#i don't know how to approach making something with such gaping flaws in it

[nattousan]

i don't know what aspect of autism this is or if it's just me being arrogant but the absolute blinding rage i feel over something this insignificant has Got to be a symptom idk

at work rn we're working on a very large foam sculpture for an event that has to do with a medusa head topping an entranceway, and i do mean it's Massive, like 8ft across or something. The client sent us a 3D rendering of the sculpt that they want us to follow and i seem to be the only one bothered by it.

The face itself is fine, the anatomy is a little wonky but it looks like what it's supposed to look like, but the snakes... dear lord the Snakes

there's no rhyme or reason to where they are placed or where they originate from the head, NO thought was given to how an actual snakes body moves or bends and they all ended up looking like squeezed out toothpaste or entrails, there's no flow to the design, there's WAY TOO MANY OF THEM for our small shop to sculpt by hand, NO thought was given as to how people were actually supposed to sculpt it so that it lines up with the wall/entryway it's being mounted to, they all look like sock puppets and overall the whole job is a mess from the beginning!!!!

I feel myself being paralyzed by all of these issues, unable to move forward without fixing them, esp since my questions of "how are we making this fit to it's frame without the frame itself" being met with a noncomittal "eh, we'll make it work, just do your best"

i have had my whole workflow disrupted by this and all of the other sculptors seem to not notice how WRONG it is!!! it's wrongggggg!!!!!!

im not trying to be a like... uh, art snob or something condescending about this but i find the whole design ugly and not worth making in its current form and that might be diagnosable idk, i guess i just need to learn how to turn off the part in my brain that cares about that and do it ugly i guess ???

[saoney]

A Canvas of Hearts

𖠋 Rafayel ♡ Fem!Reader 𖠋

In Regency England, where beauty is currency and marriage is business, Lady Reader finds herself invisible in the marriage mart. In a world obsessed with perfection, can two hearts find their perfect match in each other's flaws?

⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of body image struggles, attempted sexual violence, and emotional trauma that may be triggering for some readers.

🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹

The ballroom glittered like a constellation of diamonds, each chandelier casting dancing shadows across the polished marble floor. Ladies in their finest silks swirled past in a kaleidoscope of pastels, their laughter tinkling like wind chimes in the evening air. Yet you remained pressed against the wall, a forgotten bloom among the garden's prized roses.

Your fingers worried the fabric of your deep emerald gown—chosen specifically by your mother to "bring out your eyes," though you suspected it was more to camouflage your fuller figure against the wallpaper. At three and twenty, you had endured four seasons of being overlooked, dismissed, or worse—mocked behind painted fans and knowing smiles.

"Miss Y/N," your mother's voice cut through your reverie, sharp with barely concealed desperation. "Lord Pemberton's son approaches. Please, for once, do not retreat to the refreshment table."

You straightened, forcing a smile as a young man with thinning hair and a weak chin made his way toward you. But before he could reach you, his gaze swept over your form, his expression shifting from polite interest to barely concealed distaste. He veered away at the last moment, suddenly very interested in examining a nearby painting.

The familiar sting of rejection burned in your chest. You had grown accustomed to it, yet it never seemed to hurt any less.

"Perhaps some fresh air," you murmured to yourself, gathering your skirts to step onto the terrace.

The cool night air was a blessed relief from the stifling ballroom. You moved to the stone balustrade, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, when a voice like velvet and midnight spoke behind you.

"Escaping the marriage mart as well?"

You turned, and your breath caught. Leaning against the doorframe with casual elegance was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. His dusk-violet hair caught the moonlight, and those legendary amethyst eyes—shifting between violet and silver in the darkness—fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Lord Rafayel Qi. Even you, who barely moved in the highest circles, knew of him. Young, devastatingly handsome, wealthy beyond measure, and the subject of countless scandals that somehow only seemed to enhance his allure.

"I... I beg your pardon?" you stammered, acutely aware of how you must look—a plain, round girl caught gaping at her betters.

His lips curved in a smile that could have inspired sonnets. "The hunting grounds in there," he gestured toward the ballroom with a lazy wave. "Everyone stalking their prey, trying to make the most advantageous match. It grows tedious, don't you think?"

You blinked in surprise. "You find it tedious? But surely you are the most sought-after prize in there."

He laughed, a rich sound that sent warmth spiraling through your chest. "Perhaps. But being hunted loses its appeal when you realize the hunters only see the title and the fortune, never the man."

There was something in his voice—a loneliness that resonated with your own. "I wouldn't know," you said softly. "I'm rarely hunted at all."

His amethyst eyes sharpened, studying your face with an artist's intensity. "Then they are fools."

The simple statement, delivered with such sincerity, made heat rise in your cheeks. "You're very kind, my lord, but—"

"Rafayel," he corrected, pushing off from the doorframe to move closer. "And I'm not being kind. I'm being honest."

Before you could respond, your mother's voice called from the doorway. "Y/N! There you are. Come, Lord Arthur Blackwood wishes to be introduced."

Your heart sank. You had heard whispers about Lord Blackwood—a man with gambling debts and a reputation for cruelty. But he was titled, and your parents were growing desperate.

"Go," Rafayel said quietly, though his eyes had hardened at the mention of Blackwood's name. "But be careful, Miss Wallflower. Not all who show interest have honorable intentions."

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Lord Arthur Blackwood was handsome in a cold, calculating way. His blonde hair was perfectly styled, his clothes immaculate, and his smile never quite reached his pale green eyes. For two weeks, he had been the perfect suitor—sending flowers, requesting walks in the park, engaging you in conversation about literature and art.

For the first time in your life, you felt wanted. Desired, even. The attention was intoxicating after years of being invisible.

"You have such unique perspectives on poetry, Miss Y/N," Arthur said as you strolled through your family's garden, your maid trailing at a discrete distance. "Most ladies of my acquaintance can barely manage to discuss the weather intelligently."

You felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. "I've always loved reading. My father has an extensive library."

"I should very much like to see it," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Perhaps you could show me sometime when we might have more... privacy."

Something in his tone made you glance at him sharply, but his expression remained pleasant. Still, you remembered Lord Rafayel's warning about honorable intentions.

"Perhaps when my parents are at home," you said carefully.

His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course."

The following afternoon, Arthur called while your parents were out paying social calls. You knew you should have turned him away, but he claimed urgent business that couldn't wait, and your naive heart believed him.

"Your library is magnificent," he said, running his fingers along the leather spines. But his eyes weren't on the books—they were on you, and something in his gaze made your skin crawl.

"Perhaps we should return to the drawing room," you suggested, moving toward the door.

He was there before you, his hand flat against the wooden panel, blocking your exit. "So eager to leave? And here I thought you enjoyed my company."

"I do, but—"

"But nothing." His voice had changed, become harder, hungrier. "Do you know what they say about you, Y/N? That you're desperate. That your father would pay handsomely to see you wed to anyone who would have you."

The cruel words hit you like physical blows. "That's not... I don't..."

"Oh, but it is." He stepped closer, backing you against the bookshelf. "And I've decided to take advantage of that desperation. You see, I have certain... appetites... that require a woman of your particular attributes. You're perfect for what I have in mind."

Your blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

His hand came up to cup your face with mock tenderness. "I mean, my dear, that you'll make an excellent mistress. I have no intention of marrying you—I need a wife who can grace my arm without causing snickers. But for my private entertainments? You'll do nicely."

"No," you whispered, trying to push past him. "I won't—"

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your arms. "You will. Because what choice do you have? No one else wants you. This is the best offer you'll ever receive."

"Let me go!" You struggled against his hold, but he was stronger, pressing you back against the books.

"Stop fighting," he snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "You should be grateful someone finds you desirable at all."

His hands began to roam, and panic flooded your system. You opened your mouth to scream when the library door burst open with a thunderous crash.

"I suggest," came a voice like silk wrapped around steel, "that you remove your hands from the lady immediately."

Lord Rafayel stood in the doorway, his usually playful expression replaced by something deadly. His amethyst eyes blazed with fury, and his tall frame radiated menace despite his elegant appearance.

Arthur's hands fell away from you as if burned. "Lord Qi. This is a private matter—"

"Is it?" Rafayel's voice was conversational, but he moved into the room like a predator stalking prey. "Because from where I stand, it appears you were assaulting an unwilling woman."

"Assaulting?" Arthur laughed, but it sounded nervous. "Hardly. Miss Y/N and I were merely discussing our understanding."

"Understanding?" Rafayel's gaze flicked to you, taking in your disheveled appearance and terrified expression. Something dangerous flashed in those amethyst depths. "I think there's been a misunderstanding indeed."

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One moment Arthur was standing beside you, the next he was on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, and Rafayel was shaking out his knuckles with casual grace.

"I do hope I've made myself clear," Rafayel said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just delivered a devastating blow. "Miss Y/N is under my protection now. Should you come near her again, should you even speak her name, I will ensure you regret it in ways your limited imagination cannot conceive."

