had that scratch in the corner where someone once carved a heart and then tried to erase it. you’d traced it before, back when your thoughts moved like rivers toward her, even when you were supposed to be balancing chemical equations. back then, she’d twirl her pen when she was thinking, and you’d find yourself watching the motion like it meant something.

now, she sat straighter. tighter. the space between her shoulders seemed smaller, like she was always bracing for something. she didn’t glance back. didn’t nod. her presence was sharp, all edges. like she’d drawn a silent boundary between you—chalk on pavement. and you didn’t know if you were meant to cross it.

but then she passed you a beaker before you asked.

and later, when your hand accidentally brushed hers near the sink, she didn’t pull away. didn’t flinch. just went on adjusting the bunsen burner like nothing had happened.

not much. but enough to burn.

you caught her humming under her breath one morning. it was faint, like the wind barely catching on an open window, but you knew the song. a melody you’d only heard once, when everything still felt new and terrifying. back when she was pressing gauze to your bleeding shoulder, eyes wide, voice shaking. back when she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to run or hold on.

you didn’t say anything now. just listened. let it fill the quiet space between you like sunlight sneaking through old blinds. warm and unexpected. gentle on skin that had only known cold lately.

at lunch, she sat beside you. not across. not at another table. not with her usual friends in their usual corner.

she sat beside you. her tray bumped yours, and you both said “sorry” at the same time.

she didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth twitched. like laughter might’ve been hiding there, waiting for the right moment to be brave.

you almost smiled. almost. but you didn’t trust your hands not to shake.

it was still too soon. still too glass. but still, you spoke.

your voice found her without permission. soft questions about class, about the mitosis quiz, about whether or not she thought mr. lee might actually be in love with the concept of kinetic energy. she rolled her eyes, but she answered. and her voice wasn’t cold—not warm either—but real. a kind of tentative honesty, like testing ice with one careful step.

you didn’t touch her. not even a sleeve or a wrist. not yet. you didn’t deserve to.

but you listened. really listened. especially when she talked about the things she loved. the way dna coils because of hydrogen bonding. how amino acids twist into helixes and sheets like origami. how enzymes knew exactly what to become in order to fit the molecule they’d bind to—like some kind of molecular soulmate. you didn’t say much when she got into it, just nodded and let your chest fill with the sound of her excitement. like her voice could stitch you back together without meaning to.

sometimes, after class, you’d walk beside her in the hallway. not touching. not talking. just walking. your shadows brushed the same patches of linoleum. she didn’t ask you to leave. and that was something.

on good days, when the clouds weren’t too heavy and the guilt in your chest hadn’t swallowed your spine, she’d look at you with something close to softness. like she remembered. and once, she said something funny—dry and sharp, about enzymes being the unsung heroes of the human body—and it made you laugh out loud. she looked at you like she didn’t mean to make you do that. like she hadn’t meant to reach you.

but she had.

still, you saw it. in the way her fingers curled tight around her pen. in the way her gaze sometimes lingered too long before pulling away.

the question lived in her eyes. do i let you back in? will you leave again?

and you couldn’t blame her. you didn’t have a promise that would mean anything. your mouth had already broken the ones that mattered.

so you said nothing. just sat beside her during study hour. your notebooks side by side. pens moving in quiet synchrony. the silence wasn’t empty—it was full of questions neither of you were ready to ask.

then one afternoon, you stayed late to finish a group project. just the two of you. sunlight filtered low and golden through the windows, catching the strands of her hair and making them shimmer like copper. she was writing notes. focused. calm.

you glanced at her. just once.

and she looked up. caught you.

you didn’t look away fast enough.

“what?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

you shrugged, eyes flicking back to your notebook. “just glad we’re talking again.”

her fingers stilled on the page. she blinked. and for a heartbeat, you thought she’d get up and leave, close the door, draw the line again.

but she didn’t.

“me too,” she said softly. it wasn’t a whisper, not quite. but it was steady.

it wasn’t a promise nor was it forgiveness. it was just a flicker.

and you, like the fool that you were, cupped your hands around that tiny flame and swore to keep it alive.

even if you burned. especially if you burned. even if it meant burning all over again.

it took weeks. not just glances or passing words anymore—but real time. quiet hours spent in the same room. late study nights. group projects that turned into gentle conversations. she laughed at your jokes again, sometimes. rolled her eyes, but with softness, not distance. you learned to be patient. to not reach for her hand even when your own ached to hold something steady. you waited. not because you were uncertain. but because love wasn’t a thing to be rushed. not when it had been broken before.

sometimes you’d catch her watching you when she thought you weren’t looking. sometimes her gaze lingered too long. sometimes you swore she almost smiled.

you remembered everything. the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. the way she’d tap her pencil twice before writing something down. you memorised it all over again, like it was a new language and you were desperate to be fluent in her.

you found excuses to be near her. in the lab, you offered to be partners. she agreed without looking up. you told yourself that meant something. maybe it did. maybe it didn’t. either way, you held onto it.

and then came the day when your heart couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

you’d spent the afternoon helping her carry boxes for the science fair—oscillating models and half-finished posters, that kind of thing. she was laughing—really laughing—for the first time in what felt like forever. and for a second, the world tilted right again. like maybe things could be good. maybe they already were.

so you did it. you asked her to meet you on the rooftop of the old library building after sunset. said you had something important to say. she blinked at you for a second. hesitant. wary. but she said yes.

the sun was already gone when she climbed up the fire escape. the sky was navy blue and full of quiet stars. you were already waiting, pacing, rehearsing the words you’d said a hundred times in your head.

she stepped forward, folding her arms, her expression unreadable. “you’re being weird,” she said.

you swallowed. “i know.”

silence.

then—“i love you.”

your voice barely broke the air, but it was enough.

her breath caught. her shoulders tensed.

you kept going, even though your heart was racing like a train without brakes.

“i never stopped. even when i left. even when it hurt. i thought i was protecting you, hanni. i thought if i stayed away, you’d be safe.”

her eyes didn’t soften. not yet.

“but it just made us both miserable,” you whispered. “and i was wrong. i know that now. you don’t need protection. you need honesty. and... love. and i want to give you that, if you’ll let me.”

she stared at you like she was trying to solve an equation with too many variables.

“you left,” she said, voice small. “you said you loved me and then you left.”

“i know,” you said, stepping closer, hands trembling. “and i won’t pretend like that didn’t happen. i broke your heart. and i hate myself for it every day. but hanni, i swear to you—i won’t leave again. not unless you tell me to.”

the wind moved gently through her hair. the city below buzzed faintly, distant and irrelevant.

you reached into your pocket and pulled out a tiny folded paper—creased and worn. it was the note you’d written weeks ago but never had the courage to give her. on it was a sketch—her and you, sitting under the stars, the words “worth it” scrawled at the bottom.

“i made this the day after the funeral,” you said. “because even when i was hurting, even when everything felt too big and too heavy, loving you still felt right.”

she looked at the drawing. then at you.

and then, like sunlight cutting through cold—she stepped forward.

“i’m scared,” she said.

“me too,” you breathed.

“but i still love you,” she whispered. “even if i didn’t want to.”

you laughed, a broken, relieved kind of sound.

“so… what does this mean?” you asked.

she took your hand and it was the first time you’d touched her in what felt like forever.