Arthur scrambled to his feet, fury and humiliation warring in his expression. "You'll regret this, Qi. Both of you will."

After he left, you collapsed into a chair, your whole body shaking. Rafayel was beside you in an instant, his earlier coldness replaced by gentle concern.

"Are you hurt?" His hands hovered over you, wanting to comfort but not daring to touch without permission.

"No, I... thank you." You looked up at him, tears blurring your vision. "How did you know?"

"I've been watching him," Rafayel admitted, his jaw tight. "Men like Blackwood prey on women they perceive as vulnerable. I couldn't let him hurt you."

The tenderness in his voice, the way he'd risked scandal to protect you, made your heart ache with a confused mixture of gratitude and something deeper.

"Why?" you whispered. "Why would you care what happens to me?"

His answer was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall—your parents returning home. But his eyes held yours for a long moment, filled with something that made your breath catch.

"Because you matter," he said simply. "More than you know."

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The scandal broke like a summer storm—swift, vicious, and devastating.

By the next morning, all of London was buzzing with the tale of how Miss Y/N L/N had shamelessly thrown herself at Lord Rafayel Qi while already engaged to Lord Arthur Blackwood. The story grew more salacious with each telling, painting you as a wanton seductress who had used her feminine wiles to ensnare the most eligible bachelor in the ton.

You knew it was Arthur's revenge, but knowing did nothing to stop the whispers, the pointing fingers, the way former acquaintances turned away when they saw you approach.

Your father paced the length of his study like a caged animal. "Ruined," he muttered for the hundredth time. "Completely ruined. What gentleman will have you now? The family name is destroyed."

Your mother sat in stony silence, her disappointment radiating from her in waves. You huddled in your chair, wishing you could disappear entirely.

The butler's announcement came like a lifeline: "Lord Rafayel Qi to see you, sir."

Your father's head snapped up. "Send him in immediately."

Rafayel entered with his usual graceful confidence, but you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue coat that made his amethyst eyes seem to glow, his dusk-violet hair perfectly styled. He looked every inch the powerful nobleman he was.

"Lord Y/L/N," he said with a formal bow. "I believe we need to discuss the current situation regarding your daughter."

Your father's face was a mask of barely controlled desperation. "My lord, I assure you, whatever stories are circulating—"

"Are complete fabrications," Rafayel finished smoothly. "I am well aware of Lord Blackwood's character and his capacity for vindictive lies."

Hope flickered in your chest, but Rafayel's next words changed everything.

"However, the damage to Miss Y/N's reputation is considerable. There is only one way to salvage both her honor and your family's standing."

The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.

"I am prepared to offer for Miss Y/N's hand in marriage."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You stared at him in shock, but his expression remained carefully neutral, giving nothing away.

Your father's relief was palpable. "My lord, that is... that is extraordinarily generous. But surely you cannot wish to tie yourself to such scandal—"

"The scandal will die quickly enough once we are wed," Rafayel said with quiet authority. "I have weathered worse storms than this, and my reputation can withstand whatever gossip London wishes to invent."

"But why?" The question tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Why would you sacrifice yourself for me?"

His amethyst eyes found yours, and for a moment, the careful mask slipped. What you saw there made your breath catch—a longing so deep it seemed to reach into your very soul.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, "I don't see it as a sacrifice."

Your father was already nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes of course. When would you wish the ceremony to take place?"

"As soon as possible. The banns can be read, or we can obtain a special license. I leave the details to your discretion."

Everything was happening so fast. Your head spun with the implications. Marriage. To Lord Rafayel Qi. It seemed like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare.

"I..." you began, but your father cut you off.

"She accepts, of course. Don't you, Y/N?"

All eyes turned to you. Your father's pleading, your mother's hopeful, and Rafayel's... unreadable. You realized you had no choice. Your reputation was in ruins, your family's name was at stake, and this man—this beautiful, mysterious man—was offering to save you.

"Yes," you whispered. "I accept."

Rafayel's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction.

"Excellent," he said, moving to take your hand. His fingers were warm, strong, and the touch sent an unexpected thrill through you. "Then allow me to welcome you to the family, my dear."

He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. The gesture was perfectly proper, yet it felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn.

"I shall call tomorrow to discuss the arrangements," he told your father. Then, to you: "I hope you will be happy, Miss Y/N. That is my greatest wish."

After he left, you sat in stunned silence, staring at your hand where his lips had touched. In the space of a few moments, your entire life had changed. You were to be married. To a man you barely knew, no matter how he made your heart race.

The question that haunted you through the sleepless night that followed was simple: Did he truly care for you, or were you merely a problem to be solved, a good deed to be done?

Only time would tell.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The wedding was a small, elegant affair—nothing like the grand celebration you had once dreamed of as a young girl. You stood at the altar in your mother's pearl-adorned gown, altered to fit your fuller figure, watching as Rafayel repeated his vows with perfect composure.

He looked magnificent in his dark formal wear, his dusk-violet hair catching the light from the church's stained glass windows. When he spoke the words "to love and to cherish," his amethyst eyes met yours with an intensity that made your heart skip, but you couldn't tell if what you saw there was genuine affection or merely duty.

The kiss that sealed your union was brief, proper, and left you wondering if your new husband felt anything for you beyond obligation.

The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of congratulations and well-wishes from the small gathering of family and close friends. You smiled and nodded and played the part of the blushing bride, all while feeling like you were watching someone else's life unfold.

It wasn't until you were alone with Rafayel in the carriage heading to his—now your—estate that the reality of your situation truly hit you.

"You're very quiet," he observed, his voice gentle. "Having second thoughts?"

You looked at him, this stranger who was now your husband, and felt a confusing mix of attraction and terror. "Are you?"

Something flickered across his features—too quick to interpret. "No," he said simply. "I am exactly where I wish to be."

The words should have been comforting, but there was something in his tone that made them feel rehearsed, like lines from a play he had memorized but didn't quite believe.

Mo Art Manor was even grander than you had imagined. The limestone facade gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the manicured gardens stretched as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful, impressive, and utterly intimidating.

"Welcome home," Rafayel said, helping you down from the carriage. His touch was gentle but brief, and you found yourself wishing he would hold your hand a moment longer.

The staff had assembled to greet their new mistress, and you were introduced to what felt like an endless parade of faces and names. The housekeeper, Mrs. Aldridge, was a kindly woman who seemed genuinely pleased to welcome you, but you could see the curiosity in the servants' eyes as they tried to reconcile their master's legendary charm with his rather ordinary new bride.

"I've had the Rose Suite prepared for you," Rafayel said as he showed you through the magnificent halls. "I thought you might prefer your own space while you adjust to your new circumstances."

Your own space. Separate bedrooms. The message was clear—this was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. The realization stung more than you cared to admit.

"That's very thoughtful," you managed, hoping your voice didn't betray your disappointment.

He showed you to a beautiful suite of rooms decorated in soft pinks and golds, with a view of the rose garden that gave the rooms their name. Everything was perfect, luxurious, and utterly lonely.

"I hope you'll be comfortable here," he said, lingering in the doorway. "If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you." You turned to face him, this beautiful man who was your husband but felt like a stranger. "Rafayel, I... I want you to know that I'm grateful. For everything. I know this wasn't the marriage you planned—"

"Neither of us planned this," he interrupted gently. "But perhaps that doesn't mean it cannot be good. In time."

Hope flickered in your chest. "In time?"

But instead of elaborating, he simply smiled—one of those devastating smiles that made your knees weak. "Rest well, Y/N. Tomorrow, I'll show you the portrait gallery. There are some rather scandalous ancestors you should know about."

The next morning, you woke to find a note slipped under your door. Rafayel's elegant handwriting informed you that urgent business had called him away, and he was uncertain when he would return.

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. You settled into a routine at Mo Art Manor, learning to manage the household, exploring the extensive grounds, and spending long hours in the magnificent library. Mrs. Aldridge was kind but professional, and while the staff was respectful, you felt the weight of your solitude keenly.

You received occasional letters from Rafayel—brief, polite inquiries about your health and happiness, but nothing that gave you any real insight into where he had gone or why. The loneliness was crushing, made worse by the growing whispers from the servants and the pitying looks from the neighbors who called to pay their respects.

"Such a shame," you overheard Lady Pemberton telling her daughter during one particularly painful social call. "The poor girl is so plain, and now abandoned by her husband barely a month after the wedding. He must have realized what a mistake he'd made."

"Mother says he's probably taken a mistress in London," the daughter replied with cruel relish. "Someone beautiful and sophisticated. Can you imagine being married to someone so... substantial?"

Their laughter followed you as you fled to the sanctuary of your rooms, where you could cry in private. The old insecurities came flooding back with a vengeance. Of course Rafayel had left. Of course he regretted marrying you. You had been a fool to hope for anything different.

The worst part was that despite everything, you found yourself falling in love with your absent husband. Every letter made your heart race. Every mention of his name made you long for his return. You studied the portraits of him throughout the house, memorizing every detail of his face, and cursed yourself for being such a romantic fool.

Five months. Five long, lonely months passed before you heard the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive and knew, with a certainty that made your pulse quicken, that your husband had finally come home.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

You were in the morning room, attempting to focus on your embroidery when you heard the familiar sound of Rafayel's voice echoing through the front hall. Your needle slipped, pricking your finger, and you watched a drop of blood bead on your skin as panic flooded your system.

He was home. After five months of silence, of wondering if you had been completely abandoned, your husband had returned.

You heard his footsteps approaching, and every instinct screamed at you to flee. You couldn't face him—not after months of his absence had confirmed every cruel whisper about why he'd left. You gathered your skirts and tried to slip out through the garden doors, but his voice stopped you cold.

"Running away, wife?"

You froze, your back still turned to him. His voice was exactly as you remembered—rich, warm, with that hint of amusement that had once made your heart flutter. Now it just made you feel exposed, vulnerable.

"I was just... going for a walk," you said, not turning around.

"Without looking at your husband? I'm wounded."

Despite yourself, you turned. And immediately regretted it.

Five months away had only made Rafayel more beautiful. His dusk-violet hair was slightly longer, tousled from travel, and his amethyst eyes seemed to glow in the morning light. He was dressed in a deep burgundy coat that emphasized his tall, lean frame, and when he smiled at you—that devastating smile that had haunted your dreams—you felt your knees go weak.

"Hello, Y/N," he said softly. "You look... radiant."

The compliment felt like mockery. You were pale from too many sleepless nights, your eyes probably red-rimmed from crying, and your dress was a practical brown wool that did nothing for your figure.

"You're very kind," you said stiffly. "I trust your business went well?"

Something flickered in his expression—guilt, perhaps? "It was... complicated. But necessary."

"Of course." You clutched your embroidery hoop like a shield. "I should leave you to settle in. You must be tired from your journey."

You tried to move past him, but he caught your arm gently. The touch sent electricity through your entire body, and you hated yourself for the reaction.

"Y/N, wait. I know my absence was... difficult. I want to explain—"

"There's nothing to explain," you said quickly, pulling away from his touch. "You had business to attend to. I understand completely."

"Do you?" His amethyst eyes searched your face intently. "Because you seem upset."

Upset. As if five months of abandonment could be summed up in such a simple word.

"I'm perfectly fine," you lied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have household matters to attend to."

This time, you managed to escape, fleeing to the safety of your rooms where you could fall apart in private. But even there, you weren't safe from him.

Over the following days, Rafayel seemed determined to corner you at every turn. He appeared in the library when you were trying to read, joined you for meals despite your obvious discomfort, and even had the audacity to knock on your bedroom door one evening.

"Go away," you called through the wood, not trusting yourself to face him.

"I brought you something," he said, his voice muffled but still dangerously appealing. "From my travels."

Despite yourself, curiosity won. You cracked the door open to find him holding a small wrapped package, his expression hopeful.

"I don't want anything from you," you said, but your treacherous eyes were already fixed on the gift.

"It's a book," he said quickly. "A collection of poetry I found in a small shop in Bath. The proprietor said it was translated from ancient Greek—love poems, originally written by women. I thought you might find them interesting."

The thoughtfulness of the gift caught you off guard. He had been thinking of you, even while he was away? But no—that was dangerous thinking.

"Thank you," you said formally, taking the package. "That was very considerate."

"Y/N—"

You closed the door in his face before he could say anything else. But later, alone in your bed, you unwrapped the book and found an inscription in his elegant handwriting: "For my wife, who sees beauty in words as I see beauty in her. —R"

You cried yourself to sleep that night, the book pressed against your chest.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Two weeks after Rafayel's return, you were taking tea in the blue drawing room when Mrs. Aldridge announced visitors.

"Lord and Lady Qi to see you, my lady."

Your blood turned to ice. Rafayel's parents. You had never met them, though you'd heard they were traveling on the continent during your wedding. Now they were here, no doubt to inspect their son's unfortunate choice of bride.

"Show them in," you managed, frantically smoothing your hair and checking your appearance in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The reflection that stared back was pale, anxious, and utterly inadequate for the role of viscountess.

Lord and Lady Qi swept into the room like a pair of elegant swans, and you immediately understood where Rafayel had inherited his devastating beauty. His father was tall and distinguished, with silver hair and the same amethyst eyes. His mother was breathtaking—ethereal features, graceful movement, and an ageless beauty that made you feel like a troll by comparison.

"My dear," Lady Qi said, gliding forward to take your hands. "At last we meet. I am so sorry we missed the wedding—dreadful timing, really. But you are every bit as lovely as Rafayel described."

The lie was delivered with such practiced grace that you almost believed it.

"Thank you, my lady. You're too kind."

"Please, call me Vivienne. We're family now, after all." Her smile was warm, but her eyes were assessing, cataloging every detail of your appearance with the precision of a jeweler examining a questionable stone.

Lord Qi—"Remy, please"—was equally charming, and the three of you settled into polite conversation about your adjustment to married life, the estate, and various social matters. They were genuinely lovely people, you realized, which only made you feel worse about disappointing them.

Rafayel joined you for dinner, and you watched in fascination as he interacted with his parents. The playful facade he usually wore seemed to relax into something more genuine, and you caught glimpses of the man beneath the carefully constructed image.

"So," Vivienne said as the dessert course was served, "you've been married nearly six months now. Remy and I are simply dying to know—when might we expect to welcome our first grandchild?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. You felt the blood drain from your face as all three pairs of eyes turned to you expectantly.

"I... we... that is..." you stammered, unable to form a coherent response.

Rafayel's hand found yours under the table, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gesture of support that made your heart ache.

"These things take time, Mother," he said smoothly. "We're in no rush."

"Of course, of course," Vivienne said quickly, but you could see the disappointment in her eyes. "I simply thought... well, you know how eager we are to spoil grandchildren."

Remy chuckled. "Give them time, my dear. They're still newlyweds, after all."

The conversation moved on to other topics, but you remained acutely aware of Rafayel's hand holding yours, of the way his thumb traced gentle circles on your skin. It was the most intimate contact you'd had since your wedding day, and your body responded in ways that confused and frightened you.

After his parents retired for the evening, you found yourself alone with Rafayel in the drawing room. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

"I'm sorry about that," he said finally. "They mean well, but they can be rather... direct."

"They're wonderful," you said honestly. "And beautiful. I can see where you get your looks."

He smiled at that—a real smile, not one of his practiced ones. "They like you, you know. My mother told me she thinks you're exactly what I need."

"A plain wife to keep you grounded?" The bitter words slipped out before you could stop them.

His expression darkened. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Put yourself down. I've told you before, I don't like it."

"I'm only being realistic—"

"You're being cruel. To yourself and to me." He moved closer, his amethyst eyes intense. "Do you have so little faith in my judgment? Do you think I'm the sort of man who would marry someone I found repulsive?"

The question hung in the air between you, charged with possibility and danger.

"I think," you said carefully, "that you're the sort of man who would sacrifice himself to save a lady's reputation. Even if it meant tying yourself to someone you could never truly want."

Something flashed in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or something deeper.

"Is that what you think this is? A sacrifice?"

"Isn't it?"

For a moment, you thought he might answer honestly. His lips parted, and you saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression. But then the mask slipped back into place, and he turned away.

"I should let you retire," he said formally. "My parents will want to spend time with you tomorrow before they leave."

The dismissal stung, but you nodded and gathered your skirts. At the doorway, you paused.

"Rafayel?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For defending me tonight. Even if it was just for show."

You didn't wait for his response, but as you climbed the stairs to your lonely room, you could feel his eyes following you.

That night, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, your body still tingling from the memory of his touch. The question his mother had asked echoed in your mind, bringing with it a host of confusing emotions.

What would it be like to share his bed? To know him as a wife should know her husband? The thought terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.

But more than that, it highlighted the central problem of your marriage: you were falling in love with a man who had married you out of duty, not desire. And eventually, that truth would destroy you both.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The tension in the house was palpable the evening after his parents left. You had successfully avoided Rafayel for most of the day, taking your meals in your room and claiming a headache when he knocked on your door. But you couldn't hide forever, and when you finally emerged to retrieve a book from the library, you found him waiting for you like a beautiful, predatory cat.

He was standing by the window, his tall frame silhouetted against the dying light. His dusk-violet hair caught the last rays of the sun, and when he turned to face you, his amethyst eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire.

"Avoiding me again?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

"I've been resting," you said, not meeting his gaze. "I had a headache."

"Liar."

The word was spoken softly, but it hit you like a slap. Your eyes flew to his face, and what you saw there made your breath catch. Gone was the polite mask he usually wore. In its place was something raw, intense, and utterly compelling.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." He moved closer, and you felt like prey being stalked by a predator. "You've been lying to me for weeks. Hiding from me. Pretending you don't feel this thing between us."