“it means,” she said slowly, “you get one more chance. and you don’t get to waste it.”

you squeezed her hand gently. “i won’t. i swear.”

“don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said mockingly.

you smiled, eyes shining. “but those are the best ones to make.”

and that night, under a sky full of stars and unsaid fears, you kissed her—softly, carefully, like a prayer—and for the first time since everything fell apart, you let yourself believe that love might just be enough.

because even broken hearts can burn again.

even flickers can become flames.

the days were softer now.

sometimes you woke up and forgot what it was like to ache. her laugh had that effect on you. it echoed through the halls, through your chest, and settled in the cracks you used to hide behind. there were moments—brief and blinding—where you almost believed you could be normal. just a girl in love. just two science nerds holding hands on the way to class.

the world was quieter with her hand in yours.

she wore your hoodie now, the one with the tiny web stitched inside the pocket. her hair tied messily. her knuckles ink-stained from taking notes. she tapped her pencil on your desk during class, nudged your shoulder when you got distracted, smiled at your jokes before you finished them.

and you smiled back. really smiled. with teeth and dimples and something in your chest you hadn’t let breathe in a long time.

but even sunlight casts shadows.

he started showing up in the corners of your eyes.

mr. pham.

not alive. not even speaking. just... standing. watching. arms crossed like the day he caught you sneaking onto their rooftop. eyes sharp. unreadable.

you’d blink and he’d be gone.

you never told hanni. how could you?

but some days, when she touched your cheek and kissed the corner of your mouth, you felt ice bloom down your spine. not because of her—but because of him. because of the promise. because of the look in his eyes when he told you to protect her. because you said yes, even though it shattered something inside you.

you started hesitating more on patrol. paused longer on rooftops. you couldn’t bear to swing past the district station anymore. every siren made you flinch.

but you always came back to her.

every day, she waited by your locker. every night, she texted you goodnight, even if you hadn’t replied for hours. and every time you looked at her, really looked, it felt like forgiveness. like the world was saying, try again.

still, she noticed.

one afternoon, in the quiet lull between school and golden hour, you were at her house. she was reading something on her bed, and you were pretending to do the same, but your fingers kept twitching, tapping against your thigh. your mind kept drifting. always back to him.

“y/n,” she said softly.

you looked up, startled. her eyes were on you, steady and warm and a little sad.

“where’d you go?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. shrugged. “just tired.”

a lie. the kind she’d stop believing soon.

but instead of calling you out, she set her book aside and crawled closer. her hand found yours, curling around it like it belonged there.

“you’ve been pulling away again,” she murmured. “is it... about my dad?”

you froze.

she didn’t look angry. just honest. just scared, but not of you.

“sometimes,” you said quietly, voice like ash, “i see him. not really. just... sometimes i think he’s still watching me. judging. wondering if i’m keeping my promise.”

her fingers tightened around yours.

“and are you?”

you blinked at her.

“keeping it?” she clarified. “are you protecting me?”

you didn’t answer. because protecting her meant walking away. it meant leaving again. and you hadn’t. not this time.

hanni’s other hand cupped your jaw. she leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. her breath was warm. steady.

“i know he wanted you to keep me safe,” she whispered, “but he didn’t know what that would cost you. he didn’t know how much i—how much we love each other.”

your breath hitched.

“if being with you puts me in danger,” she said, “then fine. that’s my risk to take. not his. not yours.”

your eyes stung. you tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let you.

“look at me,” she said. “i choose this. and i will every time. i choose you.”

you wanted to believe it. god, you did believe it. but some part of you still trembled with every kiss. every time she held your hand too tightly. every time her heart beat against your ribs and you thought, i could lose her.

but right now, she wasn’t afraid.

and maybe, for tonight, that could be enough.

you kissed her like a prayer. slow. shaking. she kissed you back like a promise—one stronger than the one you’d made to a dying man.

when she pulled away, she smiled. not like before. not soft or shy.

this one was steady. certain.

and when you closed your eyes, there was no ghost behind them. no shadow in the corner.

just her.

and for now, for this, it was enough.

you hadn’t meant to wake up like that—breath caught sharp in your throat, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your chest. the nightmare had torn through your sleep like claws, dragging you back to a rooftop soaked in rain and blood. to a promise you made on shaking knees. to a man gasping for air, begging for his daughter’s life.

and now you were here again.

not in that moment, but somewhere far too close to it.

you stood outside hanni’s window, rooftop beneath your feet and the city stretching out like it always did—loud and indifferent. the night air chilled your fingers even through your gloves. you hadn’t even realised you’d suited up until you caught your reflection in the glass. spidergirl. not y/n. not the girl who had kissed hanni on this very rooftop just days ago. not the girl who had made her laugh so hard she cried.

just spidergirl. you were always spidergirl when you did this.

you knocked once, softly, and she opened the window like she had been expecting you. like she always was.

her smile flickered when she saw the suit. she didn’t say anything. she just stepped aside and let you climb in, like this was normal. like this wasn’t the beginning of the end.

“you okay?” she asked quietly, brushing hair from her face. her voice was sleepy and a little concerned. she was wearing one of your hoodies—probably the one you left here two weeks ago. her room smelled like lavender and detergent and home.

but that warmth was the last thing you deserved.

“what happened?” she asked again, stepping back.

you didn’t move. didn’t answer. just stood there, mask on, chest aching, lungs full of things you didn’t know how to say.

she waited.

and then you shattered.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you said. your voice cracked like something small and broken. “i can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

her brows furrowed. “pretending?”

“that you’re not in danger every second we’re together. that i can just love you and nothing will go wrong.”

hanni blinked, and something in her expression faltered. “where is this coming from?”

“a nightmare,” you said. “no. a memory. your dad… he was dying, and he looked at me like i did it. like it was my fault.”

her voice was gentle, but firm. “it wasn’t.”

you paused. the memory surged again—his voice, his blood, the way he looked at you like you were both his worst fear and his only hope.

“i think we need to stop seeing each other.”

and just like that, the silence shattered.

hanni’s face folded in on itself. not angry. just… wounded. like you had taken something beautiful and crushed it in your hand.

“you’re breaking up with me again?” she asked, disbelieving. “now?”

you still couldn’t look at her.

“i have to. i keep putting you in danger. i can’t—i can’t sleep without dreaming of the worst-case scenario. every time i’m with you, i’m scared it’s the last time.”

you stayed silent. and despite the silence, you kept your mask on and didn’t dare meet hanni’s eyes.

“you don’t get to do this,” she said, her voice rising further. “you don’t get to show up in the middle of the night and decide for both of us.”

“i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“then stop,” she snapped. “stop acting like love is something dangerous. i’m not going to fall apart just because you love me.”

you turned your face away, jaw tight behind the mask. your hands curled into fists.

“i see you die every night,” you said, voice soft and shaking. “you don’t know what that does to me.”

“and you think i didn’t notice when you disappeared?” she said, her voice beginning to fray. “you think i didn’t feel it every time you pulled away? when the texts stopped, when you vanished like i meant nothing?”

you couldn’t look at her.

“i love you,” you said. it came out like a confession. like a wound.

“then stay.”

you flinched. “i can’t.”

“why? because of a promise?”

you didn’t answer. because you knew your answer was yes. because fear had clawed up your spine like it always did. because if something had ever happened to her and you were the reason, you’d never have forgiven yourself. because love, to you, still meant sacrifice. still meant leaving.

and because she looked at you like you were worth the risk—and you weren’t sure she was right.

she stepped back then, like she was trying to protect herself from the words you hadn’t said.

“so that’s it?”

you nodded. “i’m sorry.”

you didn’t wait for her to say your name—didn’t wait for the look she’d give you when she realised you meant it.

you swung off the rooftop before your heart could change its mind.

you swung through the city like it was the only way to stay sane.

the wind in your ears, the rooftops flying by in blurs of steel and brick, the weight of gravity pulling you down and the webline pulling you forward—it was the only rhythm left that made sense. it was all muscle memory now. the city pulsed below you like a wounded thing, flickering with sirens and neon and breathless cries for help. and still, none of it could drown out her name.

her name lived under your ribs. soft, painful, echoing. your heart ached with every rooftop passed, every second spent above a world where she no longer held your hand.

you saw her at school sometimes. that was the worst part. not the bruises. not the late nights. not the dream of her dying again and again beneath the lizard’s claws. no, it was the ordinary things that hurt the most.

seeing her brushing past you in the hallway, her backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. seeing her in chemistry, head bent over her notebook, pencil tapping as she annotated diagrams of cellular respiration like her heart wasn’t broken. seeing her laugh—god, laugh—with someone else during lunch. not the kind of laugh she gave you, not the kind that wrapped around your neck like summer air, but still—it was a laugh. and you weren't the reason for it anymore.

you kept your distance. that was the deal you made with yourself. no more climbing to her window at midnight. no more stolen moments of warmth between bruises. no more selfish love.

because that’s what it had become, hadn’t it?

you loved her so much, you left her.

you wished you could stay. you wished that was enough. but it never had been, had it? the shadows always came back. and you always followed them. not because you wanted to—but because someone had to.

and still—still—when you saw her smile at someone else in the hallway, your chest squeezed like it didn’t know what to do with all that ache. like it didn’t know whether to be happy that she was okay, or broken that she was healing without you.

you were pulling away. and she was letting you.

but neither of you had stopped hoping. not yet. not entirely.

and maybe that was worse. maybe that was the cruelest part. because there was still warmth between you. the kind that lingered in silence, in the corners of your shared memories. just enough to feel. just enough to miss when it’s gone.

just a flicker.

but it hurt like a flame.

sometimes you found yourself looking for her reflection in windows. watching her from across the courtyard like you were stuck behind glass. her hair in a loose braid. a bandaid on her finger. her lips mouthing the steps of mitosis under her breath. and you’d wonder if she still thought about you. if she still dreamed of the nights you lay side by side, breath tangled, hearts too full.

but the guilt always came back.

the guilt always won.

so you stayed quiet. you laughed at the right times in class, answered questions when the teacher called your name, pretended your smile wasn’t made of paper. and every night, you pulled on the suit like armor and bled for a city that would never know your name.

you tried to be brave. you tried to be spidergirl.

but even spidergirl couldn’t stop thinking about hanni.

she lived in your silence. in your hesitation. in every part of you that wanted something soft and safe and too bright for someone who only existed in shadows.

you wished she hated you.

it would’ve made things easier.

but she didn’t. she still looked at you like maybe she could forgive you. and maybe that was the most painful thing of all—that she still had that light in her, and you weren’t sure if you deserved to be near it again.

so you let her go. but not all the way.

you let yourself hope—just a little. just enough to hurt.

just enough to wonder… if someday, somehow, she might look back. and you’d be brave enough to take off the mask. and maybe—just maybe—stay.

hanni hadn’t moved on. not really.

people thought she had. she laughed again. tied her hair with yellow scrunchies. answered questions in class like nothing had ever broken inside her. and maybe that was the trick—she didn’t look broken. she looked like someone who was healing. someone who was learning how to live without something she once held close.

but you knew better.

you saw her at school, always in the corner of your eye. you never looked for her—never directly—but your eyes found her anyway. like she had been stitched into your peripheral vision. like your heart had been trained to search for her, even when your head begged it not to.

she still smiled. still watched.

sometimes, you felt her gaze on your back like a gentle hand—not pushing, not pulling—just there. quiet. steady. waiting.

and god—it hurt more than any bullet ever could.

because you knew what bullets felt like. the sharpness, the heat, the panic. you had been grazed, torn through, stitched up more times than you could count. but none of it had ever settled into your bones the way she did now. none of it ever lingered like this ache. this awful, tender, impossible ache.

she was waiting for you. maybe she shouldn’t have—but she was.

you saw it in the way she still left space beside her during study hour. in the way she glanced toward the door when you were late to chemistry, even though she didn’t need to anymore. in the way she picked at the label on her water bottle when your name was mentioned, like she was holding something back.

you wondered what would happen if you sat beside her again. if you said something soft. something true. you wondered if she’d still listen.

but you didn’t. you said nothing.

you just watched her from a distance and pretended your silence was safety. you wore it like a shield, even as it rotted you from the inside.

she passed you once in the hallway. close enough that your arms brushed. she didn’t flinch. she only glanced up at you and nodded, slow, like she was giving you time. and her eyes—those eyes—were still kind. not like they used to be. not wide and glowing. but something quieter. something deeper. like a flame beneath glass.

you felt yourself swallow hard. your breath stuttered in your throat.

because she still saw you. and somehow, that was worse than being invisible.

sometimes you wondered what she told herself. did she think you’d come back? that you’d knock on her window again one night like nothing had ever happened? or did she know—did she know you were still out there, swinging from rooftops, haunted by a promise and a man who died on your watch?

you wished she hated you—you really did—because hate would mean she’d let go.

but she hadn’t—not completely. and maybe that was the cruel part. maybe that was what kept you up at night more than the guilt or the blood or the dreams. the knowing. the unbearable knowing that if you turned around, if you just reached—she’d still be there.

waiting. still.

and you didn’t know if that made her brave or foolish. but you knew what it made you.

a coward.

because love—real love—didn’t leave. not like you did. not when it still had a heartbeat.

so you walked past her in the halls, your steps slower than they should have been, your head bowed just slightly. and she walked past you too, her eyes catching yours for half a second.

not a question. not a plea.

just… hope. just that quiet, stubborn flicker that refused to go out.

and every time, you wondered how something so gentle could hurt so much.

you couldn’t stay away. the city sprawled beneath you like an endless maze of memories, and every rooftop you swung past felt hollow without her waiting on the other side. the night was cool, the air sharp with the faint smell of rain that hadn’t quite fallen yet. somewhere far off, a siren wailed, distant and lonely, like a sound made just for you.

and before you even realised, you were there again—right outside her window again. the same window you’d stared at in sleepless nights, the one that held the ghost of promises you never fully kept. your heart hammered, not from exertion, but from the ache of everything you’d lost and everything you still wanted.

your knuckles hovered just above the glass. you hesitated. then, finally, the knock—soft, almost shy, like maybe you didn’t want her to hear it. or maybe you did. maybe you needed her to.

you held your breath, waiting, heart pounding like a drum you couldn’t quite control. after a moment, the curtains at her window fluttered—a slow, hesitant movement that felt like a fragile heartbeat.

the fabric was drawn aside, and then the window slid open with a faint creak. her face appeared, framed by the dim, golden light of her room. her hair was down, loose and slightly tangled. her eyes—wide, searching—found you through the dark like they’d been waiting. she looked vulnerable, raw—like she’d been waiting for something she wasn’t sure would come. like she had been holding in so much, and finally, here in this quiet night, some of it was slipping free.

you felt your chest tighten. despite the exhaustion etched on her face, despite the sadness that seemed to hover just beneath her skin, she was still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

you smiled awkwardly, the kind of smile that tries to hide everything—guilt, fear, love all tangled up inside. your fingers went up, trembling slightly, and you tugged off your mask, letting it fall with a soft thud to the floor. your hair was wild and messy and you ran your fingers through it, half to fix it, half just to do something with your hands.

your smile wobbled—nervous, unsure. the kind that tried to say “i love you” and “i’m sorry” at the same time but said neither.

her eyes flickered over your face, lingering on every line, every shadow. she didn’t say anything for a moment—just watched you with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache.