"There's nothing between us," you said quickly, backing away until you hit the bookshelf. "You married me out of duty, nothing more."

"Is that what you think?" He was close now, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something dark and masculine that made your head spin. "That I married you because I felt sorry for you?"

"Didn't you?"

His hands came up to brace against the bookshelf on either side of your head, trapping you between his arms. The position was intimate, threatening, and made your pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

"Let me make something very clear," he said, his voice low and intense. "I have never, not once in my entire life, done anything purely out of pity. When I married you, it was because I wanted you. Because I had wanted you from the moment I saw you on that terrace, looking like a lost angel who had wandered into the wrong garden."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "You're lying."

"Am I?" His amethyst eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you feel exposed. "Then explain this."

Before you could react, his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing like the brief, proper one at your wedding. This was fire and passion and desperate hunger. His lips moved against yours with a skill that made your knees go weak, and when his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, you opened for him without thinking.

The taste of him was intoxicating—wine and warmth and something uniquely him. Your hands came up to fist in his coat, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't sure. But when he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless and trembling.

"Does that feel like pity to you?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

You stared at him in shock, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "I... I don't understand."

"Don't you?" He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. "I've wanted you from the beginning, Y/N. Wanted to court you properly, to win your heart the way you deserved. But that bastard Blackwood forced my hand."

"Then why did you leave?" The question tore from your throat, raw with months of pain. "Why did you abandon me for five months if you wanted me so much?"

Something flickered across his features—guilt, regret, and something that looked almost like fear.

"Because I was a coward," he said simply. "Because I knew that if I stayed, I would want more than you were ready to give. I thought... I thought if I gave you time, space, you might come to care for me on your own."

"So you left me alone," you whispered, tears beginning to fall. "You left me to face the whispers and the pity and the certainty that you regretted marrying me."

"God, no." His expression crumpled with remorse. "Y/N, I never meant for you to feel that way. I was trying to protect you—"

"From what?"

"From me!" The words exploded from him with a force that made you flinch. "From the way I want you, from the way I need you. Do you have any idea what it's like to be married to someone you're desperately in love with, knowing they only see you as a convenient solution to their problems?"

The confession hung in the air between you, shocking in its honesty. You stared at him, this beautiful, tormented man who had just admitted to loving you, and felt your world tilt on its axis.

"In love with me?" you repeated, hardly daring to believe it.

"Completely. Utterly. Hopelessly." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "From the moment you told me you were rarely hunted at all, I was lost. You were so honest, so genuine, so different from every other woman I'd ever met. And when I saw you with Blackwood, saw the way he was hurting you..." His jaw tightened with remembered fury. "I would have killed him if he'd gone any further."

You were crying openly now, overwhelmed by the revelation. "But I'm not... I'm not beautiful like your mother, like the other ladies—"

"Stop." His voice was fierce, commanding. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I will not allow you to disparage yourself in my presence."

"How can you say that?" you sobbed. "Look at me, Rafayel. Really look at me."

"I am looking at you," he said softly, his amethyst eyes tender. "And I see the woman who read poetry in the garden while everyone else gossiped about scandal. I see the woman who was kind to my servants from the first day, who learned their names and asked about their families. I see the woman who managed my household flawlessly while I was away, who won the respect and affection of everyone who met her."

His thumbs wiped away your tears with infinite gentleness.

"I see the woman who has haunted my dreams for months, who makes me ache with wanting her, who I love so desperately it terrifies me."

"You really mean that?" you whispered.

"Every word." He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your face. "I love you, Y/N. Not your dowry, not your family connections, not what marrying you could do for my reputation. I love you—your mind, your heart, your beautiful soul. And if you'll let me, I'd like to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

The words you had longed to hear for months finally spoken, you felt something break open in your chest—a dam of emotion that had been held back by fear and insecurity.

"I love you too," you whispered, and watched his eyes blaze with joy. "I think I've loved you since that first night on the terrace, when you called me a wallflower and made it sound like something precious."

He kissed you again then, softer this time but no less passionate. When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"I have a confession to make," he said, his voice rough with desire. "My parents' visit wasn't coincidental. I asked them to come."

"You did?"

"I needed... encouragement. Courage. I've been going mad wanting you, and when my mother asked about grandchildren..." He swallowed hard. "I realized I couldn't wait any longer. I need to know if you could ever want me the way I want you."

The question hung between you, heavy with implication. You looked at this man—your husband, your love—and felt desire coil in your belly like a living thing.

"I want you," you said simply. "I've wanted you for so long I thought I might die from it."

His eyes darkened with desire so intense it made you shiver. "Y/N..."

"Please," you whispered, hardly believing your own boldness. "I want to be your wife. In every way."

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then, with infinite care, he lifted you into his arms.

"Are you certain?" he asked as he carried you toward the door. "Because once we do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine, completely and irrevocably."

"I'm already yours," you said, pressing a kiss to his throat. "I have been from the beginning."

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Rafayel carried you through the halls of Mo Art Manor as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms cradling you against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body through his clothes, and it made your own pulse race with anticipation and fear.

He paused outside your bedroom door, his amethyst eyes searching your face in the candlelit hallway.

"Are you certain?" he asked again, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "We can wait. I've waited this long—"

"No more waiting," you said firmly, though your voice trembled. "I need you, Rafayel. I need to know that this is real."

He pushed open the door and carried you inside, setting you down gently beside the bed. The room was bathed in golden light from the fire crackling in the hearth, and suddenly the magnitude of what was about to happen hit you like a physical blow.

This was your wedding night. Six months late, but finally here.

Rafayel seemed to sense your nervousness, because he made no move to touch you. Instead, he simply stood there, letting you look at him, letting you adjust to the reality of having him in your private space.

"You're trembling," he observed softly.

"I'm nervous," you admitted. "I don't... I've never..."

"I know." His voice was infinitely gentle. "We'll go slowly. If you want to stop at any point, just tell me."

He reached up slowly, giving you time to pull away, and began to remove the pins from your hair. The [hair colour] waves fell around your shoulders in a cascade of silk, and you heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Beautiful," he murmured, running his fingers through the strands. "So beautiful."

His hands moved to the buttons of your dress, and this time you couldn't suppress a shiver of fear. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was here, all your insecurities came rushing back.

"Rafayel, wait." You caught his hands, stopping him. "I need you to know... I'm not like the other women you've known. I'm not small or delicate or—"

"Perfect," he finished, his amethyst eyes blazing with sincerity. "You're perfect exactly as you are."

But even as he said the words, you could see the doubt in your own eyes reflected in the mirror across the room. Your fuller figure, your soft curves, your very ordinary face—how could a man like him truly want someone like you?

As if reading your thoughts, Rafayel's expression grew tender. "Let me show you," he said softly. "Let me show you how perfect you are."

His hands returned to your buttons, and this time you didn't stop him. Slowly, reverently, he began to undress you, his fingers brushing against your skin with each revealed inch. When your dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your chemise and stockings, you instinctively moved to cover yourself.

"No," he said gently, catching your hands. "Don't hide from me. Please."

But you couldn't help it. The fear was too strong, the lifetime of feeling inadequate too deeply ingrained. You pulled away from him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"I can't," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I can't do this. You'll see me and you'll realize... you'll realize you've made a terrible mistake."

The words hung in the air between you, and you watched as something crumbled in Rafayel's expression. For a moment, he looked utterly devastated.

"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That I would find you lacking?"

"I know I am," you said, tears beginning to fall. "I'm not blind, Rafayel. I know what I look like. I know what you deserve."

"What I deserve?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "What I deserve is a wife who trusts me. Who believes me when I tell her she's beautiful. What I deserve is the woman I fell in love with, not this... this stranger who thinks so little of my judgment."

The words hit you like physical blows, and you saw the truth in his eyes—hurt, disappointment, and something that looked like the beginning of withdrawal.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry, I just... I can't..."

He stared at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I understand," he said formally, his voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps we should wait until you're more... comfortable with the idea."

He moved toward the door, and panic flooded through you. "Where are you going?"

"To my room. To give you space." He paused at the threshold, not looking back. "Good night, Y/N."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving you alone with your fears and your regrets.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The next few weeks passed in a haze of polite distance and careful avoidance. Rafayel was unfailingly courteous, but the warmth that had begun to bloom between you was gone, replaced by a cool formality that broke your heart.

He took his meals in his study, claiming work that needed his attention. He spent long hours riding the estate boundaries or locked away in his art studio—a room you had never seen and now suspected you never would. When you did encounter each other, he was polite but distant, as if you were merely an acquaintance rather than his wife.

The worst part was that you could see the hurt in his eyes—hurt that you had put there with your inability to trust in his desire for you. He had laid his heart bare, confessed his love, and you had rejected him in the most fundamental way possible.

You tried to approach him several times, but each attempt was met with polite deflection. He would smile that careful, practiced smile and find some excuse to leave your presence. You were losing him, and you didn't know how to stop it.

It was Mrs. Aldridge who finally gave you the push you needed.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," she said one morning as she helped you dress, "but you look terrible."

You laughed humorlessly. "Thank you, Mrs. Aldridge. Your honesty is refreshing."

"I'm not trying to be cruel," she said gently. "I'm trying to help. You're miserable, and so is his lordship. The whole house can feel it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" She fixed you with a knowing look. "That man loves you, my lady. Loves you something fierce. And you're breaking his heart with all this tiptoeing around."

"It's not that simple—"

"Isn't it?" She set down the hairbrush and turned to face you fully. "You think you're not good enough for him. But let me tell you something—I've worked for this family for twenty years. I've seen Lord Rafayel with countless women, and I've never seen him look at any of them the way he looks at you."

"He doesn't look at me anymore," you said sadly.

"Because you broke his heart," she said bluntly. "He opened himself up to you, made himself vulnerable, and you rejected him. Of course he's protecting himself now."

The words stung because they were true. You had rejected him, not because you didn't want him, but because you were too afraid to believe he could want you.

"I don't know how to fix it," you admitted.

Mrs. Aldridge smiled. "Yes, you do. You just need to find the courage to try."

That evening, you made your decision. You couldn't continue living in this limbo, couldn't bear the thought of losing him entirely. If you were going to save your marriage, you had to be brave enough to fight for it.

You found him in the library, sitting in his favorite chair with a book in his lap, though you could tell he wasn't actually reading. He looked up when you entered, and for a moment, his careful mask slipped enough for you to see the longing in his amethyst eyes.

"Y/N," he said, closing the book. "Is there something you need?"

"Yes," you said, moving closer. "I need to talk to you. Really talk to you."

He gestured to the chair across from him. "Of course."

But you didn't sit. Instead, you knelt beside his chair, your hands resting on the arm. The position put you at his eye level, and you could see the surprise in his expression.

"I need to apologize," you said quietly. "For that night. For hurting you. For being too much of a coward to accept what you were offering me."

His jaw tightened. "You don't need to apologize for not wanting—"

"But I do want," you interrupted. "I want you so much it terrifies me. That's why I ran. Not because I don't desire you, but because I couldn't believe you could truly desire me."

He stared at you, his amethyst eyes searching your face. "Y/N..."

"Please," you said, reaching out to touch his hand. "Let me finish. I know I hurt you. I know I damaged something precious between us. But I need you to know that it wasn't because I don't love you. It's because I love you too much to bear the thought of disappointing you."

"You could never disappoint me," he said fiercely. "Don't you understand that?"

"I'm trying to," you said honestly. "I'm trying to see myself the way you see me. But it's hard when I've spent my whole life believing I was unworthy of love."

Something shifted in his expression—the coldness melting into something warmer, more vulnerable.

"You are worthy," he said softly. "You are worthy of love, of desire, of everything good in this world. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you'll let me."

"I want you to," you whispered. "I want to be your wife in every way. I want to share your bed, bear your children, grow old with you. I want all of it, Rafayel. I want you."

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he reached out to cup your face in his hands.

"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "Because I don't think I can bear to be rejected again."

"I'm certain," you said, pressing a kiss to his palm. "I love you, and I want to show you how much. If you'll have me."

His answer was to kiss you, soft and sweet and full of promise. When you broke apart, you were both smiling.

"Come," he said, standing and offering you his hand. "Let me show you how much I love you."

This time, when he led you to your bedroom, you didn't hesitate. This time, you were ready to trust in his love—and in your own worth.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The moonlight poured in through the lace-curtained windows, soft and pale as milk, casting silver halos on the edge of the bed where your husband knelt before you.

You stood with your back to him, your hands trembling as you reached to unfasten the topmost button of your nightdress. He had said nothing since leading you into your chambers, since closing the door and brushing your cheek with his lips, reverent as a priest before an altar. But the silence between you hummed with something molten—hunger buried beneath restraint, tenderness tethered to longing.

“I can do it,” you whispered, breathless, as your fingers fumbled uselessly.

A pause. Then his voice, low and rough with devotion. “Please. Let me.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice.

He rose behind you. His hands were warm against your spine, careful, steady. Each button he loosened sent a ripple through you, like the slow, certain toll of a bell before a storm. Your chemise slid from your shoulders, catching at your elbows, then falling to the floor in a soft whisper of silk.

You stood bare beneath him, every part of you exposed. Not just your skin—but your history. Your doubt. Your scars, seen and unseen.

You couldn’t move.

Then—his arms wrapped around you from behind. He did not grope. He did not claim. He simply held.

“I’m going to kiss every inch of you,” Rafayel murmured, his lips at your ear, his voice reverent. “And if you tremble, I’ll hold you steady. If you cry, I’ll kiss away the tears. But you will not look away from me. Not tonight.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

He guided you gently to the bed, settling you atop the cool sheets, then knelt again—this time between your knees, his hands sliding reverently up your calves. “You are not a body I must endure. You are a temple I have longed to worship.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned down to kiss the inside of your thigh—tender, slow—then moved upward in a trail of devotion. Your skin lit beneath his lips.

“You smell like jasmine,” he said, nuzzling against your stomach. “And honey. Did you know that?”

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I’ve dreamed of this.” He kissed your belly, just above your navel. “I’ve imagined it a hundred times. None of them come close to the real you.”

“Rafayel…”

“I’m here.”

He climbed over you, bracing himself on his elbows, his bare chest hovering above yours. His skin was warm, the lines of him elegant but strong. His hair fell loose across his brow. He looked like a dream—but he kissed you like a man starved.

The first press of his lips against yours was gentle. The second—desperate. His hands cupped your face, tilting you into him, deepening the kiss until your moan spilled against his mouth like wine poured too fast.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

“Say what?”

“That you want me. That this is what you want.”

“I want you,” you gasped, arching against him. “God, Rafayel, I want this.”

He groaned—low, guttural, the sound of years of restraint beginning to fray—and kissed you again with a hunger so raw it threatened to undo you. His mouth moved down your neck, your shoulder, the soft underside of your breast. He lavished each curve with praise and touch, his fingers mapping you like sacred scripture, his tongue reverent where your skin was most sensitive.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, breath hot against you.

“You are already soaked for me,” he whispered, eyes glazed with awe. “So sweet. So eager. So mine.”

You cried out when his mouth met you there—his tongue gentle but insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs as if anchoring himself to this moment. You writhed beneath him, your hands buried in his hair, gasps turning to moans, moans to sobs of pleasure you never knew your body could feel.

“Please—please—” you panted, hips trembling.

He kissed his way back up your body, his mouth slick with your desire, his eyes dark and wild. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you begged. “Inside me. Now.”

He didn’t make you wait.

He positioned himself above you, his hand guiding himself to your entrance, eyes locked on yours. “It may hurt,” he said gently. “But I will go slowly. I will listen to every breath, every flinch. You are in control.”

You nodded, tears welling again—this time not from pain or fear, but from being seen.

He entered you in slow, shallow thrusts, murmuring praise between kisses. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, but he held you like something fragile, cherished.

When he was fully inside you, he stilled. “You feel like heaven,” he breathed, his voice breaking. “I could die like this and die content.”

“Move,” you whispered. “Please, Rafayel.”

And he did.

He moved with a rhythm that was both worship and hunger, hips rocking into you as though he wanted to bury every part of himself inside you—not just his body, but his love, his soul, his devotion. You met each thrust with your own, your gasps turning louder, your fingers raking down his back.

“Say my name,” he moaned into your shoulder. “Say it. Let me know you’re mine.”

“Rafayel,” you cried out, over and over. “Rafayel—Rafayel—”

Your release crested like a wave and crashed through you, shuddering and blinding and fierce. He followed with a groan of your name, his release hot and pulsing inside you, his body shaking as he spilled himself with a guttural sound of completion.

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the crackle of the fire.

He rolled to his side and pulled you into his chest, your legs still trembling, his fingers stroking lazily down your back.

“You are not just my wife,” he whispered into your hair. “You are my art. My muse. My heart.”

You nestled against him, your body still thrumming with pleasure, and whispered back, “And you are mine.”

At last, your wedding night was not a title borrowed from custom—but a truth forged in fire and love.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

The portrait was nearly finished.

You sat in Rafayel's studio, wearing a gown of deep sapphire that brought out the color of your eyes, watching as your husband added the final touches to his masterpiece. The woman in the painting was beautiful—not in the conventional sense, perhaps, but with a radiance that seemed to glow from within.

"She looks happy," you observed, studying the painted version of yourself.

"She is happy," Rafayel said, not looking up from his work. "Deliriously, perfectly happy. It shows in everything about her—the way she holds herself, the light in her eyes, the curve of her smile."

"You're biased," you said with a laugh.

"Completely," he agreed, finally setting down his brush and turning to face you. "But I'm also right. You are beautiful, Y/N. More beautiful now than ever."