“you,” she breathed, a word heavy with a thousand things unsaid.

your chest stung.

“hey,” you breathed, barely above a whisper.

there was a pause. neither of you moved. the space between you felt both impossibly close and miles away, full of shadows you couldn’t quite reach through. and still, she stepped back, pulling the window open wider. a silent invitation.

you carefully climbed through, the cool air of her room brushing your skin as you moved inside. the room smelled faintly of jasmine and old books, a softness you hadn’t felt in a long time.

the door was closed. the light was warm. the world outside didn’t exist here.

you stood in front of her, not quite touching, like if you moved too fast, she’d disappear.

she looked up at you, and in her face was every sleepless hour, every quiet moment she’d waited. and you looked back at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

you lifted a trembling hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. your fingers lingered there, tracing the curve of her jaw with gentle reverence, like you were trying to remember every line, every detail of her face.

she didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. her breath hitched, and you felt it—how close the edge still was. how fragile this moment could be.

then, without warning, your lips found hers—soft at first, searching, like you were trying to say everything without words. but the moment she leaned into you, everything shifted. the kiss deepened, growing hungrier, messier. her hands found your shoulders, then your neck, pulling you closer like she couldn’t stand the space between you. your fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, anchoring yourself to her, to this.

you moved together like something inevitable—like you’d been holding this in for too long and the dam had finally cracked. her lips were warm and desperate against yours, and when her fingers slid into your hair, tugging just slightly, it pulled a quiet sound from your throat. you felt everything all at once—her breath catching, her body pressing against yours, the rush of heat that made your chest ache.

you backed her toward the wall without meaning to, one step, then another, until she was there beneath your hands, her breath warm against your cheek. your lips broke apart only for a second, gasping, and then found each other again, even more urgent than before. it wasn’t careful. it wasn’t clean. but it was real—raw and aching and alive.

your hand found her waist again, sliding around her back as you pressed into her, needing her close. she fit there, perfectly, like something lost and found. you kissed her like the world was ending, like maybe it already had, and this was all that was left. and somehow, despite the heat, despite the trembling that ran through both of you, there was something unspoken holding it all—something soft beneath the fire. it was what you both needed, even if it didn’t fix everything.

when you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths ragged, lips swollen. the warmth of her skin grounded you in a way the city never could. her skin was warm. your hands were still on her waist, steadying yourself like the world tilted when she wasn’t this close. you could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the quick beat of her heart through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“i missed you,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

she smiled, the kind of smile that’s a little sad but still hopeful. “i know,” she said, voice soft, almost fragile.

you didn’t say sorry. you didn’t promise that you wouldn’t leave again. the truth was heavier than words could hold. the guilt, the fear—they were still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

but she didn’t ask for those things. instead, she stepped into your arms, as if somehow this moment made the uncertainty feel a little less sharp.

you held her close, careful not to crush the delicate thing between you. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty—it was waiting. waiting for something neither of you could name yet.

and even though the problems weren’t solved, even though the future still felt uncertain, in that quiet space between heartbeats, you let yourself believe maybe—just maybe—this flicker could grow into something stronger.

for now, that was enough.

the day began like it had forgotten the past. no nightmares. no rooftop ghosts. no blood behind your eyelids.

just sun through your window, warm and golden, and her name on your tongue like a prayer you didn’t mean to say out loud.

you saw her before first period, standing by her locker, one foot tapping the floor as she balanced a book on her knee and tried to fix her hair with the other hand. she didn’t notice you right away. her face was scrunched up in quiet frustration, lips pursed as a loose strand refused to stay tucked behind her ear.

and for a moment, you just watched. let yourself memorise her again. the small things. the way she hummed under her breath when she read. the curve of her smile when it finally settled, unbothered and soft.

then she looked up and caught you staring. her eyes widened, then softened.

"you’re staring," she said.

"i do that sometimes."

"creepy."

"flattering."

she rolled her eyes. but she smiled.

you walked her to class. talked about nothing. the clouds. the vending machine still being broken. she said her chem teacher was a sadist. you said yours probably had nightmares about molarity equations. she snorted into her sleeve. and you felt something settle inside you—something that hadn’t felt calm in weeks.

in physics, she leaned over her desk and whispered, “explain this to me before i go insane.”

you looked at her worksheet. “you’re already insane.”

“so help me before i get worse.”

you scooted closer. tried not to smile too wide when her arm brushed yours. explained the formula slowly, pointing to where the force and displacement aligned, and her eyes followed your finger like it was the most important thing in the world.

"why do you know this stuff so well?" she asked.

"because i’m secretly a nerd," you said.

"not secretly."

you nudged her with your shoulder. she didn’t nudge you back, but she also didn’t pull away.

at lunch, she pulled you down beside her before you could think twice. her tray bumped yours, and she handed you her juice box without asking. you blinked.

“i don’t like grape,” she said simply.

“i do,” you said, even though you didn’t.

“then we’re even,” she replied, taking a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly like nothing had changed.

and maybe, for a few hours, it hadn’t. for a few hours, the world tilted just right.

after school, you offered to walk her home. she hesitated for the briefest moment. then nodded.

you walked slow. too slow, probably. like you were trying to delay the end of something sweet. she talked about the project she was doing for bio—enzymes, heat, all the ways protein could fall apart. you listened like it was poetry. she noticed.

“you’re staring again,” she said, without looking at you.

“can you blame me?”

“you’re still cheesy,” she muttered, but she was smiling, and the sky was turning orange above her, and you swore she glowed.

on the steps of her apartment, you stopped. her key dangled from her fingers.

“wanna come up?” she asked, hopeful, nervous.

you looked away.

there were sirens in the distance. you could feel the weight of the suit in your bag. a familiar ache in your chest—one that never really left.

“i can’t,” you said, too quiet.

her face didn’t fall, not exactly. but something behind her eyes dimmed.

“right,” she said. “you’ve got... things.”

“it’s not like that.”

she nodded like she understood. like she was used to it. and she was. she shouldn’t be, but she was used to the feeling.

you stepped closer, hesitated, then leaned in. she didn’t pull away. your breath touched her lips. your hand hovered near her cheek.

“i have to finish that paper,” you whispered.

she opened her eyes. looked at you. and god—she looked tired. not of you. just tired of waiting for something you never promised to give.