You rose from your pose and moved to stand beside him, studying the portrait with new eyes. The woman looking back at you was confident, loved, radiant with joy. She bore little resemblance to the frightened wallflower you had once been.

"When did I become her?" you asked wonderingly.

"You were always her," Rafayel said, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "You just needed someone to help you see it."

You leaned back against his chest, feeling his hands settle over the slight swell of your belly where your child—your and Rafayel's child—was growing. The pregnancy had been a surprise, but a welcome one. Your husband had been impossibly tender and protective, treating you as if you were made of spun glass.

"Your parents will be pleased," you said, thinking of the letter you had received from Vivienne that morning. "They're already planning to spoil their grandchild terribly."

"They'll have to get in line," Rafayel said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I intend to be the most disgracefully doting father in all of England."

"I don't doubt it," you said with a smile. "Just promise me you won't teach our daughter to be as charming as you are. The world isn't ready for another Qi with your particular talents."

"What if it's a son?"

"Then God help us all," you said, turning in his arms to face him. "One of you is quite enough for any household."

He laughed and kissed you, and you marveled at how easy it was now—this love, this happiness, this life you had built together. The fears and insecurities that had once plagued you seemed like distant memories, replaced by a deep and abiding knowledge of your own worth.

"I have something for you," Rafayel said, releasing you to retrieve a small package from his desk.

Inside was a locket—exquisite, delicate, and clearly expensive. But it was the inscription that made your breath catch: "To my wallflower, who bloomed into a garden."

"It's beautiful," you whispered, touched beyond words.

"Not as beautiful as you," he said, fastening the locket around your neck. "But it will have to do."

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, the locket gleaming against your throat, you thought about the journey that had brought you here. From that first night on the terrace to this moment of perfect happiness, it had been a path fraught with obstacles, misunderstandings, and fears. But it had led you to this—to love, to joy, to a man who saw you as you truly were and cherished you for it.

"Thank you," you said softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"For what?"

"For seeing me," you said. "For loving me. For showing me that I was never just a wallflower—I was a woman waiting to bloom."

He smiled that devastating smile that had captured your heart from the beginning, and you knew that no matter what challenges life might bring, you would face them together. Because you had learned the most important lesson of all: that love, true love, sees not what is lacking but what is precious, not what is flawed but what is perfect in its imperfection.

And in Rafayel's eyes, you would always be perfect.

The End

[iwagfreal]

cigarettes, sex, and osamu.

tags: osamu x fem!reader + smoking + smut + dirty talk + balcony sex + lowkey public sex + shotgun word count: 2k

[not proofread so excuse the mistakes]

"you still smoke here?" you couragely ask as you approach the gray-haired bloke who's leaning on the wall, a stick of lit cigarette in between his fingers.

he looks at your direction and a smirk appears on his lips. "and here i thought you wouldn't come back," he utters before he takes a puff of his almost finished-off cig. you situated yourself, beside him and fished out the marlboro box from your pocket to take a stick.

to be honest, you didn't really know this guy beside you. it was just one night after getting kicked out of your place's rooftop for smoking that you had to find a new place to take a drag. and here you found a guy at the back of a high-end restaurant, always has his back rested on the wall and taking in three sticks and a piece of menthol candy before he decides he's had enough.

for weeks, you just smoke with him at 10 pm in this place, exchanging smiles and a the littlest bit of small talk. but that was all before you decided to stop smoking, which, of course was a blatant failure considering you're back in that place again.

"fuck, i forgot my lighter," you huff with the cig in between your lips. the guy immediately moves to whip out a lighter from his jeans' back pocket and lit your cigarette that was still on your mouth without even saying a word.

"thanks..." you say as you take a drag, the last syllable hanging as if you were asking for his name.

"osamu. osamu miya," he says in a low voice. he moves a little so the light from a lamp post kind of illuminated his face for a second and it made your breath hitch. god was he attractive, why did you notice this just now?

"wait... miya? as in onigiri miya?" you immediately ask as you point at the restaurant place at your back, "you own this place?"

he clears his throat and flicks the empty cig to the bin beside him before he answers, "well, yeah. i'm the head chef."

you were embarrassed to say the least, as you realize that you've been smoking in a private property, and you have the nerve to smoke with the owner himself, not even daring to ask for permission whatsoever. but all of this clouded by the thought that damn he cooks? how attractive is that shit?

"you're probably thinking you're not supposed to be here, aren't you?" he says, both his hands on his pocket, not looking at you. you nod in agreement, a little voice in your head telling you to just finish off your cig, apologize to him for trespassing and walk away. but your body won't let you. so you just stand there, cigarette still lit, in between you fingers.

"it's fine, i don't really mind having an eye candy at the end of a stressful day," he says while he crosses his arm in front of his chest. you look to your side and ogle at his biceps bulging out of his too-tight black.

"thanks, i also don't mind having something good to look at while i take a drag." you answer back, not knowing where the sudden confidence is coming from. you take a step closer to him until both your arms are touching, sending goosebumps to your entire body.

"i'm y/n, by the way. glad i failed at trying to stop smoking," you joke and he chuckles lightly, making something inside you tingle. even his laugh is beguiling, seriously, does this man even have a physical flaw?

"nice to meet you, y/n." he takes a step to face you and skillfully grabbed the cigarette on your lips before putting it in between his. he takes a puff and blew it on your agape mouth, taking you by surprise.

you feel your cheeks burning up after you realize what osamu just did. was that even considered a shotgun? that was so hot. your mind was still short-circuiting when you hear a low chuckle coming from the man in front of you. "sorry, got a little carried away." he says and looks directly onto your eyes, you notice that his pupils are dilated.

he doesn't give you back your cigarette though, he takes another puff and kept it in between his fingers. he's still smirking at you, as if letting you make the next move. so you do, thinking, fuck everything else, you grabbed the back of his nape and pushed it towards your face, crashing your lips together.

the taste of menthol and cigarettes all mixing together as he starts to suck on your mouth, his free hand placed on your waist while his tongue adeptly lick your lips, asking for a chance to enter. you gape your mouth to admit his wet tongue. osamu explores your mouth so good, he tilts his head from time to time to go back to sucking and then licking your mouth. and god does it feel so good, it feels illegal.

he takes a step to guide you, your back feeling the coldness of the wall where he pins and keeps you in place. he breaks the kiss and places the cigarette on your mouth while he drops a kiss to your exposed neck. once he feels you've taken a proper drag, he removes the cig on your mouth and drops it on the floor. he stomps on it and goes back to kissing you.

he sucks the smoke from your mouth and takes a deep breath as he inhales it. you feel a smirk growing in his mouth before he lets out a low laugh and moves back an inch, your mouth meeting air.

"you wanna take this somewhere else, y/n?" his hand placed on the wall beside your head, his eyes filled with lust. "i have a place upstairs," he adds while he looks up the building behind the two of you.

you take all your courage in your body to nod and he immediately grabs your hand at this and drag you to his place.

you didn't even have the chance to appreciate the design of his flat before osamu is kissing you senseless once again. he moves his hands to remove your jacket and the sudden feel of cold air sent goosebumps to your body once again.

he snakes a hand on your waist before he casually lifts you, you let out small gasp before you hook your legs on both sides of his waist. osamu hugs your entire lower torso, making sure you're holding on there tightly before he starts walking.

you open your eyes for a second and realize that he's walking you both to the balcony of his flat. and fuck, the thought of him fucking you while someone could be watching sends shivers to your spine already from excitement.

he loosens his grip on your torso as he lets you down, your bare feet touching the cold tiles of the balcony. he doesn't let your lips go though, he kept kissing and sucking at your lips until he felt breathless.

he holds your shoulders and made you turn your back on him, he scoops some of your hair with his hand and leaves a soft kiss on your exposed neck. "want me to fuck you while people can watch, hmm?" he asks, his voice rough and thick.

you moan in agreement and place you hands on the railings. you bend backward and arch your back so your ass is directly touching his semi hard on. you lustfully look back at him from your shoulders and say, "fuck me good and your neighbors will know your name."

his raises his eyebrows at your taunting and his hands immediately flies to the waistbands of your jeans, he pulls them down in one go, leaving you only in your lace underwear that leaves nothing to the imagination. your toes curl at the sudden gush of cold wind touches your skin but osamu is kneeling in no time, kneading your butt cheeks while mouthing at your still-clothed pussy.

"fuck, you don't know how long i've thought about this," he says as a squeezes your left butt cheek significantly harder. "don't know how much i missed you when you suddenly stopped coming to the that spot, our spot."

he leaves a kiss on your ass cheek and softly bites it for good measure which made your grip on the railings tighten. he takes his one hand and undos his belt, pulling his jeans down and exposing his cock.

osamu leans down, his cock perfectly resting on your ass and you can feel how heavy and thick he is. he was lengthy enough but his girth was the highlight of it, you think to yourself. he snakes his hand under your shirt and grabbed both your boobs, massaging it while his fingers play with your nipples.

you were getting wetter by the second, his now fully hard dick just on your ass and nowhere near your hole where you want it to be is driving you mad. so you try to take matters in your own hands and reach for his cock from your behind.