“okay,” she said.

you didn’t move. neither did she. and in the end, it was you who turned away first.

you didn’t look back. but her presence followed you anyway.

later, as you swung through the city—rooftops passing in blurs and the wind biting your skin—you kept thinking about how close she had been. how the sunlight had turned her hair gold. how she had waited for you to close the space between you.

you tasted the lie on your lips. not a big one—just small enough to swallow.

she didn’t know you were headed toward danger. toward alleyways soaked in shadow. toward a name you still didn’t say out loud.

but she smiled at you anyway. she shared her juice box. she listened when you spoke, and spoke when you listened.

and for one golden day, you let yourself believe. maybe this time.

even if it wasn’t forever. even if the danger crept close again.

you lied—just a little. but it was enough to make your chest ache.

because the truth was never far behind. and neither was she.

it happened fast—like most things in your life lately.

a scream shattered the quiet, tearing through the cold air like it didn’t belong to anyone. and just like that, you were already moving. there wasn’t time to think, not when fear crackled in your ribs like lightning, not when someone needed saving.

your suit clung to your skin like instinct. you vaulted off the rooftop without hesitation, the wind slicing past your face, sharp and familiar. below, a man in a ski mask was dragging someone down an alley, a glint of metal in his hand, something darker flickering in his eyes.

you dropped in without ceremony, landed with a crunch of gravel and a tilt of your head.

“hey, don’t you know it’s rude to ruin someone’s night?” you called out, voice light, steady, even as adrenaline thrummed in your veins. “also, terrible outfit. like, painfully cliché.”

the man spun around, startled, his grip tightening on the gun.

“you’re just a kid,” he snarled.

you webbed the weapon out of his hand before he could raise it, the gun clattering uselessly to the pavement behind you. “and yet, here you are—getting your ass handed to you by one.”

he lunged. you ducked, swift and fluid, your body twisting under his swing. you landed a sharp kick to his ribs, sent him sprawling into a trash bin. but he wasn’t done—he scrambled to his feet, pulled a second gun from his jacket.

you saw the trigger move before you heard the sound.

the shot rang out like thunder in a tunnel.

pain bloomed hot and immediate in your left arm, the force knocking you back a step. your breath caught as blood soaked through the suit, warm and fast. still, you didn’t let yourself fall. didn’t let him see the pain.

instead, you webbed his feet to the concrete, yanked him off-balance, and pinned him with a final shot of webbing to the alley wall.

“you just had to make this dramatic,” you muttered, pressing your palm against the bleeding wound. “can’t even bleed in peace anymore.”

your knees buckled slightly as you launched yourself upward, each swing from building to building tugging at your arm. you clenched your jaw through it. forced yourself to keep going.

you didn’t even realise where you were heading until the fire escape came into view.

her window.

you landed hard, knees thudding against the metal railing. the world swayed for a moment, blurred around the edges. you blinked it back, knocked on the glass with a shaky knuckle.

just once.

the curtains fluttered. and then she was there, eyes wide, barefaced and soft in the lamplight. sleep still clung to her, but the worry chased it away fast.

she unlocked the window and pushed it open. the night air rushed in around her.

“y/n,” she breathed, like she wasn’t sure if she should be angry or relieved.

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

she reached out anyway, helped guide you inside with steady hands. you nearly collapsed, legs trembling, shoulder screaming with pain.

“what happened?” she asked, voice low, trying not to panic.

you shook your head. “it’s nothing.”

“you’re bleeding.”

“still nothing.”

“shut up.”

she made you sit on the floor, back against the wall. you watched her cross the room quickly, pulling out the worn first aid kit from under her bed. her hands trembled for only a second before she dropped to her knees beside you.

her touch was gentle, careful as she peeled back the torn fabric of your suit. the bullet had grazed your upper arm—deep, but clean. she muttered something under her breath you didn’t quite catch.

“you need stitches,” she said. “but i’ll do what i can.”

you nodded faintly. her voice kept you grounded.

you watched her work. watched the way her brows pulled together, the way her bottom lip was tucked beneath her teeth, how her fingers moved with quiet confidence.

“i missed you,” you murmured, eyes locked on the ceiling, just loud enough for her to hear.

her hands didn’t pause. but her breath hitched.

she didn’t say it back.

not yet.

when she finished wrapping your arm, she didn’t let go. her fingers remained around your wrist, warm and careful, like she was afraid to lose you again.

“why do you always come back like this?” she asked softly.

you looked at her. really looked. even in the dim light, she was breathtaking—hair messy, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, heart open in ways you didn’t deserve.

you didn’t have an answer. not one that wouldn’t sound like a broken promise.

instead, you leaned forward, just slightly, resting your forehead against hers.

she didn’t move.

you wanted to kiss her. you wanted to stay. but the city still called. and you were still who you were.

so when she finally drifted off beside you, her back slumped against the wall, her head tilted toward your shoulder—you slipped away.

you left without a sound—out the window, into the wind, bleeding and quiet.

you didn’t say goodbye. because you never did.

the rain came down slow, then heavy, soaking through your hoodie before you even reached the edge of the school parking lot. you kept your head down, hands stuffed into your pockets, hood tugged low over your eyes. it was easier not to look. not to search the crowd for her face like you always did.

you hadn’t spoken in days.

not since that night. not since the blood. not since you left before morning, the bandage she’d wrapped around your arm still clinging to your skin like a promise you’d never made.

and still, every time you turned a corner, you expected her to be there.

you didn’t see her at first—not until your foot hit the sidewalk and your breath caught for no reason. not until you looked up and saw her standing by the bike racks, soaked to the bone, arms crossed tightly over her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

she wasn’t letting you go this time.

you could’ve run. maybe you almost did.

but your feet betrayed you. they moved forward, one slow step after the other, until you stood in front of her, the rain curling at your lashes, dripping down your cheeks like sweat or tears—what was the difference anymore?

she didn’t speak at first.

her eyes traveled across your face, your soaked hair, the bruise peeking from under your collar. her voice, when it came, was small. tired.

“why do you keep doing this?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. the words felt too heavy to lift.

“why do you keep leaving?” she asked again, firmer this time. “i wait. every time, i wait. and you still walk away.”

you looked at her then. really looked. her cheeks were flushed with cold, eyes red-rimmed, mascara smudged under her lashes. the rain blurred her edges, but it couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice. the quiet breaking.

“i’m trying to protect you,” you said, and your voice cracked around it.

she let out a shaky laugh. not because it was funny. because it hurt.

“no,” she said. “no, you’re not. you’re breaking me. again.”

the silence between you split wide and deep. thunder cracked in the distance, low and distant like a memory.

you didn’t mean to hurt her. but meaning never mattered as much as it should’ve.

“every time i think you’ll stay,” she whispered, “you disappear. you leave me with the pieces. and i pick them up, and i wait, and i hope. but i can’t keep doing this, y/n.”

your name in her mouth was a wound. soft, but bleeding.

“i had a dream,” you said, because it was the only truth you had left. “i saw you die.”

her expression softened. not because she forgave you. but because she knew you meant it.

“you think keeping me away will save me?” she asked. “do you think it hurts less, watching you leave than taking the risk of staying?”

you didn’t know what to say to that.

“i love you,” she said. “i don’t care if it’s dangerous. i don’t care if it’s messy. i just want you. not the version that disappears in the dark. not the one who says nothing and bleeds alone.”

you looked away. the streetlight shimmered against the rain, glowing like a second moon.

“i don’t know how to stay,” you said, quiet as a confession. “i don’t know how not to ruin things.”

she stepped closer. not to forgive you. but to let you feel how much it hurt.