"getting restless, hmm? want me to fuck you now? without prep?"

"osamu," you whine as you grind your ass on his crotch.

"okay, baby. i'm gonna stretch you out real good." he sneered as he holds his cock in his one hand and the other moving your panties to the side. his dick prodding at your wet entrance made your go your mind turn into a puddle of goo. when the tip is finally in, you both let out a moan, you because of the sudden stretch and him because you're wrapping around him so got.

osamu bottoms out in no time, your heat covering his entire cock and all he could do was groan in pleasure. he grabs your waist and pull himself out until only the tip was inside, then he slams back in. the hard impact of his thrust sent your body bucking onto the railings, your boobs hitting the glass that's keeping you from falling from the 26th floor of the building.

he picks up his pace and doesn't stop his relentless pounding, his hips thrusting into you perfectly, filling you up with his fat cock so good that your brain is fogging with pure bliss.

"look below you, y/n. do you think the people downstairs can see you?" he pulls out then slams back in, "you think they know you're getting absolutely railed by me, huh? when all they could see is someone who's probably enjoying the view."

"little do they know i have the best view right here," he add and bucks his hips forward, hitting a spot that gets him a loud moan from you. "fuuck, i'm close, samu."

osamu's hips stutter at this and he lets out a low grunt. he wraps his arm around your waist and grabs your entire body that your hands had to let go of the railings. he moves to sit both of you down on the floor, his cock still never leaving your hole.

he lays both of you down, you on his chest with your thighs on his legs and his back on the cold tiles. he plants his feet on the floor and a beat doesn't even pass until he's fucking into you again.

his hands grab at your waist to keep you in place above his cock. you were cumming in no time from the unabated thrusting of osamu's dick into you and him continuously hitting the spot that sends you into frenzy.

your legs were still shaking when osamu pulled out of you as he gasps while spurts of his cum fly onto your stomach and thighs. you stay like that for a minute, gasping for air and still reeling from the feeling being fucked out of your minds.

"i'm going to stop smoking," you say out of nowhere and he laughs at this and asks "why?"

"i think i just found me a new vice." you say with a smile on your face.

[bruiserelliot]

A voltron Royalty! Au Prompt

This is a conversation between Keith Kogane and yourself, Prince!Lance.

Prince!Lance: Lance sat in the courtyard, lazily swinging a sword about while he watched the knights practice. Occasionally he'd make note of a flaw and jot it down, so he wouldn't make a mistake if he ever had to fight.

Keith Kogane: "Your majesty? What are you doing out here? You know it's not safe to be outside with all of the threats Zarkon has been making." Keith said walking up behind Lance, watching the Prince's sword move swiftly through the air.

Prince!Lance: Lance looked up at the sound of Keith's voice."I wanted to watch. It's too hot inside." He replied, rolling his eyes. These days everyone was ultra protective of him. Keith was at least more lenient than the others. Most of the time anyway.

Keith Kogane: Keith shrugged "I suppose it is hot inside. Mind if I watch with you?" Keith asked hesitantly. He felt bad for Lance, always being locked up in the castle. They treated him like a bird that would fly away if it got out of its cage. "I mean...if you would like, I can go back inside. I don't want to bother you." Keith said quickly.

Prince!Lance: Lance smiled."No, please, stay." He replied, shuffling over and patting the spot beside him. The knights in front of him had yet to say anything. Though Shiro, the head knight, was rather pleased that his younger brother and the prince got along as well as they did.(Lance is so polite in this au, it's kind of funny)

Keith Kogane: Keith nodded and sat next to Lance, making sure not to get too close in case he made the prince uncomfortable. "Why do you like watching the knights so much? This is the fifth time I've found you out here." Keith questioned, watching his older brother train with the rest of the knights. Keith glanced at Lance out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

Prince!Lance: Lance looked back at the nights."Well, honestly for learning purposes. Everyone thinks I'm this sort of dainty little prince who can't defend himself. And since Dad refuses to let me actually learn how to fight properly, I just come out and observe really." He put his sword on his lap."This is honestly more for decoration than actual use."

Keith Kogane: Keith smiled. "Prince Lance. I think it's...cool that you come out here and watch to learn. It shows dedication, and I know your not a 'dainty little prince' but your father doesn't want you to get hurt. I...I don't want you to get hurt either. So, please don't do something stupid, and be careful with your sword. It's pointy." Keith said with a small smirk at the end as he teased the prince. He so badly wanted to help Lance learn to fight but he knew his orders from the king.

Prince!Lance: (Sorry, I was afk) Lance blushed at Keith's words. Though at the end he chuckled."Yeah, I, uh, I guess so." He put the sword down."...I...I don't want to see you get hurt either. I mean, with all that you've already been through, with Zarkon and all, not to mention Shiro, it's kind of easy to worry about you Keith." He said. What he didn't know was that Pidge and Hunk were watching the two of them from Pidge's room, both smiling and wishing they had a way to document this.

Keith Kogane: Keith looked down at his lap and shrugged. "I don't need anyone to worry about me. I can worry about myself. You're a prince, you shouldn't worry about some lowlife like me." Keith said taking a deep breath and looking back up towards Shiro and the rest of the knights.

Prince!Lance: Lance frowned at that."Lowlife? Keith, you do realize where we are right now, right? And the fact that you've literally almost defeated Zarkon, which even Alfor himself couldn't do. And of course I'm gonna worry about you, I worry about all my friends." Lance protested.

Keith Kogane: Friends. Keith hated that word, especially when it comes from Lance. "Right. Well, I think I hear...Hunk? calling for me. If you need anything your majesty, you know where I usually am." Keith muttered, standing up. He nodded at Lance before his shoulders sagged and he began to walk away.

Prince!Lance: Lance blinked. Had he said something wrong? He frowned at that, and sighed. He started drawing in the dirt with his sword, trying to forget the look on Keith's face. Meanwhile, Pidge and Hunk were rushing to meet Keith. The Chef and the princess had been shipping Keith and Lance ever since the long haired boy had been assigned to the prince."What are you doing?!" Hunk stood in front of Keith, Pidge at his side.

Keith Kogane: Keith blinked in surprise at Hunk and Pidge. "What do you mean, 'what are you doing?!' I didn't even do anything!" Keith said in defense as he stepped back at the closeness of the duo.

Prince!Lance: Pidge gently pushed Hunk back."You're supposed to protect my brother, right? Right. You want to also spend time with him because it's obvious you like him, right? Right. So, I suggest you forget about pining for a little while and go do that." Hunk had to butt in. "Just not right now. Since he looks almost as rejected as you at the moment."

Keith Kogane: Keith scoffed. "What! I don't- I don't like Lance. He's a prince. It'd never work out anyways. Plus, he doesn't like me!" Keith said crossing his arms, looking away with a slight blush on his face. "I'm pretty sure he has a thing for that princess he met at the ball a few nights ago anyways...." Keith said with a pout.

Prince!Lance: Pidge and Hunk looked at each other, then back at Keith, then back at each other."He's hopeless." Pidge threw her hands in the air."He's utterly hopeless." She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Hunk looked at Keith."Keith, that princess was Allura, who has specifically expressed disinterest on account of the fact that she's too old for him and has a thing for your brother." He explained."And yes of course he likes you! He's practically shooed everyone else except us away, and he barely talks to us anyway. You're really the only one in the castle he frequently talks to. And don't even try to deny that you don't like him. And I hardly think that Lance would care about the fact that he's a prince."

Keith Kogane: Keith gaped. "Uh...Princess Allura of Altea? Princess Allura has a thing for...for Shiro?! As in Takashi? As in my older brother?" Keith asked with wide eyes. "A-and...Lance probably just has a hard time making friends. I'm constantly with him because I was assigned to guard him, that's the only reason he even talks to me.." Keith said in denial, glancing out to the courtyard where Lance still sat.

Prince!Lance: Now it was Hunk's turn to throw his hands up in the air."Not only is he hopeless, he's also utterly oblivious!" He raked his hands through his hair, and Pidge calmed down."Yes. YEs she does, but that is not important right now. What is important, is that I convinced dad to assign you to him because you two were both pining messes. And Yeah, Lance does have trouble making friends, but he's literally my brother, and has been friends with Hunk since he was 3. So I don't think that has anything to do with it. And he would talk to you outside of duty, except he'd be a blubbering mess otherwise."

Keith Kogane: "I- I don't know how to approach him! I get nervous cause he has pretty eyes and a nice smile! Look at me compared to him! How am I, a literal cheesestick looking Baffoon, supposed to talk to a prince that looks like he's a god? Hmm? Tell me what I'm supposed to do!?" Keith whined adding a lot of dramatic and frantic hand waving and flailing into his speech.