“then let me ruin things with you,” she said. “because being left behind hurts more than anything else ever could.”

you closed your eyes.

the rain kept falling.

but for a moment, her hand brushed yours, fingers barely touching, as if asking—not demanding—just once, for you to stay.

you didn’t hold it. you just stood there. aching. unsure. and still so in love you could barely breathe.

and then the moment passed. and like always, you turned to leave.

but this time, she didn’t call after you. she just let the rain speak for her.

you were falling through yourself again. slipping in slow, uneven spirals. some days, the sky felt like it belonged to you. some days, you swore your feet had never left the ground. you moved through the city like a whisper, like a bruise no one could name. sometimes you wore the suit just to feel like someone else. sometimes you couldn’t even bear to touch it.

your mind was a mess of turning gears and cracked reflections. nothing stayed still. nothing held its shape. some mornings, you woke up believing you could do this—love her, save her, keep the world from breaking at the seams. other mornings, you couldn’t even look in the mirror. the shadows clung too tightly. your hands trembled. your chest ached.

you didn’t know what you were doing anymore.

one minute, you could still taste her lips on yours, soft and startled like a sunrise. the next, you saw her bleeding, limp in your arms, a nightmare with too much detail. blood on your palms, too familiar to be anything but memory. you shook it off. tried to. but it stayed, clung, echoed.

you loved her and that was the only truth that didn’t shift beneath your feet. you loved her. but was love enough to keep her safe? was love enough to keep yourself from running?

you didn’t know.and god, it hurt to not know.

your thoughts never stayed quiet. they screamed and whispered, begged and warned. you should stay away. you should hold her closer. you should disappear. you should never let go.

you should stop loving her.

no. no, not that. never that.

you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.

she haunted your every corner. her laugh lived in the hollow of your throat. her smile burned behind your eyelids when you blinked. her voice lingered like a ghost in your ears, asking you to stay, to try, to let her in.

you couldn’t tell if you were healing or breaking.

every time you touched her hand, you wondered if it would be the last.

every time you saw her eyes, you feared the day they’d stop looking at you with love.

you tried to be strong. you tried to believe you could be enough for both of you. but sometimes you looked at your reflection and saw nothing but failure stitched into the seams of your suit.

you weren’t a hero. you were just a kid with broken dreams and too much love in the wrong places.

but still—still—you loved her. with everything you had. even when your hands shook. even when your voice faltered. even when you couldn’t promise her anything beyond your heart.

she was your constant in the chaos.

your still point in a spinning world.

and somehow, even when you were at your lowest, even when guilt cracked you wide open, that love remained.

it burned. it stayed. even when you weren’t sure if you would.

you hadn’t meant to walk that way.

honestly, you weren’t even sure where your feet were going until they stopped—and there she was.

just outside the back exit of the school building, half-shadowed beneath the awning where the rain couldn’t quite reach her. her backpack hung off one shoulder, and she was twisting the strap with her fingers like she wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay.

you froze.

she looked up.

your eyes met like they had so many times before—across hallways, between lab tables, under the heavy air of everything left unsaid. but this time, it was different. not painful exactly. just... exposed. like both of you had forgotten how to look at each other without remembering all the times you didn’t.

she didn’t smile and neither did you.

your throat tightened, but you nodded, slow. cautious. her head tilted slightly, the smallest twitch of something unreadable in her expression. you thought, maybe, she’d turn away. maybe this was too much.

but she didn’t.

instead, she stepped forward—not far, just enough to show that she wasn’t leaving. not yet. not this time.

you swallowed the ache in your chest. it still lingered, that awful twist of guilt and longing and shame. you hadn’t meant to stay away for so long. it wasn’t supposed to be like this—like every inch toward her felt like crossing a battlefield. like love was something you had to walk barefoot across glass to reach.

still, you took a step closer. she let you.

“hey,” she said, voice soft but steady. there was no blame in it. just a quiet kind of knowing. a thread of hope strung through hesitation.

you opened your mouth. nothing came. your tongue felt like stone. you hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t built up the words. all you had was your guilt, your silence, and the tremble in your fingers.

she noticed.

her eyes flicked down to your hands, and slowly—carefully—she reached out. she didn’t grab. didn’t push. just let her fingertips ghost against yours, like asking a question without words.

you flinched.

just a little. not out of fear. not out of rejection. just out of the weight of it. and still, she didn’t pull away.

your breath hitched. you watched her face, the way her brows drew together, the way she kept her hand there, unmoving, waiting. her warmth bleeding into your cold fingers like sunlight on frost.

you didn’t deserve this. not the softness. not her patience. but god, how you wanted it. how you missed her in every way a soul could miss something.

you curled your fingers around hers, slow. hesitant. like it might break if you held on too tight.

her expression didn’t change, but her grip tightened.

“i didn’t think you’d come,” she whispered, and her voice cracked just enough to undo you a little.

you looked away. the rain was falling just past the awning, glittering in the soft streetlight. everything smelled like wet leaves and concrete.

“i almost didn’t,” you said.

the truth sat heavy between you.

you expected her to ask why. expected the weight of her voice pressing against all the reasons you hadn’t said before. but she didn’t. she just stood there with you in the quiet, like she knew the question wouldn’t help.

“but you’re here,” she said, and there was no question in it. just quiet acceptance. not forgiveness. not yet.

you nodded. “yeah.”

the silence that followed wasn’t empty. it breathed. it held you both in its arms and didn’t ask for anything more.

your hand still in hers, you glanced up again, slowly. her eyes were glassy in the low light, rimmed with tiredness, but still… still they held that same softness. that same wonder.

she stepped a little closer. your shoulders brushed. the contact sent something deep in you cracking open.

“i don’t know how to do this,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “i want to. i do. but i’m still scared.”

she looked at you like she already knew that. like maybe she’d been scared too.

her thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “so am i.”

you blinked. she said it like it wasn’t a failure. like fear wasn’t a door slamming shut, but something you could walk through together, even with shaking hands.

“but i’m still here,” she added, and her voice didn’t shake that time.

your chest ached. your ribs felt too small for your heart. you didn’t speak, didn’t know how to. you just looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense. and maybe she was.

maybe she always had been.

you didn’t say thank you.

you didn’t say sorry.

you just held her hand, standing in the space between leaving and staying, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it was enough.

the night was soft. a hush of wind through the trees, a warmth left over from the sun still lingering in the brick of the rooftop. stars blinked above the city, quiet and uncaring, and the skyline glowed faint orange and blue like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to sleep or stay awake forever.

you sat side by side, your legs dangling over the edge.

her shoulder brushed yours.

you hadn’t meant to talk. hadn’t planned to open the doors you’d kept bolted shut since the beginning. but maybe that was the thing about love—it wasn’t always planned. it just asked you to be brave, even if your voice shook. even if your heart did too.

and tonight, for once, you were tired of carrying it alone.

you looked down at your hands, the scars along your knuckles, the rough skin on your palms. you exhaled.

“he asked me to promise,” you said, quietly. “right before he…”

your throat closed. you didn’t say it. didn’t have to.

her gaze didn’t leave you.

you looked straight ahead, the city stretching out in front of you like a secret you were still afraid to tell.

“he said—if i loved you, i’d let you go.”

a pause. heavy. real.

“and i did. i tried. i did everything he wanted. i thought if i could just stay away, you’d be safe. like that would be enough.”

you bit your lip. the words were tumbling now. too fast, too raw.

“but it wasn’t. it just broke us. over and over. and still—i can’t stop thinking about it. the rooftop. the blood. how i couldn’t save him. and the dreams, hanni—i see you there too, sometimes. i watch you fall and i can’t catch you. and i wake up and i’m already breaking.”

she didn’t interrupt.

you finally turned to look at her. her eyes shimmered, soft with something that wasn’t pity. it was understanding. it was something deeper. something still standing after every collapse.

“i know i keep hurting you,” you whispered. “i don’t mean to. i just—i keep thinking, if something happened to you because of me… i wouldn’t survive that.”

you swallowed. your voice dropped again.

“and i don’t know what’s worse. losing you, or knowing i was the reason.”

the silence stretched.

and then she spoke.

“love isn’t weakness,” she said, gently but firmly. “not mine. not yours. not what’s between us.”

you looked at her. her expression was steady, clear.

“you don’t make me weaker. you don’t put cracks in me. you hold me together.”

your breath caught.

“i know what your life looks like,” she said, softer now. “i know the risk. i’m not pretending i don’t. but i’m choosing this. i’m choosing you.”

she reached out, touched your hand. warm. real.

“you keep trying to protect me by pushing me away. but you don’t see it’s what’s breaking me. not the danger. not the fear. the silence. the leaving.”

your eyes burned.

she scooted a little closer, her hand now fully covering yours. “i’m stronger with you. not without. and maybe—maybe you’re stronger with me too.”

you didn’t speak. you didn’t need to.

you leaned into her shoulder, your forehead brushing her temple. her hair smelled like something soft and familiar. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel it—the weight in your chest loosening. the ache easing.

you were still scared. the fear didn’t vanish overnight.

but in this moment, with her hand in yours, her breath steady beside you—you didn’t feel alone in it.

and maybe that was the beginning of healing. not being unafraid. just being unafraid together.

you didn’t hear the green goblin’s cackle before you saw him. no—what you heard first was the whine of his glider splitting the wind above the city. then came the bombs, the chaos, the smoke rising into the sky like the city itself was burning. and somewhere in all that noise, all that fear, you knew: he was looking for you. or worse—he was looking for her.

you met him halfway across the skyline.

“you’re late,” he sneered, standing at the edge of the rooftop. “i was starting to think you forgot about me.”

“oh no,” you said, voice dry and sarcastic despite the tight knot in your chest, “i wouldn’t miss this date for the world.”

your body moved before your mind could catch up, launching forward with a sharp kick. he blocked it easily, laughing like it was all a game. his glider whirred behind him, circling like a vulture.

"you’re getting sloppy, spidergirl!" he shrieked, wild eyes shining like broken glass. "you’re soft. i can smell it on you."

you didn’t answer. didn’t dare. you were already bleeding—left shoulder, the same one that caught a bullet months ago. he was faster than before. stronger. crueler. you wondered what oscorp had done to him. you didn’t care enough to ask.

the two of you crashed into the side of a building, glass shattering around you. your breath caught in your throat. still, you fought. knee to his ribs, elbow to his chin. he laughed through the pain.

every punch felt heavier than the last, every dodge slower than it should’ve been. your left arm was still sore from the last fight—you hadn’t had time to rest, not really. but you pushed through it, your breath shallow and burning.

he was strong, unpredictable, but you had something he didn’t. desperation.

but even as your fists connected and your webs tangled around him, something inside you twisted. something heavy.

where was she?

you hadn’t seen her all day. hadn’t heard her voice. not even from across the classroom. you’d been keeping your distance again—because distance meant safety, right?

then you heard it. a crash. a voice.

you spun midair, only to see her.

hanni. standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, eyes wide. breathless.

you froze.

"what are you doing here?!" your voice cut through the wind, sharper than you meant. "gp—get out of here, hanni. now."

she crossed her arms, defiant even in fear. "oh, what, i’m just supposed to let you handle this alone?"

behind you, the goblin cackled again. “oooh,” he purred. “spidergirl has a girlfriend.”

your heart stopped.

“how... sweet.”

you turned too late. he was already moving. the glider howled through the air. he slipped past you with terrifying ease, grabbing hanni by the arm. she yelped, legs kicking as he lifted her into the air like she weighed nothing at all.

"hanni!" you screamed, already leaping—already too slow.

the goblin lifted her into the sky, her scream tearing through you.

“let her go!” you screamed, swinging after them with everything you had left. “you wanna fight me? fight me!”

he laughed, rising higher—hovering over the glass dome of the old clock tower.

"gladly," he sneered—and he did.

she fell.

your body moved before your thoughts did. one web shot toward her, another toward the tower behind you. time cracked open. the world slowed.

you caught her. barely. arms around her waist, your body between hers and the glass roof of the clock tower dome. you wrapped your body around hers, arms tight. you cradled her head, shielding her from the impact—shielding her head as you both slammed onto the clock tower’s glass roof. her eyes were wide, but she was breathing.

cracks spidered beneath you like veins.

"are you okay?" your voice broke on the edges. your hand shook as it cupped her cheek. "tell me you’re okay."

her fingers clutched at your suit. “i’m fine,” she whispered. “you caught me.”

you almost smiled. almost.

a pumpkin bomb landed beside you, exploding with a sharp hiss of fire and glass. it shattered the dome beneath you. glass rained down.

your web snapped taut as you both plummeted into the belly of the clock tower. your body twisted midair, webs shooting again—one, two, three—to slow your fall.

the wind roared past your ears. you landed hard, one knee buckling. hanni clung to you, her breath ragged against your shoulder.

you didn’t have time.

he was still here.

the goblin dove through the broken ceiling like a demon from the sky. his glider shrieked. you met him midair again, this time with a rage you hadn’t felt in weeks. your punches were wild, desperate. you didn’t hold back.

"stay away from her!" you screamed, voice shaking.

your mask was torn. one of your lenses cracked. the world looked like it was shattering in half.

you slammed him into the gears of the clock tower. sparks flew. he clawed at your side—sharp, jagged. you screamed. the pain lit your nerves like fire.

but you kept going.

you webbed him to the tower. the last punch cracked something in his helmet. he slumped, glider sparking. the wind stilled.

you didn’t breathe.

then—your web slipped.

“no—no no no—”

hanni’s scream snapped your head down. her weight yanked at your shoulder. your grip was faltering.

she was dangling again. the wires holding you both up strained and groaned.

"hold on!" you begged.

“i’m trying!” she gasped.

your fingers were slick with blood. your arm screamed with pain. your mask blurred from tears.