Prince!Lance: Pidge and Hunk facepalmed, and dragged him to Pidge's room. They locked the door and put Keith on the bed."Alright Kogane, listen up, you are not a cheese-stick looking Baffoon, Lance is not a god. He may be a prince but he's not a god. WE can't boost his ego that much." Pidge started." You are going to change out of what you're wearing, put on something relatively nice, comb your hair, wash your face, all that jazz, and you are going to talk to my brother!" She was shaking his shoulders by now, and Hunk had already brought a comb.

Keith Kogane: "Wait, what?! No! What does relatively nice mean? What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Keith panicked standing up quickly. "Why do I have to wash my face? What's wrong with my hair?"

Prince!Lance: "Relatively nice as in you don't want to look like you dressed up specifically for him or else you'll both become blubbering messes." Hunk replied." And what you're wearing is covered in dust because you sat in the dirt with him. And your hair is always knotted and I finally get to comb it. AS for the face washing, well, it cools down the blush." He grinned as he handed Keith the comb. Pidge was watching with great amusement.

Keith Kogane: Keith looked at the comb in his hand. "....help me pick out an outfit..." He mumbled slightly, a deep red brushing over his cheeks.

Prince!Lance: Pidge chuckled."With pleasure." She stood up."This is the most fun I've had in weeks." She grinned and went to the wardrobe. She mostly preferred shirts and trousers to dresses, so she had a great deal of hand me-downs

Keith Kogane: "Oh good god. Do I have to do this? Can't I just...disappear? Forever? That'd be easier than embarrassing myself in front of Lance." Keith groaned tossing the comb back to Hunk.

Prince!Lance: Hunk caught the comb with ease."Yes, or you'll be pining until Zarkon kills us all." He replied. As of late, that had become a common phrase. It was kind of sad to be honest. "Look, We'll get Lance ready after we get you ready, so you'll both be at the same amount of possible embarrassment." He replied, moving behind Keith and started to comb his hair back. Pidge grinned as she came forward with a red vest, a white shirt and some black pants.

Keith Kogane: (sorry, I got distracted) "what the hell is that Pidge? I'm not wearing that. I'll look...I dunno, I'll look like a monkey!" Keith said crossing his arms, looking away from the princess.

Prince!Lance: (Np :) ) Pidge looked at him."You are literally wearing a dusty, bright red, half jacket. You will not look like a monkey. Trust me, I thought I looked great in them." She flung the outfit onto the bed beside him. Hunk was almost finished with Keith's hair."Pidge, Hair tie." He told her. The princess obliged and passed one. Hunk gently pulled Keith's hair back into a ponytail."Oooooh, it looks so nice.:

Keith Kogane: Keith blushed and glanced down at the outfit Pidge grabbed for himt. "You guys suck." Keith pouted grabbing the outfit. "Give me a minute." Keith sighed, walking into Pidges bathroom. He washed his face and put the outfit on. Keith looked in the mirror and groaned. He picked up his previous outfit and walked out of the bathroom shyly. "Well? You guys happy now?"

Prince!Lance: "WE love you too buddy." Hunk patted his shoulder as he left for the bathroom. The pair of them waited patiently for the boy to come out, and were thoroughly satisfied."Ohhhh my god, oh Keith you look so niiice." Hunk had to refrain from squealing. He felt like a proud parent. Pidge simply gave a a thumbs up."Alright. Part one is complete. Now for part two." She ran out the door."Ohhh Laaaance!" She called out.(Can you be pidge just for a little bit since I"m controlling Lance? Sorry if I'm being annoying)

Keith Kogane: (Sure sure. You're fine) Pidge ran out of the room quickly and ran down to the courtyard where Lance was still sitting. "Lance! Stop sulking, I need you to come with me! I saw that little...whatever it was with Keith and decided I need to help you!" Pidge announced proudly, standing in front of her brother with a large smile on her face.

Prince!Lance: (Thank you :) ) Lance looked up at Pidge, ignoring the quiet snickering coming from the knights."Wait, what are you talking about? Help me out with what exactly? Keith just left. Nothing happened." He replied, sheathing his sword."You're delirious or something sis, from, like, how hot it is inside."

Keith Kogane: "Lance!" Pidge whined. "Everyone knows you have a thing for Keith. I'm gonna help you actually get somewhere with him so the pining stops. Seriously, it's stressful to watch." Pidge said with a smirk. "Now come on. Stand up and let's go."

Prince!Lance: Lance blushed and sputtered"I-I ,wha-wha, I.. I do not!" He protested feebly. "I'm not going anywhere with someone who just said I was stressful to watch!" He exlcaimed, bright red. Shiro walked over."Your majesties, might I help out in this?" He asked Pidge. Lance sputtered again."Wh-wha, no!"

Keith Kogane: "Yes! Please Shiro, please help!" Pidge grinned, sticking her tongue out at Lance. Pidge grabbed Lance's hand and tried to force him to stand up.

Prince!Lance: Shiro went a few steps further and picked Lance up, draping him over his shoulder."Wha, what, what are you doing, put me down, I demand you stop this at once!" Lance pounded against Shiro's back, which did absolutely nothing. Shiro only chuckled and followed Pidge."Alright boys, that's enough for today!" He called to the knights.

Keith Kogane: Pidge smirked and skipped ahead of Shiro and Lance towards Lance's room. "I've decided that your gonna dress up a bit...not too much...and your gonna go find Keith." Pidge said opening Lance's door for Shiro.

Prince!Lance: "And why would I ever to agree to that ever?" Lance replied as Shiro put him down."Because We're all very, very tired of watching you two skirt around each other like squirrels, your highness." He replied with a smirk."So Princess, what's first on the agenda?"

Keith Kogane: Pidge snickered at Shiro's response and cleared her theist slightly. "Right. First up on the agenda is hair. Lancey Lance. I don't know how you do your hair so get into your bathroom and do your damn hair. And your face." Pidge said sternly. "Yeah, go put in your face for Keith."

Prince!Lance: Lance was bright red at this point."I'm not a squirrel." He murmured. He looked up at Pidge."Why would I need to do that, my hair is already fine." He replied. Shrio reached forward and pulled out a leaf."That's why." Lance frowned, his shoulders sagging."And what's wrong with my face?" He asked. Shiro gently pushed his index finger to Lance's cheek."That's why." He pulled away a dust covered finger. Lance groaned and slumped to the bathroom.

Keith Kogane: Pidge smiled up at Shiro. "Thank you Shiro! Honestly though, I'm suprised that your helping." Pidge said plopping into Lance's bed.

Prince!Lance: Shiro shrugged."I meant what I said, My brother is a lot of things, including oblivious and scared. Lance is too and Oretty much everyone in the castle wants them together except your parents." He replied. Lance came out, his hair and face done."Okay, am I presentable now?"

Keith Kogane: Pidge shook her head. "Nope. Clothes. Change. Put on a nice outfit, something that's gonna grab Keith's attention. But not anything to extravagant. Y'know?"

Prince!Lance: Lance looked down at himself."What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?!" He exclaimed. Shiro sighed."Well for one thing, you're still covered in dust, just not in the face, and second, would you ever just wear a shirt and trousers to a date?" He asked. Lance turned bright red at that.".....I don't know what to pick." He admitted sheepishly.

Keith Kogane: Pidge walked to lances closet and scanned it quickly before she grabbed a light blue button up shirt and white dress pants. "Here Lancey. Put these on and roll up the sleeves to your elbow! And keep a few buttons open on the top!" Pidge said holding the outfit out towards Lance. "Take it. Change. Prepare yourself mentally."

Prince!Lance: Lance caught the outfit, utterly embarrassed."I'll prepare you mentally." He mumbled and went back into the bathroom, changing. Shiro smiled at Pidge."Well, this was utterly entertaining. I look forward to hearing the results your highness." He bowed and left the room. After that, Lance walked out of the bathroom and looked at Pidge."There, am I presentable now?"

Keith Kogane: Pidge took a moment to observe Lance. "Mmm....yeah. I think your good! Now stop being so sour! I'm just trying to help you! Now go, go find Keith. I'll see you later Lance~ Have fun!" Pidge said shoving Lance out of his room.

Prince!Lance: Lance reluctantly let himself be pushed. Why was he acting like this, he should be happy, he'd finally have a reason to have a non-protective conversation with Keith. He walked through the halls, already missing the sword, and tried to find his protector, only instead, to run into his father.

Keith Kogane: "Lance. What's with the outfit? Are you going on a date? When will I get to meet her?" Lance's father asked taking a look at Lance's outfit. "My son, whoever she is, she's a lucky one." The king said resting a proud hand on Lances shoulder.

Prince!Lance: Lance tensed a little."Um, y-yeah, I guess you could say that." Lance answered timidly."Th-Thanks dad." He smiled nervously and rushed past his father, darting around the corner. God, his father would probably kill him if he knew he had feelings for another man.