“just—just a little longer—”

her hand slipped.

you caught it again—barely.

her wrist was small in your palm. you clutched it like it was the last real thing in the world and when you finally pulled her up, cradling her to your chest, something inside you broke.

the guilt was louder than the relief.

you held her in your arms, chest heaving, the ruined clock tower groaning around you. and all you could think about was how close it had been. how you could’ve lost her.

how it would’ve been your fault.

she was safe—yes. but only for now.

the green goblin was unconscious. the tower was falling apart. you couldn’t stay. so you ran again.

you webbed her down gently—far from the wreckage, far from the fight. you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare.

you turned your back before she could stop you and you disappeared into the smoke.

you didn’t say goodbye. because this time, you didn’t know if you deserved to.

you hadn’t slept. not really. every time you closed your eyes, it was like falling into the ocean mid-storm—dark and endless, full of faces you couldn’t reach. her face. his. blood on your hands that wouldn't wash away, no matter how hard you tried. your body was tired, but your mind never stopped. it kept flipping through your memories like pages in a book that wouldn’t close.

the city felt too loud, too bright. every siren in the distance echoed inside your ribs. every rooftop you passed reminded you of a time when you felt braver. stronger. steadier. now you just felt like a ghost wearing a mask. and it was heavier than it used to be.

you disappeared for days. spidergirl went quiet. you stopped swinging. stopped saving. even stopped going to school. because you knew she’d be there. you knew you’d see her smile, or worse—her sadness. and that would break you all over again.

but she stayed in your mind. like fog at the edge of a mirror. always there. soft. persistent. you missed her so much it physically hurt. she wasn’t just someone you loved—she was safety. warmth. the only part of this life that felt like home. and you had left her again.

the guilt clawed at you. sometimes literally—phantom pain in your chest, in your spine. sometimes it was his voice, haunting your dreams, sometimes it was hers, saying your name like she was trying to pull you back from the edge. and maybe she was.

so when you saw her again, by chance—just her silhouette, standing near the old science wing of the school, under a sky that looked like it couldn’t decide whether to rain or shine—your whole body locked up. your feet didn’t move, but your heart did. violently.

she saw you too. you knew she did. she always did. and still, she waited for you to come closer.

your hands were shaking. you stuffed them into your hoodie pockets, but that didn’t stop the tremble in your jaw or the ache in your chest. every step you took felt like walking toward a memory instead of a person. and maybe that was true. because when you looked at her, all you saw was everything you lost. everything you still loved.

you stopped a few feet away from her. she was watching you with those eyes—gentle, steady, unreadable in a way that made you want to fall apart and hold her all at once.

the silence stretched between you, and your throat felt too tight to break it. and then she asked, in the softest voice:

“do you still love me?”

you tensed like she'd hit you. every bone in your body locked up. you felt everything all at once—heat, cold, fear, longing. suddenly hot, suddenly cool. suddenly sure, suddenly so afraid. the words caught in your throat like a sob that hadn’t been born yet.

your heart was beating so fast it felt slow. like it couldn’t keep up. like it didn’t know how.

she had that look on her face. not angry. not demanding. just—hopeful. quiet. like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you. needed to be sure you were still there beneath all that armor.

you swallowed. tried to breathe. your heart felt like it was fighting you from the inside out.

“…yes,” you said, so quietly it barely made it out. “i could never stop loving you.”

her breath hitched, just a little. and then—then she smiled. that warm, quiet, kind smile that you’d only ever seen on her face. like spring after a long winter. and you couldn’t understand it. you didn’t know how someone could still smile at you like that after everything.

you were still tense. your body didn’t know how to let go. your hands curled in your sleeves, your shoulders locked in place, like if you moved, the whole world might break again.

but she stepped forward, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. she didn’t rush you. didn’t ask for anything more. she just opened her arms.

and then—without thinking, without breathing—you stepped into them.

and it was like everything stopped.

the world, the wind, the ache in your chest—all of it just… paused.

you melted into her. fully. completely. like you’d been waiting to collapse into her since the moment you left. your arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, like you were afraid the universe might take her from you if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

she held you. didn’t speak. didn’t move. just held you, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder, her hands rubbing soft, slow circles into your back. you could feel her heartbeat against your chest. and yours slowly matched hers.

you were still crying, though you didn’t realise it until her shirt was damp beneath your cheek.

the tension in your muscles eased. the storm inside you hushed.

you weren’t okay. not yet. but for a second, just one second—you felt peace.

in that moment, love wasn’t a battlefield or a punishment. it was stillness. it was soft and warm and solid. and it was hers. and yours.

and wasn’t it love? wasn’t it love, to fall and still reach for her hand? wasn’t it love, to be broken and still show up? wasn’t it love, even if it hurt?

it wasn’t the easy kind. not the perfect kind. but the kind that holds you when you break. the kind that waits. the kind that sees the worst in you and chooses you anyway.

because right then, in her arms, you weren’t spidergirl. you weren’t a walking contradiction. you weren’t a promise failing to hold.

you were just a girl, finally safe enough to fall apart. finally brave enough to feel everything. and she held you like she’d never let you go.

and maybe that was enough. maybe for now, just this moment—just her arms around you, just your name whispered softly against your hair—was enough.

you breathed her in like oxygen and held on like you were drowning.

you stayed.

not because the fear left you—it didn’t. it still pulsed beneath your ribs like a second heartbeat. it still crept into your spine when the wind howled just a little too loud through the alleys. but for once, fear didn’t win. love did.

you stayed, even when every instinct told you to run.

even when your hands trembled lacing hers. even when you caught yourself checking over your shoulder every few steps, because danger had never needed an invitation. you stayed. not because you were brave—but because you were tired of running. tired of losing what made you feel alive.

she never asked you to promise again. not in words. not outright. but the way she looked at you—quiet, wide-eyed, waiting—it made something in you ache. not with guilt this time, but with longing. for peace. for something soft. something simple.

you sat with her on her bedroom floor, knees touching. she was playing with the edge of your sleeve like she was scared it would disappear if she stopped. the window was open. the city buzzed beneath you, but for once, it didn’t feel like it needed saving. not right now.

“you’re still here,” she whispered.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

she touched your face so gently you almost didn’t feel it. fingers warm, brushing the edge of your jaw. you flinched—not out of fear, but disbelief. her touch always made you feel like something fragile. not broken, just precious.

you held her hand against your cheek.

“i’m scared,” you said, finally. “but i’m not going anywhere.”

her smile was small but real. the kind that grew behind the eyes first, not the mouth. “me neither.”

the moment was quiet, but not empty. there was weight in it. meaning. her thumb traced lazy circles into the back of your hand. it grounded you. like gravity—but kinder.

you walked with her after that. to school. to the bakery down the street. to the park where the grass was still damp and the sky was just starting to turn gold. you sat on benches and split pastries and let the sun hit your skin. you watched her laugh with sugar on her lips and thought, i could live in this moment forever.

at night, you didn’t swing alone anymore. not always. sometimes, she waited at the rooftop with a blanket and thermos, just to see you land. sometimes, she fell asleep there, head on your shoulder, the stars above you both like a lullaby in light.

you still fought. you still bled. the city never stopped needing you. but now, when you limped home, there was a light in her window. there was warmth in her arms. there was safety in her silence.

and every time you doubted—even for a second—she would find you. sit beside you in the dark and say nothing until your hands stopped shaking. and when you finally looked at her, scared and small and tired, she’d just say, “i know.”

and somehow, that was enough.

you told her everything. about the night on the rooftop. about your promise to her father. about how much it hurt to love her and still fear her being near you. she listened. she always did. and when you were done, breathless and broken open, she kissed your forehead like it was sacred.

“i choose this,” she said. “even when it’s hard. especially then.”

you rested your head against her shoulder and let the tears fall. you didn’t speak. didn’t move. just breathed. just existed beside her.

that night, when she touched your cheek and pulled you into her arms again, you didn’t tense. you melted.

you stayed.

and it was hard. but it was worth it.

#bombikki 彡☆#newjeans #newjeans x reader #newjeans hanni #hanni pham x reader #hanni x reader

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